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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Golden Treasury, by Various
+
+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: The Golden Treasury
+       Of the Best Songs and Lyrical Poems in the English Language
+
+Author: Various
+
+Release Date: September 9, 2006 [EBook #19221]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GOLDEN TREASURY ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by James Tenison
+
+
+
+
+
+THE GOLDEN TREASURY
+
+Of the best Songs and Lyrical Pieces
+In the English Language
+
+
+Selected by Francis Turner Palgrave
+
+
+Illustrated by  A. Pearse
+
+
+London and Glasgow
+Collins' Clear-Type Press
+
+
+
+
+DEDICATION
+
+To
+
+ALFRED TENNYSON
+
+POET LAUREATE.
+
+
+This book in its progress has recalled often to my memory a man with
+whose friendship we were once honoured, to whom no region of English
+literature was unfamiliar, and who, whilst rich in all the noble gifts
+of nature, was most eminently distinguished by the noblest and the
+rarest,--just judgment and high-hearted patriotism. It would have been
+hence a peculiar pleasure and pride to dedicate what I have endeavoured
+to make a true national Anthology of three centuries to Henry Hallam.
+But he is beyond the reach of any human tokens of love and reverence;
+and I desire therefore to place before it a name united with his by
+associations which, whilst Poetry retains her hold on the minds of
+Englishmen, are not likely to be forgotten.
+
+Your encouragement, given while traversing the wild scenery of Treryn
+Dinas, led me to begin the work; and it has been completed under your
+advice and assistance. For the favour now asked I have thus a second
+reason: and to this I may add, the homage which is your right as Poet,
+and the gratitude due to a Friend, whose regard I rate at no common
+value.
+
+Permit me then to inscribe to yourself a book which, I hope, may be
+found by many a lifelong fountain of innocent and exalted pleasure; a
+source of animation to friends when they meet; and able to sweeten
+solitude itself with best society,--with the companionship of the wise
+and the good, with the beauty which the eye cannot see, and the music
+only heard in silence. If this Collection proves a store-house of
+delight to Labour and to Poverty,--if it teaches those indifferent to
+the Poets to love them, and those who love them to love them more, the
+aim and the desire entertained in framing it will be fully accomplished.
+
+F.T.P.
+May, 1861.
+
+
+
+PREFACE.
+
+This little Collection differs, it is believed, from others in the
+attempt made to include in it all the best original Lyrical pieces and
+Songs in our language, by writers not living,--and none beside the best.
+Many familiar verses will hence be met with; many also which should be
+familiar:--the Editor will regard as his fittest readers those who love
+Poetry so well, that he can offer them nothing not already known and
+valued. For those who take up the book in a serious and scholarly
+spirit, the following remarks on the plan and the execution are added.
+
+The Editor is acquainted with no strict and exhaustive definition of
+Lyrical Poetry; but he has found the task of practical decision increase
+in clearness and in facility as he advanced with the work, whilst
+keeping in view a few simple principles. Lyrical has been here held
+essentially to imply that each Poem shall turn on some single thought,
+feeling, or situation. In accordance with this, narrative, descriptive,
+and didactic poems,--unless accompanied by rapidity of movement,
+brevity, and the colouring of human passion,--have been excluded.
+Humorous poetry, except in the very unfrequent instances where a truly
+poetical tone pervades the whole, with what is strictly personal,
+occasional, and religious, has been considered foreign to the idea of
+the book. Blank verse and the ten-syllable couplet, with all pieces
+markedly dramatic, have been rejected as alien from what is commonly
+understood by Song, and rarely conforming to Lyrical conditions in
+treatment. But it is not anticipated, nor is it possible, that all
+readers shall think the line accurately drawn. Some poems, as Gray's
+_Elegy_, the _Allegro_ and _Penseroso_, Wordsworth's _Ruth_ or
+Campbell's _Lord Ullin_, might be claimed with perhaps equal justice for
+a narrative or descriptive selection: whilst with reference especially
+to Ballads and Sonnets, the Editor can only state that he has taken his
+utmost pains to decide without caprice or partiality.
+
+This also is all he can plead in regard to a point even more liable to
+question;--what degree of merit should give rank among the Best. That a
+Poem shall be worthy of the writer's genius,--that it shall reach a
+perfection commensurate with its aim,--that we should require finish in
+proportion to brevity,--that passion, colour, and originality cannot
+atone for serious imperfections in clearness, unity, or truth,--that a
+few good lines do not make a good poem,--that popular estimate is
+serviceable as a guidepost more than as a compass,--above all, that
+Excellence should be looked for rather in the Whole than in the
+Parts,--such and other such canons have been always steadily regarded.
+He may however add that the pieces chosen, and a far larger number
+rejected, have been carefully and repeatedly considered; and that he has
+been aided throughout by two friends of independent and exercised
+judgment, besides the distinguished person addressed in the Dedication.
+It is hoped that by this procedure the volume has been freed from that
+one-sidedness which must beset individual decisions:--but for the final
+choice the Editor is alone responsible.
+
+Chalmers' vast collection, with the whole works of all accessible poets
+not contained in it, and the best Anthologies of different periods, have
+been twice systematically read through: and it is hence improbable that
+any omissions which may be regretted are due to oversight. The poems are
+printed entire, except in a very few instances (specified in the notes)
+where a stanza has been omitted. The omissions have been risked only
+when the piece could be thus brought to a closer lyrical unity: and, as
+essentially opposed to this unity, extracts, obviously such, are
+excluded. In regard to the text, the purpose of the book has appeared to
+justify the choice of the most poetical version, wherever more than one
+exists: and much labour has been given to present each poem, in
+disposition, spelling, and punctuation, to the greatest advantage.
+
+In the arrangement, the most poetically effective order has been
+attempted. The English mind has passed through phases of thought and
+cultivation so various and so opposed during these three centuries of
+Poetry, that a rapid passage between Old and New, like rapid alteration
+of the eye's focus in looking at the landscape, will always be wearisome
+and hurtful to the sense of Beauty. The poems have been therefore
+distributed into Books corresponding, I. to the ninety years closing
+about 1616, II. thence to 1700, III. to 1800, IV. to the half century
+just ended. Or, looking at the Poets who more or less give each portion
+its distinctive character, they might be called the Books of
+Shakespeare, Milton, Gray, and Wordsworth. The volume, in this respect,
+so far as the limitations of its range allow, accurately reflects the
+natural growth and evolution of our Poetry. A rigidly chronological
+sequence, however, rather fits a collection aiming at instruction than
+at pleasure, and the Wisdom which comes through Pleasure:--within each
+book the pieces have therefore been arranged in gradations of feeling or
+subject. The development of the symphonies of Mozart and Beethoven has
+been here thought of as a model, and nothing placed without careful
+consideration. And it is hoped that the contents of this Anthology will
+thus be found to present a certain unity, "as episodes," in the noble
+language of Shelley, "to that great Poem which all poets, like the
+co-operating thoughts of one great mind, have built up since the
+beginning of the world."
+
+As he closes his long survey, the Editor trusts he may add without
+egotism, that he has found the vague general verdict of popular Fame
+more just than those have thought, who, with too severe a criticism,
+would confine judgments on Poetry to "the selected few of many
+generations." Not many appear to have gained reputation without some
+gift or performance that, in due degree, deserved it: and if no verses
+by certain writers who show less strength than sweetness, or more
+thought than mastery in expression, are printed in this volume, it
+should not be imagined that they have been excluded without much
+hesitation and regret,--far less that they have been slighted.
+Throughout this vast and pathetic array of Singers now silent, few have
+been honoured with the name Poet, and have not possessed a skill in
+words, a sympathy with beauty, a tenderness of feeling, or seriousness
+in reflection, which render their works, although never perhaps
+attaining that loftier and finer excellence here required,--better worth
+reading than much of what fills the scanty hours that most men spare for
+self-improvement, or for pleasure in any of its more elevated and
+permanent forms.
+
+And if this be true of even mediocre poetry, for how much more are we
+indebted to the best! Like the fabled fountain of the Azores, but with a
+more various power, the magic of this Art can confer on each period of
+life its appropriate blessing: on early years Experience, on maturity
+Calm, on age Youthfulness. Poetry gives treasures "more golden than
+gold," leading us in higher and healthier ways than those of the world,
+and interpreting to us the lessons of Nature. But she speaks best for
+herself. Her true accents, if the plan has been executed with success,
+may be heard throughout the following pages:-wherever the Poets of
+England are honoured, wherever the dominant language of the world is
+spoken, it is hoped that they will find fit audience.
+
+F. T. PALGRAVE.
+
+
+
+
+THE GOLDEN TREASURY.
+
+
+
+
+FIRST BOOK.
+
+SUMMARY.
+
+
+The Elizabethan Poetry, as it is rather vaguely termed, forms the
+substance of this Book, which contains pieces from Wyat under Henry
+VIII. to Shakespeare midway through the reign of James I., and Drummond
+who carried on the early manner to a still later period. There is here a
+wide range of style;--from simplicity expressed in a language hardly yet
+broken in to verse,--through the pastoral fancies and Italian conceits
+of the strictly Elizabethan time,--to the passionate reality of
+Shakespeare: yet a general uniformity of tone prevails. Few readers can
+fail to observe the natural sweetness of the verse, the single-hearted
+straightforwardness of the thoughts:--nor less, the limitation of
+subject to the many phases of one passion, which then characterised our
+lyrical poetry,--unless when, as with Drummond and Shakespeare, the
+"purple light of Love" is tempered by a spirit of sterner reflection.
+
+It should be observed that this and the following Summaries apply in the
+main to the Collection here presented, in which (besides its restriction
+to Lyrical Poetry) a strictly representative or historical Anthology has
+not been aimed at. Great Excellence, in human art as in human character,
+has from the beginning of things been even more uniform than Mediocrity,
+by virtue of the closeness of its approach to Nature:--and so far as the
+standard of Excellence kept in view has been attained in this volume, a
+comparative absence of extreme or temporary phases in style, a
+similarity of tone and manner, will be found throughout:--something
+neither modern nor ancient but true in all ages, and like the works of
+Creation perfect as on the first day.
+
+
+
+
+     1. SPRING.
+
+     Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king;
+     Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
+     Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,
+     Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
+
+     The palm and may make country houses gay,
+     Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
+     And we hear aye birds tune their merry lay,
+       Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
+
+     The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
+     Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
+     In every street these tunes our ears do greet,
+       Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
+          Spring, the sweet Spring!
+
+     T. NASH.
+
+
+
+
+     2. SUMMONS TO LOVE.
+
+     Phoebus, arise!
+     And paint the sable skies
+     With azure, white, and red:
+     Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed
+     That she may thy career with roses spread:
+     The nightingales thy coming eachwhere sing:
+     Make an eternal spring!
+     Give life to this dark world which lieth dead;
+     Spread forth thy golden hair
+     In larger locks than thou wast wont before,
+     And emperor-like decore
+     With diadem of pearl thy temples fair:
+     Chase hence the ugly night
+     Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light.
+
+     --This is that happy morn,
+     That day, long wishéd day
+     Of all my life so dark,
+     (If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn
+     And fates not hope betray),
+     Which, purely white, deserves
+     An everlasting diamond should it mark.
+     This is the morn should bring unto this grove
+     My Love, to hear and recompense my love.
+     Fair King, who all preserves,
+     But show thy blushing beams,
+     And thou two sweeter eyes
+     Shalt see than those which by Penéus' streams
+     Did once thy heart surprize.
+     Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise:
+     If that ye winds would hear
+     A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre,
+     Your furious chiding stay;
+     Let Zephyr only breathe
+     And with her tresses play.
+     --The winds all silent are,
+     And Phoebus in his chair
+     Ensaffroning sea and air
+     Makes vanish every star:
+     Night like a drunkard reels
+     Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels:
+     The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue,
+     The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue;
+     Here is the pleasant place--
+     And nothing wanting is, save She, alas.
+
+     WILLIAM DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN.
+
+
+
+
+     3. TIME AND LOVE.
+
+     When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced
+     The rich proud cost of out-worn buried age;
+     When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed,
+     And brass eternal slave to mortal rage.
+
+     When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
+     Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
+     And the firm soil win of the watery main,
+     Increasing store with loss, and loss with store.
+
+     When I have seen such interchange of state,
+     Or state itself confounded to decay,
+     Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate--
+     That Time will come and take my Love away.
+
+     --This thought is as a death, which cannot choose
+     But weep to have that which it fears to lose.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     4.
+
+     Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
+     But sad mortality o'ersways their power,
+     How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
+     Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
+
+     O how shall summer's honey breath hold out,
+     Against the wreckful siege of battering days,
+     When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
+     Nor gates of steel so strong but time decays?
+
+     O fearful meditation, where, alack!
+     Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?
+     Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back,
+     Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
+
+     O! none, unless this miracle have might,
+     That in black ink my love may still shine bright.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     5. THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.
+
+     Come live with me and be my Love,
+     And we will all the pleasures prove
+     That hills and valleys, dale and field,
+     And all the craggy mountains yield.
+
+     There will we sit upon the rocks
+     And see the shepherds feed their flocks
+     By shallow rivers, to whose falls
+     Melodious birds sing madrigals.
+
+     There will I make thee beds of roses
+     And a thousand fragrant posies,
+     A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
+     Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.
+
+     A gown made of the finest wool,
+     Which from our pretty lambs we pull,
+     Fair-lined slippers for the cold,
+     With buckles of the purest gold.
+
+     A belt of straw and ivy-buds
+     With coral clasps and amber studs:
+     And if these pleasures may thee move,
+     Come live with me and be my Love.
+
+     Thy silver dishes for thy meat
+     As precious as the gods do eat,
+     Shall on an ivory table be
+     Prepared each day for thee and me.
+
+     The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
+     For thy delight each May-morning:
+     If these delights thy mind may move,
+     Then live with me and be my Love.
+
+     C. MARLOWE.
+
+
+
+
+     6. A MADRIGAL.
+
+       Crabbed Age and Youth
+       Cannot live together:
+       Youth is full of pleasance,
+       Age is full of care;
+       Youth like summer morn,
+       Age like winter weather;
+       Youth like summer brave,
+       Age like winter bare:
+       Youth is full of sport,
+       Age's breath is short,
+       Youth is nimble, Age is lame:
+       Youth is hot and bold,
+       Age is weak and cold;
+       Youth is wild, and Age is tame:--
+       Age, I do abhor thee,
+       Youth, I do adore thee;
+       O! my Love, my Love is young!
+       Age, I do defy thee--
+       O, sweet shepherd, hie thee,
+       For methinks thou stay'st too long.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     7.
+
+       Under the greenwood tree
+       Who loves to lie with me,
+       And tune his merry note
+       Unto the sweet bird's throat--
+     Come hither, come hither, come hither!
+          Here shall we see
+          No enemy
+     But winter and rough weather.
+
+       Who doth ambition shun
+       And loves to live i' the sun,
+       Seeking the food he eats
+       And pleased with what he gets--
+     Come hither, come hither, come hither!
+          Here shall he see
+          No enemy
+     But winter and rough weather.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     8.
+
+     It was a lover and his lass
+       With a hey, and a ho, and a hey-nonino!
+     That o'er the green cornfield did pass,
+     In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,
+     When birds do sing hey ding a ding:
+       Sweet lovers love the Spring.
+     Between the acres of the rye
+     These pretty country folks would lie:
+     This carol they began that hour,
+     How that life was but a flower:
+     And therefore take the present time
+       With a hey, and a ho, and a hey-nonino!
+     For love is crownéd with the prime
+     In spring time, the only pretty ring time,
+     When birds do sing, hey ding a ding;
+       Sweet lovers love the Spring.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     9. PRESENT IN ABSENCE.
+
+     Absence, hear thou my protestation
+          Against thy strength,
+          Distance, and length:
+     Do what thou canst for alteration:
+       For hearts of truest mettle
+     Absence doth join, and Time doth settle.
+
+     Who loves a mistress of such quality,
+          He soon hath found
+          Affection's ground
+     Beyond time, place, and all mortality.
+       To hearts that cannot vary
+     Absence is Presence, Time doth tarry.
+
+     By absence this good means I gain,
+          That I can catch her,
+          Where none can watch her,
+     In some close corner of my brain:
+       There I embrace and kiss her,
+     And so I both enjoy and miss her.
+
+     ANON.
+
+
+
+
+     10. ABSENCE.
+
+     Being your slave what should I do but tend
+     Upon the hours and times of your desire?
+     I have no precious time at all to spend,
+     Nor services to do, till you require:
+
+     Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour
+     Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
+     Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
+     When you have bid your servant once adieu:
+
+     Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
+     Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
+     But like a sad slave, stay and think of nought
+     Save where you are, how happy you make those;--
+
+     So true a fool is love, that in your will,
+     Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     11.
+
+     How like a winter hath my absence been
+     From Thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
+     What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen,
+     What old December's bareness everywhere!
+
+     And yet this time removed was summer's time:
+     The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
+     Bearing the wanton burden of the prime
+     Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:
+
+     Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me
+     But hope of orphans, and unfather'd fruit;
+     For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
+     And, thou away, the very birds are mute;
+
+     Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer,
+     That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     12. A CONSOLATION.
+
+     When in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes
+     I all alone beweep my outcast state,
+     And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
+     And look upon myself, and curse my fate;
+
+     Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
+     Featured like him, like him with friends possest,
+     Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
+     With what I most enjoy contented least;
+
+     Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising,
+     Haply I think on Thee--and then my state,
+     Like to the lark at break of day arising
+     From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
+
+     For thy sweet love remember'd, such wealth brings
+     That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     13. THE UNCHANGEABLE.
+
+     O never say that I was false of heart,
+     Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify:
+     As easy might I from my self depart
+     As from my soul which in thy breast doth lie;
+
+     That is my home of love, if I have ranged,
+     Like him that travels, I return again,
+     Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,
+     So that myself bring water for my stain.
+
+     Never believe, though in my nature reign'd
+     All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
+     That it could so preposterously be stain'd
+     To leave for nothing all thy sum of good:
+
+     For nothing this wide universe I call,
+     Save thou, my rose, in it thou art my all.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     14.
+
+     To me, fair Friend, you never can be old,
+     For as you were when first your eye I eyed
+     Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold
+     Have from the forests shook three summers' pride;
+
+     Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd,
+     In process of the seasons have I seen,
+     Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,
+     Since first I saw you fresh which yet are green.
+
+     Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial hand,
+     Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived;
+     So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
+     Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived:
+
+     For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred,--
+     Ere you were born, was beauty's summer dead.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     15. DIAPHENIA.
+
+        Diaphenia like the daffadowndilly,
+        White as the sun, fair as the lily,
+      Heigh ho, how do I love thee!
+        I do love thee as my lambs
+        Are belovéd of their dams;
+     How blest were I if thou would'st prove me.
+
+        Diaphenia like the spreading roses,
+        That in thy sweets all sweets encloses,
+      Fair sweet, how do I love thee!
+        I do love thee as each flower
+        Loves the sun's life-giving power;
+     For dead, thy breath to life might move me.
+
+        Diaphenia like to all things blesséd
+        When all thy praises are expresséd,
+      Dear joy, how do I love thee!
+        As the birds do love the spring,
+        Or the bees their careful king:
+     Then in requite, sweet virgin, love me!
+
+     H. CONSTABLE.
+
+
+
+
+     16. ROSALINE.
+
+     Like to the clear in highest sphere
+     Where all imperial glory shines,
+     Of selfsame colour is her hair
+     Whether unfolded, or in twines:
+      Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
+     Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
+     Resembling heaven by every wink;
+     The Gods do fear whenas they glow,
+     And I do tremble when I think
+      Heigh ho, would she were mine!
+
+     Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
+     That beautifies Aurora's face,
+     Or like the silver crimson shroud
+     That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace;
+      Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
+     Her lips are like two budded roses
+     Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,
+     Within which bounds she balm encloses
+     Apt to entice a deity:
+      Heigh ho, would she were mine!
+
+     Her neck like to a stately tower
+     Where Love himself imprison'd lies,
+     To watch for glances every hour
+     From her divine and sacred eyes:
+      Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
+     Her paps are centres of delight,
+     Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,
+     Where Nature moulds the dew of light
+     To feed perfection with the same:
+      Heigh ho, would she were mine!
+
+     With orient pearl, with ruby red,
+     With marble white, with sapphire blue,
+     Her body every way is fed,
+     Yet soft in touch and sweet in view:
+      Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
+     Nature herself her shape admires;
+     The Gods are wounded in her sight;
+     And Love forsakes his heavenly fires
+     And at her eyes his brand doth light:
+      Heigh ho, would she were mine!
+
+     Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan
+     The absence of fair Rosaline,
+     Since for a fair there's fairer none,
+     Nor for her virtues so divine:
+      Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
+     Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!
+
+     T. LODGE.
+
+
+
+
+     17. COLIN.
+
+     Beauty sat bathing by a spring
+      Where fairest shades did hide her;
+     The winds blew calm, the birds did sing,
+      The cool streams ran beside her.
+
+     My wanton thoughts enticed mine eye
+      To see what was forbidden:
+     But better memory said, fie!
+      So vain desire was chidden:--
+          Hey nonny nonny O!
+          Hey nonny nonny!
+
+     Into a slumber then I fell,
+     When fond imagination
+     Seeméd to see, but could not tell
+     Her feature or her fashion.
+     But ev'n as babes in dreams do smile,
+     And sometimes fall a-weeping,
+     So I awaked as wise this while
+     As when I fell a-sleeping:--
+          Hey nonny nonny O!
+          Hey nonny nonny!
+
+     THE SHEPHERD TONIE.
+
+
+
+
+     18. TO HIS LOVE.
+
+     Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
+     Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
+     Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
+     And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
+
+     Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
+     And often is his gold complexion dimm'd,
+     And every fair from fair sometime declines,
+     By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd.
+
+     But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
+     Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
+     Nor shall death brag thou wanderest in his shade,
+     When in eternal lines to time thou growest.
+
+     So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
+     So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     19. TO HIS LOVE.
+
+     When in the chronicle of wasted time
+     I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
+     And beauty making beautiful old rhyme
+     In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights;
+
+     Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best
+     Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
+     I see their antique pen would have exprest
+     Ev'n such a beauty as you master now.
+
+     So all their praises are but prophecies
+     Of this our time, all, you prefiguring;
+     And for they look'd but with divining eyes,
+     They had not skill enough your worth to sing:
+
+     For we, which now behold these present days,
+     Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     20. LOVE'S PERJURIES.
+
+     On a day, alack the day!
+     Love, whose month is ever May,
+     Spied a blossom passing fair
+     Playing in the wanton air:
+     Through the velvet leaves the wind
+     All unseen 'gan passage find;
+     That the lover, sick to death,
+     Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
+     Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;
+     Air, would I might triumph so!
+     But, alack, my hand is sworn
+     Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:
+     Vow, alack, for youth unmeet;
+     Youth so apt to pluck a sweet.
+     Do not call it sin in me
+     That I am forsworn for thee:
+     Thou for whom e'en Jove would swear
+     Juno but an Ethiope were,
+     And deny himself for Jove,
+     Turning mortal for thy love.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     21. A SUPPLICATION.
+
+     Forget not yet the tried intent
+     Of such a truth as I have meant;
+     My great travail so gladly spent,
+                       Forget not yet!
+
+     Forget not yet when first began
+     The weary life ye know, since whan
+     The suit, the service, none tell can;
+                       Forget not yet!
+
+     Forget not yet the great assays,
+     The cruel wrong, the scornful ways,
+     The painful patience in delays,
+                       Forget not yet!
+
+     Forget not! O, forget not this,
+     How long ago hath been, and is
+     The mind that never meant amiss--
+                       Forget not yet!
+
+     Forget not then thine own approved
+     The which so long hath thee so loved,
+     Whose steadfast faith yet never moved--
+                       Forget not this!
+
+     SIR T. WYAT.
+
+
+
+
+     22. TO AURORA.
+
+     O if thou knew'st how thou thyself does harm,
+     And dost prejudge thy bliss, and spoil thy rest;
+     Then thou would'st melt the ice out of thy breast
+     And thy relenting heart would kindly warm.
+
+     O if thy pride did not our joys controul,
+     What world of loving wonders should'st thou see!
+     For if I saw thee once transform'd in me,
+     Then in thy bosom I would pour my soul;
+
+     Then all my thoughts should in thy visage shine,
+     And if that aught mischanced thou should'st not moan
+     Nor bear the burthen of thy griefs alone;
+     No, I would have my share in what were thine:
+
+     And whilst we thus should make our sorrows one,
+     This happy harmony would make them none.
+
+     W. ALEXANDER, EARL OF STERLINE.
+
+
+
+
+     23. TRUE LOVE.
+
+     Let me not to the marriage of true minds
+     Admit impediments. Love is not love
+     Which alters when it alteration finds,
+     Or bends with the remover to remove:--
+
+     O no! it is an ever-fixéd mark
+     That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
+     It is the star to every wandering bark
+     Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
+
+     Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
+     Within his bending sickle's compass come;
+     Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
+     But bears it out ev'n to the edge of doom:--
+
+     If this be error and upon me proved,
+     I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     24. A DITTY.
+
+     My true love hath my heart, and I have his,
+     By just exchange one to the other given:
+     I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss,
+     There never was a better bargain driven:
+      My true love hath my heart, and I have his.
+
+     His heart in me keeps him and me in one,
+     My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:
+     He loves my heart, for once it was his own,
+     I cherish his because in me it bides:
+      My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.
+
+     SIR P. SIDNEY.
+
+
+
+
+     25. LOVE'S OMNIPRESENCE.
+
+     Were I as base as is the lowly plain,
+     And you, my Love, as high as heaven above,
+     Yet should the thoughts of me your humble swain
+     Ascend to heaven, in honour of my Love.
+
+     Were I as high as heaven above the plain,
+     And you, my Love, as humble and as low
+     As are the deepest bottoms of the main,
+     Whereso'er you were, with you my love should go.
+
+     Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies,
+     My love should shine on you like to the sun,
+     And look upon you with ten thousand eyes
+     Till heaven wax'd blind, and till the world were done.
+
+     Whereso'er I am, below, or else above you,
+     Whereso'er you are, my heart shall truly love you.
+
+     J. SYLVESTER.
+
+
+
+
+     26. CARPE DIEM.
+
+     O Mistress mine, where are you roaming?
+     O, stay and hear! your true-love's coming
+        That can sing both high and low;
+     Trip no further, pretty sweeting,
+     Journeys end in lovers' meeting--
+        Every wise man's son doth know.
+
+     What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
+     Present mirth hath present laughter;
+        What's to come is still unsure:
+     In delay there lies no plenty,--
+     Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty,
+        Youth's a stuff will not endure.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     27. WINTER.
+
+     When icicles hang by the wall
+      And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
+     And Tom bears logs into the hall,
+      And milk comes frozen home in pail;
+     When blood is nipt, and ways be foul,
+     Then nightly sings the staring owl
+                 Tuwhoo!
+     Tuwhit! Tuwhoo! A merry note!
+     While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
+
+     When all around the wind doth blow,
+      And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
+     And birds sit brooding in the snow,
+      And Marian's nose looks red and raw:
+     When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl--
+     Then nightly sings the staring owl
+                 Tuwhoo!
+     Tuwhit! Tuwhoo! A merry note!
+     While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     28.
+
+     That time of year thou may'st in me behold
+     When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang
+     Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
+     Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
+
+     In me thou seest the twilight of such day
+     As after sunset fadeth in the west,
+     Which by and by black night doth take away,
+     Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
+
+     In me thou seest the glowing of such fire,
+     That on the ashes of his youth doth lie
+     As the deathbed whereon it must expire,
+     Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.
+
+     --This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
+     To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     29. REMEMBRANCE.
+
+     When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
+     I summon up remembrance of things past,
+     I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
+     And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste
+
+     Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
+     For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
+     And weep afresh love's long-since-cancell'd woe,
+     And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight.
+
+     Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
+     And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
+     The sad account of fore-bemoanéd moan,
+     Which I new pay as if not paid before:
+
+     --But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
+     All losses are restored, and sorrows end.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     30. REVOLUTIONS.
+
+     Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore
+     So do our minutes hasten to their end;
+     Each changing place with that which goes before,
+     In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
+
+     Nativity once in the main of light
+     Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
+     Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
+     And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound.
+
+     Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
+     And delves the parallels in beauty's brow;
+     Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
+     And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow.
+
+     And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand
+     Praising Thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     31.
+
+     Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
+     And like enough thou know'st thy estimate:
+     The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing,
+     My bonds in thee are all determinate.
+
+     For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?
+     And for that riches where is my deserving?
+     The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
+     And so my patent back again is swerving.
+
+     Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing,
+     Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking;
+     So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
+     Comes home again, on better judgement making.
+
+     Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter;
+     In sleep, a king; but waking, no such matter.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     32. THE LIFE WITHOUT PASSION.
+
+     They that have power to hurt, and will do none,
+     That do not do the thing they most do show,
+     Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
+     Unmovéd, cold, and to temptation slow,--
+
+     They rightly do inherit Heaven's graces,
+     And husband nature's riches from expense;
+     They are the lords and owners of their faces,
+     Others, but stewards of their excellence.
+
+     The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,
+     Though to itself it only live and die;
+     But if that flower with base infection meet,
+     The basest weed outbraves his dignity:
+
+     For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
+     Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     33. THE LOVER'S APPEAL.
+
+       And wilt thou leave me thus?
+       Say nay! say nay! for shame,
+       To save thee from the blame
+       Of all my grief and grame.
+       And wilt thou leave me thus?
+       Say nay! say nay!
+
+       And wilt thou leave me thus,
+       That hath loved thee so long
+       In wealth and woe among:
+       And is thy heart so strong
+       As for to leave me thus?
+       Say nay! say nay!
+
+       And wilt thou leave me thus,
+       That hath given thee my heart
+       Never for to depart
+       Neither for pain nor smart:
+       And wilt thou leave me thus?
+       Say nay! say nay!
+
+       And wilt thou leave me thus,
+       And have no more pity
+       Of him that loveth thee?
+       Alas! thy cruelty!
+       And wilt thou leave me thus?
+       Say nay! say nay!
+
+     SIR T. WYAT.
+
+
+
+
+     34. THE NIGHTINGALE.
+
+     As it fell upon a day
+     In the merry month of May,
+     Sitting in a pleasant shade
+     Which a grove of myrtles made,
+     Beasts did leap and birds did sing,
+     Trees did grow and plants did spring,
+     Every thing did banish moan
+     Save the Nightingale alone.
+     She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
+     Lean'd her breast against a thorn,
+     And there sung the dolefullest ditty,
+     That to hear it was great pity.
+     Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry;
+     Tereu, tereu, by and by:
+     That to hear her so complain
+     Scarce I could from tears refrain;
+     For her griefs so lively shown
+     Made me think upon mine own.
+     --Ah! thought I, thou mourn'st in vain,
+     None takes pity on thy pain:
+     Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee,
+     Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee;
+     King Pandion, he is dead,
+     All thy friends are lapp'd in lead:
+     All thy fellow birds do sing
+     Careless of thy sorrowing:
+     Even so, poor bird, like thee,
+     None alive will pity me.
+
+     R. BARNEFIELD.
+
+
+
+
+     35.
+
+     Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night,
+     Brother to Death, in silent darkness born,
+     Relieve my anguish, and restore the light;
+     With dark forgetting of my care return.
+
+     And let the day be time enough to mourn
+     The shipwreck of my ill adventured youth:
+     Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn,
+     Without the torment of the night's untruth.
+
+     Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires,
+     To model forth the passions of the morrow;
+     Never let rising Sun approve you liars
+     To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow:
+
+     Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain,
+     And never wake to feel the day's disdain.
+
+     S. DANIEL.
+
+
+
+
+     36. MADRIGAL.
+
+        Take O take those lips away
+        That so sweetly were forsworn,
+        And those eyes, the break of day,
+        Lights that do mislead the morn:
+        But my kisses bring again,
+                  Bring again--
+        Seals of love, but seal'd in vain,
+                  Seal'd in vain!
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     37. LOVE'S FAREWELL.
+
+     Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part,--
+     Nay, I have done, you get no more of me;
+     And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart,
+     That thus so cleanly I myself can free;
+
+     Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,
+     And when we meet at any time again,
+     Be it not seen in either of our brows
+     That we one jot of former love retain.
+
+     Now at the last gasp of love's latest breath,
+     When his pulse failing, passion speechless lies,
+     When faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
+     And innocence is closing up his eyes,
+
+     --Now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over,
+     From death to life thou might'st him yet recover!
+
+     M. DRAYTON.
+
+
+
+
+     38. TO HIS LUTE.
+
+     My lute, be as thou wert when thou did'st grow
+     With thy green mother in some shady grove,
+     When immelodious winds but made thee move,
+     And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.
+
+     Since that dear Voice which did thy sounds approve,
+     Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,
+     Is reft from Earth to tune those spheres above,
+     What art thou but a harbinger of woe?
+
+     Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,
+     But orphan's wailings to the fainting ear;
+     Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear;
+     For which be silent as in woods before:
+
+     Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,
+     Like widow'd turtle still her loss complain.
+
+     W. DRUMMOND.
+
+
+
+
+     39. BLIND LOVE.
+
+     O me! what eyes hath love put in my head
+     Which have no correspondence with true sight:
+     Or if they have, where is my judgment fled
+     That censures falsely what they see aright?
+
+     If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,
+     What means the world to say it is not so?
+     If it be not, then love doth well denote,
+     Love's eye is not so true as all men's: No,
+
+     How can it? O how can love's eye be true,
+     That is so vex'd with watching and with tears?
+     No marvel then though I mistake my view:
+     The sun itself sees not till heaven clears.
+
+     O cunning Love! with tears thou keep'st me blind,
+     Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find!
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     40. THE UNFAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS.
+
+     While that the sun with his beams hot
+     Scorchéd the fruits in vale and mountain,
+     Philon the shepherd, late forgot,
+     Sitting beside a crystal fountain,
+       In shadow of a green oak tree
+       Upon his pipe this song play'd he:
+     Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love,
+     Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love;
+     Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
+
+     So long as I was in your sight
+     I was your heart, your soul, and treasure;
+     And evermore you sobb'd and sigh'd
+     Burning in flames beyond all measure:
+       --Three days endured your love to me,
+       And it was lost in other three!
+     Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love,
+     Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love;
+     Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
+
+     Another Shepherd you did see
+     To whom your heart was soon enchainéd;
+     Full soon your love was leapt from me,
+     Full soon my place he had obtainéd.
+       Soon came a third, your love to win,
+       And we were out and he was in.
+     Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love,
+     Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love;
+     Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
+
+     Sure you have made me passing glad
+     That you your mind so soon removéd,
+     Before that I the leisure had
+     To choose you for my best belovéd:
+       For all your love was past and done
+       Two days before it was begun:--
+     Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love,
+     Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love;
+     Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
+
+     ANON.
+
+
+
+
+     41. A RENUNCIATION.
+
+     If women could be fair, and yet not fond,
+     Or that their love were firm, not fickle still,
+     I would not marvel that they make men bond
+     By service long to purchase their good will;
+     But when I see how frail those creatures are,
+     I muse that men forget themselves so far.
+
+     To mark the choice they make, and how they change,
+     How oft from Phoebus they do flee to Pan;
+     Unsettled still, like haggards wild they range,
+     These gentle birds that fly from man to man;
+     Who would not scorn and shake them from the fist,
+     And let them fly, fair fools, which way they list?
+
+     Yet for disport we fawn and flatter both,
+     To pass the time when nothing else can please,
+     And train them to our lure with subtle oath,
+     Till, weary of their wiles, ourselves we ease;
+     And then we say when we their fancy try,
+     To play with fools, O what a fool was I!
+
+     E. VERE, EARL OF OXFORD.
+
+
+
+
+     42.
+
+          Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
+          Thou art not so unkind
+          As man's ingratitude;
+          Thy tooth is not so keen,
+          Because thou art not seen,
+          Although thy breath be rude.
+     Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:
+     Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
+          Then, heigh ho! the holly!
+          This life is most jolly.
+
+          Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
+          That dost not bite so nigh
+          As benefits forgot:
+          Though thou the waters warp,
+          Thy sting is not so sharp
+          As friend remember'd not.
+     Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:
+     Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
+          Then heigh ho, the holly!
+          This life is most jolly.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     43. MADRIGAL.
+
+          My thoughts hold mortal strife;
+          I do detest my life,
+          And with lamenting cries
+          Peace to my soul to bring
+     Oft call that prince which here doth monarchise:
+     --But he, grim grinning King,
+     Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprise,
+     Late having deck'd with beauty's rose his tomb,
+     Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come.
+
+     W. DRUMMOND.
+
+
+
+
+     44. DIRGE OF LOVE.
+
+       Come away, come away, Death,
+     And in sad cypres let me be laid;
+       Fly away, fly away, breath;
+     I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
+     My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
+          O prepare it!
+     My part of death no one so true
+          Did share it.
+
+       Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
+     On my black coffin let there be strown;
+       Not a friend, not a friend greet
+     My poor corpse, where my bones shall thrown:
+     A thousand thousand sighs to save,
+          Lay me, O where
+     Sad true lover never find my grave,
+          To weep there.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     45. FIDELE.
+
+     Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
+        Nor the furious winter's rages:
+     Thou thy worldly task hast done,
+        Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages:
+     Golden lads and girls all must,
+     As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
+
+     Fear no more the frown o' the great,
+        Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
+     Care no more to clothe and eat;
+        To thee the reed is as the oak:
+     The sceptre, learning, physic, must
+     All follow this, and come to dust.
+
+     Fear no more the lightning flash
+        Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
+     Fear not slander, censure rash;
+        Thou hast finish'd joy and moan:
+     All lovers young, all lovers must
+     Consign to thee, and come to dust.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     46. A SEA DIRGE.
+
+     Full fathom five thy father lies:
+        Of his bones are coral made;
+     Those are pearls that were his eyes:
+        Nothing of him that doth fade,
+     But doth suffer a sea-change
+     Into something rich and strange;
+     Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
+     Hark! now I hear them,--
+        Ding, dong, Bell.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     47. A LAND DIRGE.
+
+     Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren,
+     Since o'er shady groves they hover
+     And with leaves and flowers do cover
+     The friendless bodies of unburied men.
+     Call unto his funeral dole
+     The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole
+     To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm
+     And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm;
+     But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men,
+     For with his nails he'll dig them up again.
+
+     J. WEBSTER.
+
+
+
+
+     48. POST MORTEM.
+
+     If Thou survive my well-contented day
+     When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,
+     And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
+     These poor rude lines of thy deceaséd lover:
+
+     Compare them with the bettering of the time,
+     And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,
+     Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme
+     Exceeded by the height of happier men.
+
+     O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought--
+     "Had my friend's muse grown with this growing age,
+     A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
+     To march in ranks of better equipage:
+
+     But since he died, and poets better prove,
+     Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love."
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     49. THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH.
+
+     No longer mourn for me when I am dead
+     Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
+     Give warning to the world, that I am fled
+     From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell;
+
+     Nay, if you read this line, remember not
+     The hand that writ it; for I love you so,
+     That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot
+     If thinking on me then should make you woe.
+
+     O if, I say, you look upon this verse
+     When I perhaps compounded am with clay
+     Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,
+     But let your love even with my life decay;
+
+     Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
+     And mock you with me after I am gone.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     50. MADRIGAL.
+
+     Tell me where is Fancy bred,
+     Or in the heart or in the head?
+     How begot, how nourishéd?
+          Reply, reply.
+     It is engender'd in the eyes,
+     With gazing fed; and Fancy dies
+     In the cradle where it lies:
+     Let us all ring fancy's knell;
+     I'll begin it,--Ding, dong, bell.
+               --Ding, dong, bell.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     51. CUPID AND CAMPASPE.
+
+     Cupid and my Campaspe play'd
+     At cards for kisses; Cupid paid:
+     He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
+     His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;
+     Loses them too; then down he throws
+     The coral of his lip, the rose
+     Growing on's cheek (but none knows how);
+     With these, the crystal of his brow,
+     And then the dimple on his chin;
+     All these did my Campaspe win:
+     At last he set her both his eyes--
+     She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
+        O Love! has she done this to thee?
+        What shall, alas! become of me?
+
+     J. LYLYE.
+
+
+
+
+     52.
+
+     Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day,
+      With night we banish sorrow;
+     Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft
+      To give my Love good-morrow!
+     Wings from the wind to please her mind,
+      Notes from the lark I'll borrow;
+     Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale sing,
+      To give my Love good-morrow;
+        To give my Love good-morrow
+        Notes from them both I'll borrow.
+
+     Wake from thy nest, Robin-redbreast!
+      Sing, birds, in every furrow;
+     And from each hill, let music shrill
+      Give my fair Love good-morrow!
+     Blackbird and thrush in every bush,
+      Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow!
+     You pretty elves, amongst yourselves
+      Sing my fair Love good-morrow;
+        To give my Love good-morrow
+        Sing birds, in every furrow!
+
+     T. HEYWOOD.
+
+
+
+
+     53. PROTHALAMION.
+
+     Calm was the day, and through the trembling air
+     Sweet-breathing Zephyrus did softly play--
+     A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay
+     Hot Titan's beams, which then did glister fair;
+     When I, (whom sullen care,
+     Through discontent of my long fruitless stay
+     In princes' court, and expectation vain
+     Of idle hopes, which still do fly away
+     Like empty shadows, did afflict my brain)
+     Walk'd forth to ease my pain
+     Along the shore of silver-streaming Thames;
+     Whose rutty bank, the which his river hems,
+     Was painted all with variable flowers,
+     And all the meads adorn'd with dainty gems
+     Fit to deck maidens' bowers,
+     And crown their paramours
+     Against the bridal day, which is not long:
+       Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+     There in a meadow by the river's side,
+     A flock of nymphs I chancéd to espy,
+     All lovely daughters of the flood thereby,
+     With goodly greenish locks all loose untied
+     As each had been a bride;
+     And each one had a little wicker basket
+     Made of fine twigs, entrailéd curiously,
+     In which they gather'd flowers to fill their flasket,
+     And with fine fingers cropt full feateously
+     The tender stalks on high.
+     Of every sort which in that meadow grew
+     They gather'd some; the violet, pallid blue,
+     The little daisy that at evening closes,
+     The virgin lily and the primrose true:
+     With store of vermeil roses,
+     To deck their bridegrooms' posies
+     Against the bridal day, which was not long:
+       Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+     With that I saw two swans of goodly hue
+     Come softly swimming down along the lee;
+     Two fairer birds I yet did never see;
+     The snow which doth the top of Pindus strow,
+     Did never whiter show,
+     Nor Jove himself, when he a swan would be
+     For love of Leda, whiter did appear;
+     Yet Leda was (they say) as white as he,
+     Yet not so white as these, nor nothing near;
+     So purely white they were,
+     That even the gentle stream, the which them bare,
+     Seem'd foul to them, and bade his billows spare
+     To wet their silken feathers, lest they might
+     Soil their fair plumes with water not so fair,
+     And mar their beauties bright
+     That shone as Heaven's light
+     Against their bridal day, which was not long:
+       Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+     Eftsoons the nymphs, which now had flowers their fill,
+     Ran all in haste to see that silver brood
+     As they came floating on the crystal flood;
+     Whom when they saw, they stood amazéd still
+     Their wondering eyes to fill;
+     Them seem'd they never saw a sight so fair
+     Of fowls, so lovely, that they sure did deem
+     Them heavenly born, or to be that same pair
+     Which through the sky draw Venus' silver team;
+     For sure they did not seem
+     To be begot of any earthly seed,
+     But rather angels, or of angels' breed;
+     Yet were they bred of summer's heat, they say,
+     In sweetest season, when each flower and weed
+     The earth did fresh array;
+     So fresh they seem'd as day,
+     Even as their bridal day, which was not long:
+       Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+     Then forth they all out of their baskets drew
+     Great store of flowers, the honour of the field,
+     That to the sense did fragrant odours yield,
+     All which upon those goodly birds they threw
+     And all the waves did strew,
+     That like old Peneus' waters they did seem
+     When down along by pleasant Tempe's shore
+     Scatter'd with flowers, through Thessaly they stream,
+     That they appear, through lilies' plenteous store,
+     Like a bride's chamber-floor.
+     Two of those nymphs meanwhile two garlands bound
+     Of freshest flowers which in that mead they found,
+     The which presenting all in trim array,
+     Their snowy foreheads therewithal they crown'd
+     Whilst one did sing this lay
+     Prepar'd against that day,
+     Against their bridal day, which was not long:
+       Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+     "Ye gentle birds! the world's fair ornament,
+     And Heaven's glory, whom this happy hour
+     Doth lead unto your lovers' blissful bower,
+     Joy may you have, and gentle hearts content
+     Of your loves complement;
+     And let fair Venus, that is queen of love,
+     With her heart-quelling son upon you smile,
+     Whose smile, they say, hath virtue to remove
+     All love's dislike, and friendship's faulty guile
+     For ever to assoil.
+     Let endless peace your steadfast hearts accord,
+     And blesséd plenty wait upon your board;
+     And let your bed with pleasures chaste abound,
+     That fruitful issue may to you afford
+     Which may your foes confound,
+     And make your joys redound
+     Upon your bridal day, which is not long:
+       Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song."
+
+     So ended she; and all the rest around
+     To her redoubled that her undersong,
+     Which said their bridal day should not be long:
+     And gentle Echo from the neighbour ground
+     Their accents did resound.
+     So forth those joyous birds did pass along
+     Adown the lee that to them murmur'd low,
+     As he would speak but that he lack'd a tongue,
+     Yet did by signs his glad affection show,
+     Making his stream run slow.
+     And all the fowl which in his flood did dwell
+     'Gan flock about these twain, that did excel
+     The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shend
+     The lesser stars. So they, enrangéd well,
+     Did on those two attend,
+     And their best service lend
+     Against their wedding day, which was not long:
+       Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+     At length they all to merry London came,
+     To merry London, my most kindly nurse,
+     That to me gave this life's first native source,
+     Though from another place I take my name,
+     An house of ancient fame:
+     There when they came whereas those bricky towers
+     The which on Thames' broad agéd back do ride,
+     Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers,
+     There whilome wont the Templar-knights to bide,
+     Till they decay'd through pride:
+     Next whereunto there stands a stately place,
+     Where oft I gainéd gifts and goodly grace
+     Of that great lord, which therein wont to dwell,
+     Whose want too well now feels my friendless case;
+     But ah! here fits not well
+     Old woes, but joys to tell
+     Against the bridal day, which is not long:
+       Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+     Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer,
+     Great England's glory and the world's wide wonder,
+     Whose dreadful name late thro' all Spain did thunder,
+     And Hercules' two pillars standing near
+     Did make to quake and fear:
+     Fair branch of honour, flower of chivalry!
+     That fillest England with thy triumphs' fame
+     Joy have thou of thy noble victory,
+     And endless happiness of thine own name
+     That promiseth the same;
+     That through thy prowess and victorious arms,
+     Thy country may be freed from foreign harms,
+     And great Eliza's glorious name may ring
+     Through all the world, fill'd with thy wide alarms
+     Which some brave Muse may sing
+     To ages following,
+     Upon the bridal day, which is not long:
+       Sweet Thames! run softly till I end my song.
+
+     From those high towers this noble lord issúing,
+     Like radiant Hesper, when his golden hair
+     In th' ocean billows he hath bathéd fair,
+     Descended to the river's open viewing
+     With a great train ensuing.
+     Above the rest were goodly to be seen
+     Two gentle knights of lovely face and feature,
+     Beseeming well the bower of any queen,
+     With gifts of wit and ornaments of nature,
+     Fit for so goodly stature,
+     That like the twins of Jove they seem'd in sight
+     Which deck the baldric of the Heavens bright;
+     They two, forth pacing to the river's side,
+     Received those two fair brides, their love's delight;
+     Which, at th' appointed tide,
+     Each one did make his bride
+     Against their bridal day, which is not long:
+       Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+     E. SPENSER.
+
+
+
+
+     54. THE HAPPY HEART.
+
+     Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?
+          O sweet content!
+     Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexéd?
+          O punishment!
+     Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexéd
+     To add to golden numbers, golden numbers?
+     O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
+     Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
+     Honest labour bears a lovely face;
+     Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!
+
+     Canst drink the waters of the crispéd spring?
+          O sweet content!
+     Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears?
+          O punishment!
+     Then he that patiently want's burden bears,
+     No burden bears, but is a king, a king!
+     O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
+     Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
+     Honest labour bears a lovely face;
+     Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!
+
+     T. DEKKER.
+
+
+
+
+     55.
+
+     This Life, which seems so fair,
+     Is like a bubble blown up in the air
+     By sporting children's breath,
+     Who chase it everywhere
+     And strive who can most motion it bequeath.
+     And though it sometimes seem of its own might
+     Like to an eye of gold to be fix'd there,
+     And firm to hover in that empty height,
+     That only is because it is so light.
+     --But in that pomp it doth not long appear;
+     For when 'tis most admiréd, in a thought,
+     Because it erst was nought, it turns to nought.
+
+     W. DRUMMOND.
+
+
+
+
+     56. SOUL AND BODY.
+
+     Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
+     Fool'd by those rebel powers that thee array,
+     Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth,
+     Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
+
+     Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
+     Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
+     Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
+     Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end?
+
+     Then, Soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,
+     And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
+     Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
+     Within be fed, without be rich no more:--
+
+     So shall thou feed on death, that feeds on men,
+     And death once dead, there's no more dying then.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     57. LIFE.
+
+     The World's a bubble, and the Life of Man
+            Less than a span:
+     In his conception wretched, from the womb
+            So to the tomb;
+     Curst from his cradle, and brought up to years
+            With cares and fears.
+     Who then to frail mortality shall trust,
+     But limns on water, or but writes in dust.
+
+     Yet whilst with sorrow here we live opprest,
+            What life is best?
+     Courts are but only superficial schools
+            To dandle fools:
+     The rural parts are turn'd into a den
+            Of savage men:
+     And where's a city from foul vice so free,
+     But may be term'd the worst of all the three?
+
+     Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed,
+            Or pains his head:
+     Those that live single, take it for a curse,
+            Or do things worse:
+     Some would have children: those that have them, moan
+            Or wish them gone:
+     What is it, then, to have, or have no wife,
+     But single thraldom, or a double strife?
+
+     Our own affections still at home to please
+            Is a disease:
+     To cross the seas to any foreign soil,
+            Peril and toil:
+     Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease,
+            We are worse in peace;--
+     What then remains, but that we still should cry
+     For being born, or, being born, to die
+
+     LORD BACON
+
+
+
+
+     58. THE LESSONS OF NATURE.
+
+     Of this fair volume which we World do name
+     If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care,
+     Of Him who it corrects, and did it frame,
+     We clear might read the art and wisdom rare:
+
+     Find out His power which wildest powers doth tame,
+     His providence extending everywhere,
+     His justice which proud rebels doth not spare,
+     In every page, no period of the same.
+
+     But silly we, like foolish children, rest
+     Well pleased with colour'd vellum, leaves of gold,
+     Fair dangling ribbands, leaving what is best,
+     On the great Writer's sense ne'er taking hold;
+
+     Or if by chance we stay our minds on aught,
+     It is some picture on the margin wrought.
+
+     W. DRUMMOND.
+
+
+
+
+     59.
+
+     Doth then the world go thus, doth all thus move?
+     Is this the justice which on Earth we find?
+     Is this that firm decree which all doth bind?
+     Are these your influences, Powers above?
+
+     Those souls which vice's moody mists most blind,
+     Blind Fortune, blindly, most their friend doth prove;
+     And they who thee, poor idle Virtue! love,
+     Ply like a feather toss'd by storm and wind.
+
+     Ah! if a Providence doth sway this all,
+     Why should best minds groan under most distress?
+     Or why should pride humility make thrall,
+     And injuries the innocent oppress?
+
+     Heavens! hinder, stop this fate; or grant a time
+     When good may have, as well as bad, their prime!
+
+     W. DRUMMOND.
+
+
+
+
+     60. THE WORLD'S WAY.
+
+     Tired with all these, for restful death I cry--
+     As, to behold desert a beggar born,
+     And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
+     And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
+
+     And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,
+     And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
+     And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
+     And strength by limping sway disabléd
+
+     And art made tongue-tied by authority,
+     And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill,
+     And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,
+     And captive Good attending captain Ill:--
+
+     --Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
+     Save that, to die, I leave my Love alone.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     61. SAINT JOHN BAPTIST.
+
+     The last and greatest Herald of Heaven's King
+     Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild,
+     Among that savage brood the woods forth bring,
+     Which he more harmless found than man, and mild.
+
+     His food was locusts, and what there doth spring
+     With honey that from virgin hives distill'd;
+     Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing
+     Made him appear, long since from earth exiled.
+
+     There burst he forth: All ye whose hopes rely
+     On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn,
+     Repent, repent, and from old errors turn!
+     --Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry?
+
+     Only the echoes, which he made relent,
+     Rung from their flinty caves, Repent! Repent!
+
+     W. DRUMMOND.
+
+
+
+
+
+SECOND BOOK.
+
+SUMMARY.
+
+
+This division, embracing the latter eighty years of the seventeenth
+century, contains the close of our Early poetical style and the
+commencement of the Modern. In Dryden we see the first master of the
+new: in Milton, whose genius dominates here as Shakespeare's in the
+former book,--the crown and consummation of the early period. Their
+splendid Odes are far in advance of any prior attempts, Spenser's
+excepted: they exhibit the wider and grander range which years and
+experience and the struggles of the time conferred on Poetry. Poetry now
+gave expression to political feeling, to religious thought, to a high
+philosophic statesmanship in writers such as Marvell, Herbert, and
+Wotton: whilst in Marvell and Milton, again, we find the first noble
+attempts at pure description of nature, destined in our own ages to be
+continued and equalled. Meanwhile the poetry of simple passion, although
+before 1660 often deformed by verbal fancies and conceits of thought,
+and afterward by levity and an artificial tone,--produced in Herrick and
+Waller some charming pieces of more finished art than the Elizabethan:
+until in the courtly compliments of Sedley it seems to exhaust itself,
+and lie almost dormant for the hundred years between the days of Wither
+and Suckling and the days of Burns and Cowper.--That the change from our
+early style to the modern brought with it at first a loss of nature and
+simplicity is undeniable: yet the far bolder and wider scope which
+Poetry took between 1620 and 1700, and the successful efforts then made
+to gain greater clearness in expression, in their results have been no
+slight compensation.
+
+
+
+
+
+     62. ODE ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY.
+
+     This is the month, and this the happy morn
+     Wherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King
+     Of wedded maid and virgin mother born,
+     Our great redemption from above did bring;
+     For so the holy sages once did sing
+     That He our deadly forfeit should release,
+     And with His Father work us a perpetual peace.
+
+     That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable,
+     And that far-beaming blaze of Majesty
+     Wherewith He wont at Heaven's high council-table
+     To sit the midst of Trinal Unity,
+     He laid aside; and, here with us to be,
+     Forsook the courts of everlasting day,
+     And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.
+
+     Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein
+     Afford a present to the Infant God?
+     Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain
+     To welcome Him to this His new abode,
+     Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod,
+     Hath took no print of the approaching light,
+     And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?
+
+     See how from far, upon the eastern road,
+     The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet:
+     O run, prevent them with thy humble ode
+     And lay it lowly at his blessed feet;
+     Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet,
+     And join thy voice unto the angel quire
+     From out His secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire.
+
+                 THE HYMN.
+
+     It was the Winter wild
+     While the heaven-born Child
+     All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies
+     Nature in awe to Him
+     Had doff'd her gaudy trim,
+     With her great Master so to sympathise:
+     It was no season then for her
+     To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour.
+
+     Only with speeches fair
+     She woos the gentle air
+     To hide her guilty front with innocent snow;
+     And on her naked shame,
+     Pollute with sinful blame,
+     The saintly veil of maiden white to throw;
+     Confounded, that her Maker's eyes
+     Should look so near upon her foul deformities.
+
+     But He, her fears to cease,
+     Sent down the meek-eyed Peace,
+     She crown'd with olive green, came softly sliding
+     Down through the turning sphere
+     His ready harbinger,
+     With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing;
+     And waving wide her myrtle wand,
+     She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.
+
+     No war, or battle's sound
+     Was heard the world around:
+     The idle spear and shield were high up hung;
+     The hookéd Chariot stood
+     Unstain'd with hostile blood;
+     The trumpet spake not to the arméd throng;
+     And kings sat still with awful eye,
+     As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.
+
+     But peaceful was the night
+     Wherin the Prince of Light
+     His reign of peace upon the earth began:
+     The winds, with wonder whist,
+     Smoothly the waters kist
+     Whispering new joys to the mild oceán--
+     Who now hath quite forgot to rave,
+     While birds of calm sit brooding on the charméd wave.
+
+     The stars with deep amaze
+     Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze,
+     Bending one way their precious influence;
+     And will not take their flight
+     For all the morning light,
+     Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence;
+     But in their glimmering orbs did glow,
+     Until their Lord Himself bespake, and bid them go.
+
+     And though the shady gloom
+     Had given day her room,
+     The sun himself withheld his wonted speed,
+     And hid his head for shame,
+     As his inferior flame
+     The new-enlightn'd world no more should need:
+     He saw a greater Sun appear
+     Then his bright throne, or burning axletree, could bear.
+
+     The shepherds on the lawn
+     Or ere the point of dawn
+     Sate simply chatting in a rustic row;
+     Full little thought they then
+     That the mighty Pan
+     Was kindly come to live with them below;
+     Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep
+     Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.
+
+     When such music sweet
+     Their hearts and ears did greet
+     As never was by mortal finger strook--
+     Divinely-warbled voice
+     Answering the stringéd noise,
+     As all their souls in blissful rapture took:
+     The air, such pleasure loth to lose,
+     With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.
+
+     Nature that heard such sound
+     Beneath the hollow round
+     Of Cynthia's seat the airy region thrilling,
+     Now was almost won
+     To think her part was done,
+     And that her reign had here its last fulfilling;
+     She knew such harmony alone
+     Could hold all heaven and earth in happier union.
+
+     At last surrounds their sight
+     A globe of circular light
+     That with long beams the shamefaced night array'd;
+     The helméd Cherubim
+     And sworded Seraphim,
+     Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd,
+     Harping in loud and solemn quire
+     With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born Heir.
+
+     Such music (as 'tis said)
+     Before was never made
+     But when of old the sons of morning sung,
+     While the Creator great
+     His constellations set
+     And the well-balanced world on hinges hung;
+     And cast the dark foundations deep,
+     And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep.
+
+     Ring out, ye crystal spheres!
+     Once bless our human ears,
+     If ye have power to touch our senses so;
+     And let your silver chime
+     Move in melodious time;
+     And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow;
+     And with your ninefold harmony
+     Make up full concert to the angelic symphony.
+
+     For if such holy Song
+     Enwrap our fancy long,
+     Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold;
+     And speckled vanity
+     Will sicken soon and die,
+     And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould;
+     And Hell itself will pass away,
+     And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.
+
+     Yea, Truth and Justice then
+     Will down return to men,
+     Orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing,
+     Mercy will sit between
+     Throned in celestial sheen,
+     With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering;
+     And Heaven, as at some festival,
+     Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall.
+
+     But wisest Fate says No;
+     This must not yet be so;
+     The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy
+     That on the bitter cross
+     Must redeem our loss;
+     So both Himself and us to glorify:
+     Yet first to those ychain'd in sleep
+     The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep;
+
+     With such a horrid clang
+     As on mount Sinai rang
+     While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake:
+     The aged Earth agast
+     With terrour of that blast
+     Shall from the surface to the centre shake,
+     When at the worlds last sessión,
+     The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread His throne.
+
+     And then at last our bliss
+     Full and perfect is,
+     But now begins; for from this happy day
+     The old Dragon, under ground
+     In straiter limits bound,
+     Not half so far casts his usurpéd sway;
+     And, wroth to see his Kingdom fail,
+     Swinges the scaly horrour of his folded tail.
+
+     The oracles are dumb;
+     No voice or hideous hum
+     Runs through the archéd roof in words deceiving:
+     Apollo from his shrine
+     Can no more divine,
+     With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving:
+     No nightly trance or breathéd spell
+     Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
+
+     The lonely mountains o'er
+     And the resounding shore
+     A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament;
+     From haunted spring, and dale
+     Edged with poplar pale
+     The parting Genius is with sighing sent;
+     With flower-inwoven tresses torn
+     The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.
+
+     In consecrated earth
+     And on the holy hearth,
+     The Lars and Lemurés moan with midnight plaint;
+     In urns, and altars round
+     A drear and dying sound
+     Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint;
+     And the chill marble seems to sweat,
+     While each peculiar Power forgoes his wonted seat.
+
+     Peor and Baalim
+     Forsake their temples dim,
+     With that twice-batter'd god of Palestine
+     And moonéd Ashtaroth
+     Heaven's queen and mother both,
+     Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine;
+     The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn,
+     In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.
+
+     And sullen Moloch, fled,
+     Hath left in shadows dread
+     His burning idol all of blackest hue;
+     In vain with cymbals' ring
+     They call the grisly king,
+     In dismal dance about the furnace blue;
+     The brutish gods of Nile as fast
+     Isis and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.
+
+     Nor is Osiris seen
+     In Memphian grove, or green,
+     Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings loud:
+     Nor can he be at rest
+     Within his sacred chest;
+     Naught but profoundest hell can be his shroud;
+     In vain with timbrell'd anthems dark
+     The sable stoléd sorcerers bear his worshipt ark.
+
+     He feels from Juda's land
+     The dreaded infant's hand;
+     The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;
+     Nor all the gods beside
+     Longer dare abide,
+     Nor Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:
+     Our Babe, to shew his Godhead true,
+     Can in his swaddling bands control the damnéd crew.
+
+     So, when the sun in bed
+     Curtain'd with cloudy red
+     Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,
+     The flocking shadows pale
+     Troop to the infernal jail,
+     Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave;
+     And the yellow-skirted fays
+     Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.
+
+     But see, the Virgin blest
+     Hath laid her Babe to rest;
+     Time is, our tedious song should here have ending:
+     Heavens youngest-teeméd star,
+     Hath fixed her polish'd car,
+     Her sleeping Lord with hand-maid lamp attending:
+     And all about the courtly stable
+     Bright-harness'd angels sit in order serviceable.
+
+     J. MILTON.
+
+
+
+
+     63. SONG FOR ST CECILIA'S DAY,
+
+                  1687.
+
+     From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony
+       This universal frame began:
+      When nature underneath a heap
+       Of jarring atoms lay
+      And could not heave her head,
+     The tuneful voice was heard from high
+       Arise, ye more than dead!
+     Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry
+     In order to their stations leap,
+       And Music's power obey.
+     From harmony, from heavenly harmony
+       This universal frame began:
+       From harmony to harmony
+     Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
+     The diapason closing full in Man.
+
+     What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
+       When Jubal struck the chorded shell
+      His listening brethren stood around,
+      And, wondering, on their faces fell
+      To worship that celestial sound.
+     Less than a God they thought there could not dwell
+       Within the hollow of that shell,
+       That spoke so sweetly and so well.
+     What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
+
+      The trumpet's loud clangor
+       Excites us to arms,
+      With shrill notes of anger,
+       And mortal alarms.
+      The double double double beat
+       Of the thundering drum
+       Cries "Hark! the foes come;
+     Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!"
+
+      The soft complaining flute
+      In dying notes discovers
+      The woes of hopeless lovers,
+     Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.
+
+      Sharp violins proclaim
+     Their jealous pangs and desperation,
+     Fury, frantic indignation,
+     Depth of pains, and height of passion
+      For the fair, disdainful dame.
+
+     But oh! what art can teach,
+     What human voice can reach
+      The sacred organ's praise?
+     Notes inspiring holy love,
+     Notes that wing their heavenly ways
+      To mend the choirs above.
+     Orpheus could lead the savage race,
+     And trees uprooted left their place
+      Sequacious of the lyre:
+     But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher:
+     When to her Organ vocal breath was given
+     An angel heard, and straight appear'd--
+      Mistaking Earth for Heaven!
+
+              _Grand Chorus_:
+
+     As from the power of sacred lays
+      The spheres began to move,
+     And sung the great Creator's praise
+      To all the blest above;
+     So when the last and dreadful hour
+     This crumbling pageant shall devour,
+     The trumpet shall be heard on high,
+     The dead shall live, the living die,
+     And Music shall untune the sky.
+
+     J. DRYDEN.
+
+
+
+
+     64. ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEMONT.
+
+     Avenge, O Lord! Thy slaughter'd Saints, whose bones
+     Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold;
+     Even them who kept Thy truth so pure of old
+     When all our fathers worshipt stocks and stones.
+
+     Forget not: In Thy book record their groans
+     Who were Thy sheep, and in their ancient fold
+     Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that roll'd
+     Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans
+
+     The vales redoubled to the hills, and they
+     To Heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow
+     O'er all the Italian field, where still doth sway
+     The triple tyrant, that from these may grow
+     A hundred-fold, who, having learnt Thy way,
+     Early may fly the Babylonian woe.
+
+     J. MILTON.
+
+
+
+
+     65. HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S RETURN FROM IRELAND.
+
+       The forward youth that would appear,
+       Must now forsake his Muses dear,
+          Nor in the shadows sing
+          His numbers languishing.
+
+       'Tis time to leave the books in dust,
+       And oil the unused armour's rust,
+          Removing from the wall
+          The corslet of the hall.
+
+       So restless Cromwell could not cease
+       In the inglorious arts of peace,
+          But through adventurous war
+          Urgéd his active star:
+
+       And like the three-fork'd lightning first
+       Breaking the clouds where it was nurst,
+          Did thorough his own side
+          His fiery way divide:
+
+       For 'tis all one to courage high
+       The emulous, or enemy;
+          And with such, to enclose
+          Is more than to oppose;
+
+       Then burning through the air he went
+       And palaces and temples rent;
+          And Caesar's head at last
+          Did through his laurels blast.
+
+       'Tis madness to resist or blame
+       The face of angry heaven's flame;
+          And if we would speak true,
+          Much to the Man is due
+
+       Who, from his private gardens, where
+       He lived reservéd and austere
+          (As if he his highest plot
+          To plant the bergamot)
+
+       Could by industrious valour climb
+       To ruin the great work of time,
+          And cast the Kingdoms old
+          Into another mould.
+
+       Though Justice against Fate complain,
+       And plead the ancient Rights in vain--
+          But those do hold or break
+          As men are strong or weak;
+
+       Nature, that hateth emptiness,
+       Allows of penetration less,
+          And therefore must make room
+          Where greater spirits come.
+
+       What field of all the civil war
+       Where his were not the deepest scar?
+          And Hampton shows what part
+          He had of wiser art,
+
+       Where, twining subtle fears with hope,
+       He wove a net of such a scope
+          That Charles himself might chase
+          To Carisbrook's narrow case;
+
+       That thence the Royal actor borne
+       The tragic scaffold might adorn:
+          While round the arméd bands
+          Did clap their bloody hands;
+
+       He nothing common did or mean
+       Upon that memorable scene,
+          But with his keener eye
+          The axe's edge did try;
+
+       Nor call'd the Gods, with vulgar spite,
+       To vindicate his helpless right;
+          But bow'd his comely head
+          Down, as upon a bed.
+
+       --This was that memorable hour
+       Which first assured the forcéd power:
+          So when they did design
+          The Capitol's first line,
+
+       A Bleeding Head, where they begun,
+       Did fright the architects to run;
+          And yet in that the State
+          Foresaw its happy fate!
+
+       And now the Irish are ashamed
+       To see themselves in one year tamed:
+          So much one man can do
+          That does both act and know.
+
+       They can affirm his praises best,
+       And have, though overcome, confest
+          How good he is, how just
+          And fit for highest trust;
+
+       Nor yet grown stiffer with command,
+       But still in the Republic's hand--
+          How fit he is to sway
+          That can so well obey!
+
+       He to the Commons' feet presents
+       A Kingdom for his first year's rents,
+          And (what he may) forbears
+          His fame, to make it theirs:
+
+       And has his sword and spoils ungirt
+       To lay them at the Public's skirt.
+          So when the falcon high
+          Falls heavy from the sky,
+
+       She, having kill'd, no more doth search
+       But on the next green bough to perch,
+          Where, when he first does lure,
+          The falconer has her sure.
+
+       --What may not then our Isle presume
+       While victory his crest does plume?
+          What may not others fear
+          If thus he crowns each year!
+
+       As Caesar he, ere long, to Gaul,
+       To Italy an Hannibal,
+          And to all states not free
+          Shall climacteric be.
+
+       The Pict no shelter now shall find
+       Within his parti-colour'd mind,
+          But, from this valour, sad
+          Shrink underneath the plaid--
+
+       Happy, if in the tufted brake
+       The English hunter him mistake,
+          Nor lay his hounds in near
+          The Caledonian deer.
+
+       But Thou, the War's and Fortune's son,
+       March indefatigably on;
+          And for the last effect
+          Still keep the sword erect:
+
+       Besides the force it has to fright
+       The spirits of the shady night,
+          The same arts that did gain
+          A power, must it maintain.
+
+     A. MARVELL.
+
+
+
+
+     66. LYCIDAS
+
+     _Elegy on a Friend drowned in the Irish Channel._
+
+     Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more
+     Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
+     I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
+     And with forced fingers rude
+     Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
+     Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear
+     Compels me to disturb your season due:
+     For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
+     Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:
+     Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew
+     Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
+     He must not float upon his watery bier
+     Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
+     Without the meed of some melodious tear.
+
+       Begin, then, Sisters of the sacred well
+     That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring;
+     Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string;
+     Hence with denial vain and coy excuse:
+     So may some gentle Muse
+     With lucky words favour my destined urn:
+     And as he passes, turn
+     And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.
+
+       For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,
+     Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill:
+     Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd
+     Under the opening eye-lids of the morn,
+     We drove a-field, and both together heard
+     What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,
+     Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
+     Oft till the star that rose at evening bright
+     Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel.
+     Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute;
+     Temper'd to the oaten flute,
+     Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel
+     From the glad sound would not be absent long;
+     And old Damoetas loved to hear our song.
+
+       But, O the heavy change, now thou art gone,
+     Now thou art gone and never must return!
+     Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves,
+     With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,
+     And all their echoes, mourn.
+     The willows and the hazel copses green
+     Shall now no more be seen
+     Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays:--
+     As killing as the canker to the rose,
+     Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,
+     Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear,
+     When first the white-thorn blows;
+     Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherds' ear.
+
+       Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep
+     Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas?
+     For neither were ye playing on the steep
+     Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,
+     Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,
+     Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream.
+     Ay me! I fondly dream--
+     Had ye been there--for what could that have done?
+     What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,
+     The Muse herself, for her enchanting son,
+     Whom universal nature did lament,
+     When by the rout that made the hideous roar
+     His gory visage down the stream was sent,
+     Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?
+
+       Alas! what boots it with incessant care
+     To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's trade
+     And strictly meditate the thankless Muse?
+     Were it not better done, as others use,
+     To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,
+     Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair?
+     Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise
+     (That last infirmity of noble mind)
+     To scorn delights and live laborious days;
+     But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
+     And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
+     Comes the blind Fury with the abhorréd shears
+     And slits the thin-spun life. "But not the praise,"
+     Phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears;
+     "Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
+     Nor in the glistering foil
+     Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies:
+     But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes
+     And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;
+     As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
+     Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed."
+
+       O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd flood
+     Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds!
+     That strain I heard was of a higher mood:
+     But now my oat proceeds,
+     And listens to the herald of the sea
+     That came in Neptune's plea;
+     He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds,
+     What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain?
+     And question'd every gust of rugged wings
+     That blows from off each beakéd promontory:
+     They knew not of his story;
+     And sage Hippotadés their answer brings,
+     That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd;
+     The air was calm, and on the level brine
+     Sleek Panopé with all her sisters play'd.
+     It was that fatal and perfidious bark
+     Built in the eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark,
+     That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.
+
+       Next, Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,
+     His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge
+     Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge
+     Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe:
+     "Ah! who hath reft," quoth he, "my dearest pledge!"
+     Last came, and last did go
+     The pilot of the Galilean Lake;
+     Two massy keys he bore of metals twain
+     (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain);
+     He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake:
+     "How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,
+     Enow of such, as for their bellies' sake
+     Creep and intrude and climb into the fold!
+     Of other care they little reckoning make
+     Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast,
+     And shove away the worthy bidden guest;
+     Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold
+     A sheep-hook, or have learn'd aught else the least
+     That to the faithful herdman's art belongs!
+     What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;
+     And, when they list, their lean and flashy songs
+     Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;
+     The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,
+     But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw
+     Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:
+     Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw
+     Daily devours apace, and nothing said:
+     --But that two-handed engine at the door
+     Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more."
+
+       Return, Alphéus; the dread voice is past
+     That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse,
+     And call the vales, and bid them hither cast
+     Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues.
+     Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use
+     Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks
+     On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks;
+     Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes
+     That on the green turf suck the honey'd showers
+     And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
+     Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
+     The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,
+     The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet,
+     The glowing violet,
+     The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,
+     With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
+     And every flower that sad embroidery wears:
+     Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,
+     And daffodillies fill their cups with tears
+     To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.
+     For so to interpose a little ease,
+     Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise;
+     Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas
+     Wash far away,--where'er thy bones are hurl'd;
+     Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides
+     Where thou perhaps, under the whelming tide
+     Visitest the bottom of the monstrous world;
+     Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,
+     Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,
+     Where the great Vision of the guarded mount
+     Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold,
+     --Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth:
+     --And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth!
+
+       Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more,
+     For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,
+     Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor;
+     So sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed,
+     And yet anon repairs his drooping head
+     And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore
+     Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:
+     So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high
+     Through the dear might of Him that walk'd the waves;
+     Where, other groves and other streams along,
+     With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,
+     And hears the unexpressive nuptial song
+     In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.
+     There entertain him all the saints above
+     In solemn troops, and sweet societies,
+     That sing, and singing, in their glory move,
+     And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
+     Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;
+     Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore,
+     In thy large recompense, and shalt be good
+     To all that wander in that perilous flood.
+
+       Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills,
+     While the still morn went out with sandals gray;
+     He touch'd the tender stops of various quills,
+     With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:
+     And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills,
+     And now was dropt into the western bay:
+     At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue:
+     To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.
+
+     J. MILTON.
+
+
+
+
+     67. THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
+
+     Mortality, behold and fear
+     What a change of flesh is here!
+     Think how many royal bones
+     Sleep within these heaps of stones;
+     Here they lie, had realms and lands,
+     Who now want strength to stir their hands,
+     Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust
+     They preach, "In greatness is no trust."
+     Here's an acre sown indeed
+     With the richest royallest seed
+     That the earth did e'er suck in
+     Since the first man died for sin:
+     Here the bones of birth have cried
+     "Though gods they were, as men they died!"
+     Here are sands, ignoble things,
+     Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings
+     Here's a world of pomp and state
+     Buried in dust, once dead by fate.
+
+     F. BEAUMONT.
+
+
+
+
+     68. THE LAST CONQUEROR.
+
+     Victorious men of earth, no more
+       Proclaim how wide your empires are;
+     Though you bind-in every shore
+       And your triumphs reach as far
+          As night and day,
+       Yet you, proud monarchs, must obey
+     And mingle with forgotten ashes, when
+     Death calls ye to the crowd of common men.
+
+     Devouring Famine, Plague, and War,
+       Each able to undo mankind,
+     Death's servile emissaries are;
+       Nor to these alone confined,
+          He hath at will
+       More quaint and subtle ways to kill;
+     A smile or kiss, as he will use the art,
+     Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart.
+
+     J. SHIRLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     69. DEATH THE LEVELLER.
+
+     The glories of our blood and state
+        Are shadows, not substantial things;
+     There is no armour against fate;
+        Death lays his icy hand on kings:
+          Sceptre and Crown
+          Must tumble down,
+     And in the dust be equal made
+     With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
+
+     Some men with swords may reap the field,
+        And plant fresh laurels where they kill:
+     But their strong nerves at last must yield;
+        They tame but one another still:
+          Early or late
+          They stoop to fate,
+     And must give up their murmuring breath
+     When they, pale captives, creep to death.
+
+     The garlands wither on your brow;
+        Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
+     Upon Death's purple altar now
+        See where the victor-victim bleeds:
+          Your heads must come
+          To the cold tomb;
+     Only the actions of the just
+     Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.
+
+     J. SHIRLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     70. WHEN THE ASSAULT WAS INTENDED TO THE CITY.
+
+     Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in arms,
+     Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize,
+     If deed of honour did thee ever please;
+     Guard them, and him within protect from harms.
+
+     He can requite thee; for he knows the charms
+     That call fame on such gentle acts as these.
+     And he can spread thy name o'er lands and seas,
+     Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms.
+
+     Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower:
+     The great Emathian conqueror bid spare
+     The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower
+     Went to the ground: and the repeated air
+     Of sad Electra's poet had the power
+     To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare.
+
+     J. MILTON.
+
+
+
+
+     71. ON HIS BLINDNESS.
+
+     When I consider how my light is spent
+     Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
+     And that one talent which is death to hide
+     Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
+
+     To serve therewith my Maker, and present
+     My true account, lest He returning chide,--
+     Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?
+     I fondly ask:--But Patience, to prevent
+
+     That murmur, soon replies; God doth not need
+     Either man's work, or His own gifts: who best
+     Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His state
+
+     Is kingly; thousands at His bidding speed
+     And post o'er land and ocean without rest:--
+     They also serve who only stand and wait.
+
+     J. MILTON.
+
+
+
+
+     72. CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE.
+
+     How happy is he born and taught
+     That serveth not another's will;
+     Whose armour is his honest thought
+     And simple truth his utmost skill!
+
+     Whose passions not his masters are,
+     Whose soul is still prepared for death,
+     Not tied unto the world by care
+     Of public fame, or private breath;
+
+     Who envies none that chance doth raise
+     Or vice; Who never understood
+     How deepest wounds are given by praise;
+     Nor rules of state, but rules of good:
+
+     Who hath his life from rumours freed,
+     Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
+     Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
+     Nor ruin make accusers great;
+
+     Who God doth late and early pray
+     More of His grace than gifts to lend;
+     And entertains the harmless day
+     With a well-chosen book or friend;
+
+     --This man is freed from servile bands
+     Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
+     Lord of himself, though not of lands,
+     And having nothing, yet hath all.
+
+     SIR H. WOTTON.
+
+
+
+
+     73. THE NOBLE NATURE.
+
+        It is not growing like a tree
+        In bulk, doth make Man better be;
+     Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
+     To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:
+          A lily of a day
+          Is fairer far in May,
+        Although it fall and die that night--
+        It was the plant and flower of Light.
+     In small proportions we just beauties see;
+     And in short measures life may perfect be.
+
+     B. JONSON
+
+
+
+
+     74. THE GIFTS OF GOD.
+
+         When God at first made Man,
+     Having a glass of blessings standing by;
+     Let us (said he) pour on him all we can:
+     Let the world's riches, which disperséd lie,
+         Contract into a span.
+
+         So strength first made a way;
+     Then beauty flow'd, then wisdom, honour, pleasure:
+     When almost all was out, God made a stay,
+     Perceiving that alone, of all his treasure,
+         Rest in the bottom lay.
+
+         For if I should (said he)
+     Bestow this jewel also on my creature,
+     He would adore My gifts instead of Me,
+     And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature:
+         So both should losers be.
+
+         Yet let him keep the rest,
+     But keep them with repining restlessness:
+     Let him be rich and weary, that at least,
+     If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
+         May toss him to my breast.
+
+     G. HERBERT.
+
+
+
+
+     75. THE RETREAT.
+
+     Happy those early days, when I
+     Shined in my Angel-infancy!
+     Before I understood this place
+     Appointed for my second race,
+     Or taught my soul to fancy aught
+     But a white, celestial thought;
+     When yet I had not walk'd above
+     A mile or two from my first Love,
+
+     And looking back, at that short space
+     Could see a glimpse of his bright face;
+     When on some gilded cloud or flower
+     My gazing soul would dwell an hour,
+     And in those weaker glories spy
+     Some shadows of eternity;
+     Before I taught my tongue to wound
+     My conscience with a sinful sound,
+     Or had the black art to dispense
+     A several sin to every sense,
+     But felt through all this fleshly dress
+     Bright shoots of everlastingness.
+
+     O how I long to travel back,
+     And tread again that ancient track!
+     That I might once more reach that plain,
+     Where first I left my glorious train;
+     From whence th' enlighten'd spirit sees
+     That shady City of Palm trees!
+     But ah! my soul with too much stay
+     Is drunk, and staggers in the way:--
+     Some men a forward motion love,
+     But I by backward steps would move;
+     And when this dust falls to the urn,
+     In that state I came, return.
+
+     H. VAUGHAN.
+
+
+
+
+     76. TO MR. LAWRENCE.
+
+     Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son,
+     Now that the fields are dank and ways are mire,
+     Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire
+     Help waste a sullen day, what may be won
+
+     From the hard season gaining? Time will run
+     On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire
+     The frozen earth, and cloth in fresh attire
+     The lily and rose, that neither sow'd nor spun.
+
+     What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,
+     Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise
+     To hear the lute well touch'd, or artful voice
+
+     Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air?
+     He who of those delights can judge, and spare
+     To interpose them oft, is not unwise.
+
+     J. MILTON.
+
+
+
+
+     77. TO CYRIACK SKINNER.
+
+     Cyriack, whose grandsire on the royal bench
+     Of British Themis, with no mean applause
+     Pronounced, and in his volumes taught, our laws,
+     Which others at their bar so often wrench;
+
+     To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench
+     In mirth, that after no repenting draws;
+     Let Euclid rest and Archimedes pause,
+     And what the Swede intends, and what the French.
+
+     To measure life learn thou betimes, and know
+     Toward solid good what leads the nearest way;
+     For other things mild Heaven a time ordains,
+
+     And disapproves that care, though wise in show,
+     That with superfluous burden loads the day,
+     And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.
+
+     J. MILTON.
+
+
+
+
+     78. HYMN TO DIANA.
+
+     Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair,
+        Now the sun is laid to sleep,
+     Seated in thy silver chair
+        State in wonted manner keep:
+          Hesperus entreats thy light,
+          Goddess excellently bright.
+
+     Earth, let not thy envious shade
+        Dare itself to interpose;
+     Cynthia's shining orb was made
+        Heaven to clear when day did close;
+          Bless us then with wishéd sight,
+          Goddess excellently bright.
+
+     Lay thy bow of pearl apart
+        And thy crystal-shining quiver;
+     Give unto the flying hart
+        Space to breathe, how short soever;
+          Thou that mak'st a day of night,
+          Goddess excellently bright.
+
+     B. JONSON.
+
+
+
+
+     79. WISHES FOR THE SUPPOSED MISTRESS.
+
+     Whoe'er she be,
+     That not impossible She
+     That shall command my heart and me;
+
+     Where'er she lie,
+     Lock'd up from mortal eye
+     In shady leaves of destiny:
+
+     Till that ripe birth
+     Of studied Fate stand forth,
+     And teach her fair steps to our earth;
+
+     Till that divine
+     Idea take a shrine
+     Of crystal flesh, through which to shine:
+
+     --Meet you her, my Wishes,
+     Bespeak her to my blisses,
+     And be ye call'd, my absent kisses.
+
+     I wish her beauty,
+     That owes not all its duty
+     To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie:
+
+     Something more than
+     Taffata or tissue can,
+     Or rampant feather, or rich fan.
+
+     A face that's best
+     By its own beauty drest,
+     And can alone command the rest:
+
+     A face made up
+     Out of no other shop
+     Than what Nature's white hand sets ope.
+
+     Sydneian showers
+     Of sweet discourse, whose powers
+     Can crown old Winter's head with flowers.
+
+     Whate'er delight
+     Can make day's forehead bright
+     Or give down to the wings of night.
+
+     Soft silken hours,
+     Open suns, shady bowers;
+     'Bove all, nothing within that lowers.
+
+     Days, that need borrow
+     No part of their good morrow
+     From a fore-spent night of sorrow:
+
+     Days, that in spite
+     Of darkness, by the light
+     Of a clear mind are day all night.
+
+     Life, that dares send
+     A challenge to his end,
+     And when it comes, say, "Welcome friend."
+
+     I wish her store
+     Of worth may leave her poor
+     Of wishes; and I wish--no more.
+
+     --Now, if Time knows
+     That Her, whose radiant brows
+     Weave them a garland of my vows;
+
+     Her that dares be
+     What these lines wish to see;
+     I seek no further, it is She.
+
+     'Tis She, and here
+     Lo! I unclothe and clear
+     My wishes' cloudy character.
+
+     Such worth as this is
+     Shall fix my flying wishes,
+     And determine them to kisses.
+
+     Let her full glory,
+     My fancies, fly before ye;
+     Be ye my fictions:--but her story.
+
+     R. CRASHAW.
+
+
+
+
+     80. THE GREAT ADVENTURER.
+
+        Over the mountains
+        And over the waves,
+        Under the fountains
+        And under the graves;
+        Under floods that are deepest,
+        Which Neptune obey;
+        Over rocks that are steepest
+        Love will find out the way.
+
+        When there is no place
+        For the glow-worm to lie;
+        When there is no space
+        For receipt of a fly;
+        When the midge dares not venture
+        Lest herself fast she lay;
+        If Love come, he will enter
+        And will find out his way.
+
+        You may esteem him
+        A child for his might;
+        Or you may deem him
+        A coward from his flight;
+        But if she whom love doth honour
+        Be conceal'd from the day,
+        Set a thousand guards upon her,
+        Love will find out the way.
+
+        Some think to lose him
+        By having him confined;
+        And some do suppose him,
+        Poor thing, to be blind;
+        But if ne'er so close ye wall him,
+        Do the best that you may,
+        Blind love, if so ye call him,
+        Will find out his way.
+
+        You may train the eagle
+        To stoop to your fist;
+        Or you may inveigle
+        The phoenix of the east;
+        The lioness, ye may move her
+        To give o'er her prey;
+        But you'll ne'er stop a lover:
+        He will find out his way.
+
+     ANON.
+
+
+
+
+     81. CHILD AND MAIDEN.
+
+     Ah, Chloris! could I now but sit
+       As unconcern'd as when
+     Your infant beauty could beget
+       No happiness or pain!
+     When I the dawn used to admire,
+       And praised the coming day,
+     I little thought the rising fire
+       Would take my rest away.
+
+     Your charms in harmless childhood lay
+       Like metals in a mine;
+     Age from no face takes more away
+       Than youth conceal'd in thine.
+     But as your charms insensibly
+       To their perfection prest,
+     So love as unperceived did fly,
+       And center'd in my breast.
+
+     My passion with your beauty grew,
+       While Cupid at my heart
+     Still as his mother favour'd you,
+       Threw a new flaming dart:
+     Each gloried in their wanton part;
+       To make a lover, he
+     Employ'd the utmost of his art--
+       To make a beauty, she.
+
+     SIR C. SEDLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     82. COUNSEL TO GIRLS.
+
+     Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,
+       Old Time is still a-flying:
+     And this same flower that smiles to-day,
+       To-morrow will be dying.
+
+     The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun,
+       The higher he's a-getting
+     The sooner will his race be run,
+       And nearer he's to setting.
+
+     That age is best which is the first,
+       When youth and blood are warmer,
+     But being spent, the worse, and worst
+       Times, still succeed the former.
+
+     Then be not coy, but use your time;
+       And while ye may, go marry:
+     For having lost but once your prime,
+       You may for ever tarry.
+
+     R. HERRICK.
+
+
+
+
+     83. TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS.
+
+     Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind
+       That from the nunnery
+     Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,
+       To war and arms I fly.
+
+     True, a new mistress now I chase,
+       The first foe in the field;
+     And with a stronger faith embrace
+       A sword, a horse, a shield.
+
+     Yet this inconstancy is such
+       As you too shalt adore;
+     I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
+       Loved I not Honour more.
+
+     COLONEL LOVELACE.
+
+
+
+
+     84. ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA.
+
+     You meaner beauties of the night,
+       Which poorly satisfy our eyes
+     More by your number than your light,
+       You common people of the skies,
+     What are you, when the Moon shall rise?
+
+     Ye violets that first appear,
+       By your pure purple mantles known
+     Like the proud virgins of the year
+       As if the spring were all your own,--
+     What are you, when the Rose is blown?
+
+     You curious chanters of the wood
+       That warble forth dame Nature's lays,
+     Thinking your passions understood
+       By your weak accents; what's your praise
+     When Philomel her voice doth raise?
+
+     So, when my Mistress shall be seen
+       In sweetness of her looks and mind,
+     By virtue first, then choice, a Queen,
+       Tell me, if she were not design'd
+     Th' eclipse and glory of her kind?
+
+     SIR H. WOTTON.
+
+
+
+
+     85. TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY.
+
+     Daughter to that good earl, once President
+     Of England's council and her treasury,
+     Who lived in both, unstain'd with gold or fee,
+     And left them both, more in himself content.
+
+     Till the sad breaking of that parliament
+     Broke him, as that dishonest victory
+     At Chaeronia, fatal to liberty,
+     Kill'd with report that old man eloquent;--
+
+     Though later born than to have known the days
+     Wherein your father flourish'd, yet by you,
+     Madam, methinks I see him living yet;
+
+     So well your words his noble virtues praise,
+     That all both judge you to relate them true,
+     And to possess them, honour'd Margaret.
+
+     J. MILTON.
+
+
+
+
+     86. THE LOVELINESS OF LOVE.
+
+     It is not Beauty I demand,
+     A crystal brow, the moon's despair,
+     Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand,
+     Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair:
+
+     Tell me not of your starry eyes,
+     Your lips that seem on roses fed,
+     Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies,
+     Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed:--
+
+     A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks
+     Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours,
+     A breath that softer music speaks
+     Than summer winds a-wooing flowers,
+
+     These are but gauds: nay what are lips?
+     Coral beneath the ocean-stream,
+     Whose brink when your adventurer slips
+     Full oft he perisheth on them.
+
+     And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft
+     That wave hot youth to fields of blood?
+     Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft,
+     Do Greece or Ilium any good?
+
+     Eyes can with baleful ardour burn;
+     Poison can breathe, that erst perfumed;
+     There's many a white hand holds an urn
+     With lovers hearts to dust consumed.
+
+     For crystal brows there's nought within;
+     They are but empty cells for pride;
+     He who the Syren's hair would win
+     Is mostly strangled in the tide.
+
+     Give me, instead of Beauty's bust,
+     A tender heart, a loyal mind
+     Which with temptation I would trust,
+     Yet never link'd with error find,--
+
+     One in whose gentle bosom I
+     Could pour my secret heart of woes,
+     Like the care-burthen'd honey-fly
+     That hides his murmurs in the rose,--
+
+     My earthly Comforter! whose love
+     So indefeasible might be
+     That, when my spirit wonn'd above,
+     Hers could not stay, for sympathy.
+
+     ANON.
+
+
+
+
+     87. THE TRUE BEAUTY.
+
+        He that loves a rosy cheek
+         Or a coral lip admires,
+        Or from star-like eyes doth seek
+         Fuel to maintain his fires;
+        As old Time makes these decay,
+        So his flames must waste away.
+
+        But a smooth and steadfast mind,
+         Gentle thoughts, and calm desires,
+        Hearts with equal love combined,
+         Kindle never-dying fires:--
+        Where these are not, I despise
+        Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes.
+
+     T. CAREW.
+
+
+
+
+     88. TO DIANEME.
+
+     Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes
+     Which starlike sparkle in their skies;
+     Nor be you proud, that you can see
+     All hearts your captives; yours yet free:
+     Be you not proud of that rich hair
+     Which wantons with the lovesick air;
+     Whenas that ruby which you wear,
+     Sunk from the tip of your soft ear,
+     Will last to be a precious stone,
+     When all your world of beauty's gone.
+
+     R. HERRICK.
+
+
+
+
+     89.
+
+       Go, lovely Rose!
+     Tell her, that wastes her time and me,
+       That now she knows,
+     When I resemble her to thee,
+     How sweet and fair she seems to be.
+
+       Tell her that's young,
+     And shuns to have her graces spied,
+       That hadst thou sprung
+     In deserts, where no men abide,
+     Thou must have uncommended died.
+
+       Small is the worth
+     Of beauty from the light retired:
+       Bid her come forth,
+     Suffer herself to be desired,
+     And not blush so to be admired.
+
+       Then die! that she
+     The common fate of all things rare
+       May read in thee:
+     How small a part of time they share
+     That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
+
+     E. WALLER.
+
+
+
+
+     90. TO CELIA.
+
+     Drink to me only with thine eyes,
+       And I will pledge with mine;
+     Or leave a kiss but in the cup
+       And I'll not look for wine.
+     The thirst that from the soul doth rise
+       Doth ask a drink divine;
+     But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
+       I would not change for thine.
+
+     I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
+       Not so much honouring thee
+     As giving it a hope that there
+       It could not wither'd be;
+     But thou thereon didst only breathe
+       And sent'st it back to me;
+     Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
+       Not of itself but thee!
+
+     B. JONSON.
+
+
+
+
+     91. CHERRY-RIPE.
+
+     There is a garden in her face
+       Where roses and white lilies blow;
+     A heavenly paradise is that place,
+       Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow;
+     There cherries grow that none may buy,
+     Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.
+
+     Those cherries fairly do enclose
+       Of orient pearl a double row,
+     Which when her lovely laughter shows,
+       They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow:
+     Yet them no peer nor prince can buy
+     Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.
+
+     Her eyes like angels watch them still;
+       Her brows like bended bows do stand,
+     Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill
+       All that approach with eye or hand
+     These sacred cherries to come nigh,
+     --Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry!
+
+     ANON.
+
+
+
+
+     92. THE POETRY OF DRESS.
+
+     I.
+
+     A sweet disorder in the dress
+     Kindles in clothes a wantonness:--
+     A lawn about the shoulders thrown
+     Into a fine distractión,--
+     An erring lace, which here and there
+     Enthrals the crimson stomacher,--
+     A cuff neglectful, and thereby
+     Ribbands to flow confusedly,--
+     A winning wave, deserving note,
+     In the tempestuous petticoat,--
+     A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
+     I see a wild civility;--
+     Do more bewitch me, than when art
+     Is too precise in every part.
+
+     R. HERRICK.
+
+
+
+
+     93.--II.
+
+     Whenas in silks my Julia goes
+     Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows
+     That liquefaction of her clothes.
+
+     Next, when I cast mine eyes and see
+     That brave vibration each way free;
+     O how that glittering taketh me!
+
+     R. HERRICK.
+
+
+
+
+     94.--III.
+
+     My Love in her attire doth shew her wit,
+      It doth so well become her;
+     For every season she hath dressings fit,
+      For Winter, Spring, and Summer.
+      No beauty she doth miss
+      When all her robes are on
+      But Beauty's self she is
+      When all her robes are gone.
+
+     ANON.
+
+
+
+
+     95. ON A GIRDLE.
+
+     That which her slender waist confined
+     Shall now my joyful temples bind:
+     No monarch but would give his crown
+     His arms might do what this has done.
+
+     It was my Heaven's extremest sphere,
+     The pale which held that lovely deer:
+     My joy, my grief, my hope, my love
+     Did all within this circle move.
+
+     A narrow compass! and yet there
+     Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair:
+     Give me but what this ribband bound,
+     Take all the rest the Sun goes round.
+
+     E. WALLER.
+
+
+
+
+     96. TO ANTHEA WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANY THING.
+
+     Bid me to live, and I will live
+       Thy Protestant to be;
+     Or bid me love, and I will give
+       A loving heart to thee.
+
+     A heart as soft, a heart as kind,
+       A heart as sound and free
+     As in the whole world thou canst find,
+       That heart I'll give to thee.
+
+     Bid that heart stay, and it will stay,
+       To honour thy decree:
+     Or bid it languish quite away,
+       And 't shall do so for thee.
+
+     Bid me to weep, and I will weep,
+       While I have eyes to see:
+     And having none, yet I will keep
+       A heart to weep for thee.
+
+     Bid me despair, and I'll despair,
+       Under that cypress tree:
+     Or bid me die, and I will dare
+       E'en Death, to die for thee.
+
+     Thou art my life, my love, my heart,
+       The very eyes of me,
+     And hast command of every part,
+       To live and die for thee.
+
+     R. HERRICK.
+
+
+
+
+     97.
+
+     Love not me for comely grace,
+     For my pleasing eye or face,
+     Nor for any outward part,
+     No, nor for a constant heart,--
+      For these may fail, or turn to ill,
+       So thou and I shall sever:
+     Keep, therefore, a true woman's eye,
+     And love me still, but know not why--
+      So hast thou the same reason still
+       To doat upon me ever!
+
+     ANON.
+
+
+
+
+     98.
+
+     Not, Celia, that I juster am
+      Or better than the rest;
+     For I would change each hour, like them,
+      Were not my heart at rest.
+
+     But I am tied to very thee
+      By every thought I have;
+     Thy face I only care to see,
+      Thy heart I only crave.
+
+     All that in woman is adored
+      In thy dear self I find--
+     For the whole sex can but afford
+      The handsome and the kind.
+
+     Why then should I seek further store,
+      And still make love anew?
+     When change itself can give no more,
+      'Tis easy to be true.
+
+     SIR C. SEDLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     99. TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON.
+
+     When Love with unconfinéd wings
+      Hovers within my gates,
+     And my divine Althea brings
+      To whisper at the grates;
+     When I lie tangled in her hair
+      And fetter'd to her eye,
+     The birds that wanton in the air
+      Know no such liberty.
+
+     When flowing cups run swiftly round
+      With no allaying Thames,
+     Our careless heads with roses crown'd,
+      Our hearts with loyal flames;
+     When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
+      When healths and draughts go free--
+     Fishes that tipple in the deep
+      Know no such liberty.
+
+     When, linnet-like confinéd, I
+      With shriller throat shall sing
+     The sweetness, mercy, majesty,
+      And glories of my King;
+     When I shall voice aloud how good
+      He is, how great should be,
+     Enlargéd winds, that curl the flood,
+      Know no such liberty.
+
+     Stone walls do not a prison make,
+      Nor iron bars a cage;
+     Minds innocent and quiet take
+      That for an hermitage:
+     If I have freedom in my love
+      And in my soul am free,
+     Angels alone, that soar above,
+      Enjoy such liberty.
+
+     COLONEL LOVELACE.
+
+
+
+
+     100. TO LUCASTA, ON GOING BEYOND THE SEAS.
+
+       If to be absent were to be
+          Away from thee;
+        Or that when I am gone
+        You or I were alone;
+       Then, my Lucasta, might I crave
+     Pity from blustering wind, or swallowing wave.
+
+       Though seas and land betwixt us both,
+          Our faith and troth,
+          Like separated souls,
+        All time and space controls:
+       Above the highest sphere we meet
+     Unseen, unknown; and greet as Angels greet.
+
+       So then we do anticipate
+          Our after-fate,
+        And are alive i' the skies,
+        If thus our lips and eyes
+       Can speak like spirits unconfined
+     In Heaven, their earthy bodies left behind.
+
+     COLONEL LOVELACE.
+
+
+
+
+     101. ENCOURAGEMENTS TO A LOVER.
+
+     Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
+        Prythee, why so pale?
+     Will, if looking well can't move her,
+        Looking ill prevail?
+        Prythee, why so pale?
+
+     Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
+        Prythee, why so mute?
+     Will, when speaking well can't win her,
+        Saying nothing do't?
+        Prythee, why so mute?
+
+     Quit, quit for shame! This will not move,
+        This cannot take her;
+     If of herself she will not love,
+        Nothing can make her:
+        The D----l take her!
+
+     SIR J. SUCKLING.
+
+
+
+
+     102. A SUPPLICATION.
+
+         Awake, awake, my Lyre!
+     And tell thy silent master's humble tale
+         In sounds that may prevail;
+       Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire:
+         Though so exalted she
+         And I so lowly be
+     Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony.
+
+         Hark! how the strings awake:
+     And, though the moving hand approach not near,
+         Themselves with awful fear
+       A kind of numerous trembling make.
+         Now all thy forces try;
+         Now all thy charms apply;
+     Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye.
+
+         Weak Lyre! thy virtue sure
+     Is useless here, since thou art only found
+         To cure, but not to wound,
+       And she to wound, but not to cure.
+         Too weak too wilt thou prove
+         My passion to remove;
+     Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to love.
+
+         Sleep, sleep again my Lyre!
+     For thou canst never tell my humble tale
+         In sounds that will prevail,
+       Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire;
+         All thy vain mirth lay by,
+         Bid thy strings silent lie,
+     Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die.
+
+     A. COWLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     103. THE MANLY HEART.
+
+     Shall I, wasting in despair,
+     Die because a woman's fair?
+     Or my cheeks make pale with care
+     'Cause another's rosy are?
+     Be she fairer than the day,
+     Or the flowery meads in May--
+       If she be not so to me,
+       What care I how fair she be?
+
+     Shall my foolish heart be pined
+     'Cause I see a woman kind;
+     Or a well disposéd nature
+     Joinéd with a lovely feature?
+     Be she meeker, kinder, than
+     Turtle-dove or pelican,
+       If she be not so to me,
+       What care I how kind she be?
+
+     Shall a woman's virtues move
+     Me to perish for her love?
+     Or her merit's value known
+     Make me quite forget my own?
+     Be she with that goodness blest
+     Which may gain her name of Best;
+       If she be not such to me,
+       What care I how good she be?
+
+     'Cause her fortune seems too high,
+     Shall I play the fool and die?
+     Those that bear a noble mind
+     Where they want of riches find,
+     Think what with them they would do
+     Who without them dare to woo;
+       And unless that mind I see,
+       What care I how great she be?
+
+     Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
+     I will ne'er the more despair;
+     If she love me, this believe,
+     I will die ere she shall grieve;
+     If she slight me when I woo,
+     I can scorn and let her go;
+       For if she be not for me,
+       What care I for whom she be?
+
+     G. WITHER.
+
+
+
+
+     104. MELANCHOLY.
+
+     Hence, all you vain delights,
+     As short as are the nights
+     Wherein you spend your folly
+     There's naught in this life sweet
+     If men were wise to see't,
+     But only melancholy,
+     O sweetest Melancholy!
+     Welcome, folded arms and fixéd eyes,
+     A sigh that piercing mortifies,
+     A look that's fasten'd to the ground,
+     A tongue chain'd up without a sound!
+     Fountain-heads and pathless groves,
+     Places which pale passion loves!
+     Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
+     Are warmly housed save bats and owls!
+       A midnight bell, a parting groan!
+       These are the sounds we feed upon;
+     Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley;
+     Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.
+
+     J. FLETCHER.
+
+
+
+
+     105. TO A LOCK OF HAIR.
+
+     Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright
+     As in that well-remember'd night
+     When first thy mystic braid was wove,
+     And first my Agnes whisper'd love.
+
+       Since then how often hast thou prest
+     The torrid zone of this wild breast,
+     Whose wrath and hate have sworn to dwell
+     With the first sin that peopled hell;
+     A breast whose blood's a troubled ocean,
+     Each throb the earthquake's wild commotion!
+     O if such clime thou canst endure
+     Yet keep thy hue unstain'd and pure,
+     What conquest o'er each erring thought
+     Of that fierce realm had Agnes wrought!
+     I had not wander'd far and wide
+     With such an angel for my guide;
+     Nor heaven nor earth could then reprove me
+     If she had lived, and lived to love me.
+
+     Not then this world's wild joys had been
+     To me one savage hunting scene,
+     My sole delight the headlong race,
+     And frantic hurry of the chase;
+     To start, pursue, and bring to bay,
+     Rush in, drag down, and rend my prey,
+     Then--from the carcase turn away!
+     Mine ireful mood had sweetness tamed,
+     And soothed each wound which pride inflamed:--
+     Yes, God and man might now approve me
+     If thou hadst lived, and lived to love me!
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT.
+
+
+
+
+     106. THE FORSAKEN BRIDE.
+
+     O waly waly, up the bank,
+       And waly waly down the brae,
+     And waly waly yon burn-side
+       Where I and my Love wont to gae!
+     I leant my back unto an aik,
+       I thought it was a trusty tree;
+     But first it bow'd, and syne it brak,
+       Sae my true Love did lichtly me.
+
+     O waly waly, but love be bonny
+       A little time while it is new;
+     But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld,
+       And fades awa' like morning dew.
+     O wherefore should I busk my head?
+       Or wherefore should I kame my hair?
+     For my true Love has me forsook,
+       And says he'll never loe me mair.
+
+     Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed;
+       The sheets sall ne'er be prest by me:
+     Saint Anton's well sall be my drink,
+       Since my true Love has forsaken me.
+     Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw
+       And shake the green leaves aff the tree?
+     O gentle Death, when wilt thou come?
+       For of my life I am wearíe.
+
+     'Tis not the frost, that freezes fell,
+       Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie,
+     'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,
+       But my Love's heart grown cauld to me.
+     When we came in by Glasgow town
+       We were a comely sight to see;
+     My Love was clad in the black velvét,
+       And I mysell in cramasie.
+
+     But had I wist, before I kist,
+       That love had been sae ill to win,
+     I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd
+       And pinn'd it wi' a siller pin.
+     And O! if my young babe were born,
+       And set upon the nurse's knee,
+     And I mysell were dead and gane,
+       And the green grass growing over me!
+
+     ANON.
+
+
+
+
+     107. FAIR HELEN.
+
+     I wish I were where Helen lies;
+     Night and day on me she cries;
+     O that I were where Helen lies
+        On fair Kirconnell lea.
+
+     Curst be the heart that thought the thought,
+     And curst the hand that fired the shot,
+     When in my arms burd Helen dropt,
+        And died to succour me!
+
+     O think na but my heart was sair,
+     When my Love dropt down and spak nae mair!
+     I laid her down wi' meikle care,
+        On fair Kirconnell lea.
+
+     As I went down the water side,
+     None but my foe to be my guide,
+     None but my foe to be my guide,
+        On fair Kirconnell lea;
+
+     I lighted down my sword to draw,
+     I hackéd him in pieces sma',
+     I hackéd him in pieces sma',
+        For her sake that died for me.
+
+     O Helen fair, beyond compare!
+     I'll make a garland of thy hair
+     Shall bind my heart for evermair
+        Until the day I die.
+
+     O that I were where Helen lies!
+     Night and day on me she cries;
+     Out of my bed she bids me rise,
+        Says, "Haste, and come to me!"
+
+     O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!
+     If I were with thee, I were blest,
+     Where thou lies low and takes thy rest
+        On fair Kirconnell lea.
+
+     I wish my grave were growing green,
+     A winding-sheet drawn ower my een,
+     And I in Helen's arms lying,
+        On fair Kirconnell lea.
+
+     I wish I were where Helen lies;
+     Night and day on me she cries;
+     And I am weary of the skies,
+        Since my Love died for me.
+
+     ANON.
+
+
+
+
+     108. THE TWA CORBIES.
+
+     As I was walking all alane
+     I heard twa corbies making a mane;
+     The tane unto the t'other say,
+     "Where sall we gang and dine to-day?"
+
+     "--In behint yon auld fail dyke,
+     I wot there lies a new-slain Knight;
+     And naebody kens that he lies there,
+     But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.
+
+     "His hound is to the hunting gane,
+     His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,
+     His lady's ta'en another mate,
+     So we may mak our dinner sweet.
+
+     "Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,
+     And I'll pick out his bonny blue een:
+     Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair
+     We'll theek our nest when it grows bare.
+
+     "Mony a one for him makes mane,
+     But nane sall ken where he is gane;
+     O'er his white banes, when they are bare,
+     The wind sall blaw for evermair."
+
+     ANON.
+
+
+
+
+     109. TO BLOSSOMS.
+
+     Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,
+        Why do ye fall so fast?
+        Your date is not so past,
+     But you may stay yet here awhile
+        To blush and gently smile,
+          And go at last.
+
+     What, were ye born to be
+        An hour or half's delight;
+        And so to bid good-night?
+     'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth,
+        Merely to show your worth,
+          And lose you quite.
+
+     But you are lovely leaves, where we
+        May read how soon things have
+        Their end, though ne'er so brave:
+     And after they have shown their pride
+        Like you, awhile, they glide
+          Into the grave.
+
+     R. HERRICK.
+
+
+
+
+     110. TO DAFFODILS.
+
+     Fair Daffodils, we weep to see
+          You haste away so soon
+     As yet the early-rising Sun
+          Has not attain'd his noon.
+               Stay, stay,
+          Until the hasting day
+               Has run
+          But to the even-song;
+     And, having pray'd together, we
+          Will go with you along.
+
+     We have short time to stay, as you,
+          We have as short a Spring;
+     As quick a growth to meet decay
+          As you, or any thing.
+               We die
+          As your hours do, and dry
+               Away
+          Like to the summer's rain;
+     Or as the pearls of morning's dew
+          Ne'er to be found again.
+
+     R. HERRICK.
+
+
+
+
+     111. THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN.
+
+     How vainly men themselves amaze
+     To win the palm, the oak, or bays,
+     And their incessant labours see
+     Crown'd from some single herb or tree,
+     Whose short and narrow-vergéd shade
+     Does prudently their toils upbraid;
+     While all the flowers and trees do close
+     To weave the garlands of Repose.
+
+     Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
+     And Innocence thy sister dear?
+     Mistaken long, I sought you then
+     In busy companies of men:
+     Your sacred plants, if here below,
+     Only among the plants will grow:
+     Society is all but rude
+     To this delicious solitude.
+
+     No white nor red was ever seen
+     So amorous as this lovely green.
+     Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,
+     Cut in these trees their mistress' name:
+     Little, alas! they know or heed
+     How far these beauties hers exceed!
+     Fair trees! where'er your barks I wound,
+     No name shall but your own be found.
+
+     When we have run our passions' heat,
+     Love hither makes his best retreat:
+     The gods, who mortal beauty chase,
+     Still in a tree did end their race:
+     Apollo hunted Daphne so
+     Only that she might laurel grow;
+     And Pan did after Syrinx speed
+     Not as a nymph, but for a reed.
+
+     What wondrous life in this I lead!
+     Ripe apples drop about my head;
+     The luscious clusters of the vine
+     Upon my mouth do crush their wine;
+     The nectarine and curious peach
+     Into my hands themselves do reach;
+     Stumbling on melons, as I pass,
+     Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.
+
+     Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less
+     Withdraws into its happiness;
+     The mind, that ocean where each kind
+     Does straight its own resemblance find;
+     Yet it creates, transcending these,
+     Far other worlds, and other seas;
+     Annihilating all that's made
+     To a green thought in a green shade.
+
+     Here at the fountain's sliding foot
+     Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root,
+     Casting the body's vest aside
+     My soul into the boughs does glide;
+     There, like a bird, it sits and sings,
+     Then whets and claps its silver wings,
+     And, till prepared for longer flight,
+     Waves in its plumes the various light.
+
+     Such was that happy Garden-state
+     While man there walk'd without a mate:
+     After a place so pure and sweet,
+     What other help could yet be meet!
+     But 'twas beyond a mortal's share
+     To wander solitary there:
+     Two paradises are in one,
+     To live in Paradise alone.
+
+     How well the skilful gardener drew
+     Of flowers and herbs this dial new!
+     Where, from above, the milder sun
+     Does through a fragrant zodiac run:
+     And, as it works, th' industrious bee
+     Computes its time as well as we.
+     How could such sweet and wholesome hours
+     Be reckon'd, but with herbs and flowers!
+
+     A. MARVELL.
+
+
+
+
+     112. L'ALLEGRO.
+
+     Hence, loathéd Melancholy,
+       Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born
+     In Stygian cave forlorn
+       'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy!
+     Find out some uncouth cell
+       Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings
+     And the night-raven sings;
+       There, under ebon shades and low-browed rocks
+     As ragged as thy locks,
+       In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.
+
+         But come, thou Goddess fair and free,
+         In heaven yclept Euphrosyne,
+         And by men, heart-easing Mirth,
+         Whom lovely Venus at a birth
+         With two sister Graces more
+         To ivy-crownéd Bacchus bore:
+         Or whether (as some sager sing)
+         The frolic wind that breathes the spring
+         Zephyr, with Aurora playing,
+         As he met her once a-Maying--
+         There, on beds of violets blue
+         And fresh-blown roses wash'd in dew
+         Fill'd her with thee, a daughter fair,
+         So buxom, blithe, and debonair.
+           Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee
+         Jest, and youthful jollity,
+         Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,
+         Nods, and becks, and wreathéd smiles
+         Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,
+         And love to live in dimple sleek;
+         Sport that wrinkled Care derides,
+         And Laughter holding both his sides:--
+         Come, and trip it as you go
+         On the light fantastic toe;
+         And in thy right hand lead with thee
+         The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty;
+         And if I give thee honour due,
+         Mirth, admit me of thy crew,
+         To live with her, and live with thee,
+         In unreprovéd pleasures free;
+         To hear the lark begin his flight
+         And singing startle the dull night
+         From his watch-tower in the skies,
+         Till the dappled dawn doth rise:
+         Then to come, in spite of sorrow,
+         And at my window bid good-morrow,
+         Through the sweetbriar, or the vine,
+         Or the twisted eglantine:
+         While the cock with lively din,
+         Scatters the rear of darkness thin,
+         And to the stack, or the barn-door,
+         Stoutly struts his dames before:
+         Oft listening how the hounds and horn
+         Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn,
+         From the side of some hoar hill,
+         Through the high wood echoing shrill:
+         Sometime walking, not unseen,
+         By hedgerow elms, on hillocks green,
+         Right against the eastern gate
+         Where the great Sun begins his state
+         Robed in flames and amber light,
+         The clouds in thousand liveries dight;
+         While the ploughman, near at hand,
+         Whistles o'er the furrow'd land,
+         And the milkmaid singeth blithe,
+         And the mower whets his scythe,
+         And every shepherd tells his tale
+         Under the hawthorn in the dale.
+           Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures
+         Whilst the landscape round it measures;
+         Russet lawns, and fallows gray,
+         Where the nibbling flocks do stray;
+         Mountains, on whose barren breast
+         The labouring clouds do often rest;
+         Meadows trim with daisies pied;
+         Shallow brooks, and rivers wide;
+         Towers and battlements it sees
+         Bosom'd high in tufted trees,
+         Where perhaps some Beauty lies,
+         The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes.
+           Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes
+         From betwixt two aged oaks,
+         Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met
+         Are at their savoury dinner set
+         Of herbs, and other country messes,
+         Which the neat-handed Phyllis dresses;
+         And then in haste her bower she leaves
+         With Thestylis to bind the sheaves;
+         Or, if the earlier season lead,
+         To the tann'd haycock in the mead.
+           Sometimes with secure delight
+         The upland hamlets will invite,
+         When the merry bells ring round,
+         And the jocund rebecks sound
+         To many a youth and many a maid,
+         Dancing in the chequer'd shade;
+         And young and old come forth to play
+         On a sun-shine holy-day,
+         Till the live-long day-light fail:
+         Then to the spicy nut-brown ale,
+         With stories told of many a feat,
+         How faery Mab the junkets eat;
+         She was pinch'd and pull'd, she said;
+         And he, by friar's lantern led,
+         Tells how the drudging Goblin sweat
+         To earn his cream-bowl duly set,
+         When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,
+         His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the corn
+         That ten day-labourers could not end;
+         Then lies him down the lubber fiend,
+         And, stretch'd out all the chimney's length,
+         Basks at the fire his hairy strength;
+         And crop-full out of doors he flings,
+         Ere the first cock his matin rings.
+           Thus done the tales, to bed they creep,
+         By whispering winds soon lull'd asleep.
+           Tower'd cities please us then,
+         And the busy hum of men,
+         Where throngs of knights and barons bold,
+         In weeds of peace high triumphs hold,
+         With store of ladies, whose bright eyes
+         Rain influence, and judge the prize
+         Of wit or arms, while both contend
+         To win her grace whom all commend.
+         There let Hymen oft appear
+         In saffron robe, with taper clear,
+         And pomp, and feast, and revelry,
+         With mask, and antique pageantry;
+         Such sights as youthful poets dream
+         On summer eves by haunted stream.
+         Then to the well-trod stage anon,
+         If Jonson's learned sock be on,
+         Or sweetest Shakspeare, Fancy's child,
+         Warble his native wood-notes wild.
+           And ever against eating cares,
+         Lap me in soft Lydian airs
+         Married to immortal verse,
+         Such as the meeting soul may pierce
+         In notes, with many a winding bout
+         Of linkéd sweetness long drawn out,
+         With wanton heed and giddy cunning
+         The melting voice through mazes running,
+         Untwisting all the chains that tie
+         The hidden soul of harmony;
+         That Orpheus' self may heave his head
+         From golden slumber, on a bed
+         Of heap'd Elysian flowers, and hear
+         Such strains as would have won the ear
+         Of Pluto, to have quite set free
+         His half-regain'd Eurydice.
+           These delights if thou canst give,
+         Mirth, with thee I mean to live.
+
+     J. MILTON.
+
+
+
+
+     113. IL PENSEROSO.
+
+     Hence, vain deluding Joys,
+       The brood of Folly without father bred!
+     How little you bestead
+       Or fill the fixéd mind with all your toys!
+     Dwell in some idle brain,
+       And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess
+     As thick and numberless
+       As the gay motes that people the sunbeams,
+     Or likest hovering dreams
+       The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train.
+
+           But hail, thou goddess sage and holy,
+         Hail, divinest Melancholy!
+         Whose saintly visage is too bright
+         To hit the sense of human sight,
+         And therefore to our weaker view
+         O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue;
+         Black, but such as in esteem
+         Prince Memnon's sister might beseem.
+         Or that starr'd Ethiop queen that strove
+         To set her beauty's praise above
+         The sea-nymphs, and their powers offended.
+         Yet thou art higher far descended:
+         Thee bright-hair'd Vesta, long of yore,
+         To solitary Saturn bore;
+         His daughter she; in Saturn's reign
+         Such mixture was not held a stain:
+         Oft in glimmering bowers and glades
+         He met her, and in secret shades
+         Of woody Ida's inmost grove,
+         Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove.
+           Come, pensive nun, devout and pure,
+         Sober, steadfast, and demure,
+         All in a robe of darkest grain
+         Flowing with majestic train,
+         And sable stole of cypres lawn
+         Over thy decent shoulders drawn:
+         Come, but keep thy wonted state,
+         With even step, and musing gait,
+         And looks commercing with the skies,
+         Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:
+         There, held in holy passion still,
+         Forget thyself to marble, till
+         With a sad leaden downward cast
+         Thou fix them on the earth as fast:
+         And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,
+         Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,
+         And hears the Muses in a ring
+         Aye round about Jove's altar sing:
+         And add to these retired Leisure
+         That in trim gardens takes his pleasure:--
+         But first, and chiefest, with thee bring
+         Him that yon soars on golden wing,
+         Guiding the fiery-wheeléd throne,
+         The cherub Contemplatión;
+         And the mute Silence hist along,
+         'Less Philomel will deign a song,
+         In her sweetest saddest plight,
+         Smoothing the rugged brow of Night,
+         While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke
+         Gently o'er the accustom'd oak.
+         --Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly,
+         Most musical, most melancholy!
+         Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among
+         I woo, to hear thy even-song;
+         And, missing thee, I walk unseen
+         On the dry smooth-shaven green,
+         To behold the wandering moon,
+         Riding near her highest noon,
+         Like one that had been led astray
+         Through the heaven's wide pathless way,
+         And oft, as if her head she bow'd,
+         Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
+           Oft, on a plat of rising ground
+         I hear the far-off curfeu sound,
+         Over some wide-water'd shore,
+         Swinging slow with sullen roar;
+         Or, if the air will not permit,
+         Some still removéd place will fit,
+         Where glowing embers through the room
+         Teach light to counterfeit a gloom;
+         Far from all resort of mirth,
+         Save the cricket on the hearth,
+         Or the bellman's drowsy charm
+         To bless the doors from nightly harm.
+           Or let my lamp at midnight hour
+         Be seen in some high lonely tower,
+         Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,
+         With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere
+         The spirit of Plato, to unfold
+         What worlds or what vast regions hold
+         The immortal mind that hath forsook
+         Her mansion in this fleshy nook:
+         And of those demons that are found
+         In fire, air, flood, or under ground,
+         Whose power hath a true consent
+         With planet, or with element.
+         Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy
+         In sceptr'd pall come sweeping by
+         Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line,
+         Or the tale of Troy divine;
+         Or what (though rare) of later age
+         Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage.
+           But, O sad Virgin, that thy power
+         Might raise Musaeus from his bower,
+         Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
+         Such notes as, warbled to the string,
+         Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek
+         And made Hell grant what Love did seek!
+         Or call up him that left half-told
+         The story of Cambuscan bold,
+         Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
+         And who had Canacé to wife
+         That own'd the virtuous ring and glass;
+         And of the wondrous horse of brass
+         On which the Tartar king did ride;
+         And if aught else great bards beside
+         In sage and solemn tunes have sung
+         Of tourneys, and of trophies hung,
+         Of forests, and enchantments drear,
+         Where more is meant than meets the ear.
+           Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career,
+         Till civil-suited Morn appear,
+         Not trick'd and frounced as she was wont
+         With the Attic Boy to hunt,
+         But kercheft in a comely cloud
+         While rocking winds are piping loud,
+         Or usher'd with a shower still,
+         When the gust hath blown his fill,
+         Ending on the rustling leaves
+         With minute drops from off the eaves.
+         And when the sun begins to fling
+         His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring
+         To archéd walks of twilight groves,
+         And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,
+         Of pine, or monumental oak,
+         Where the rude axe, with heavéd stroke,
+         Was never heard the nymphs to daunt
+         Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
+         There in close covert by some brook
+         Where no profaner eye may look,
+         Hide me from day's garish eye,
+         While the bee with honey'd thigh,
+         That at her flowery work doth sing,
+         And the waters murmuring,
+         With such consort as they keep
+         Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep.
+         And let some strange mysterious dream
+         Wave at his wings in aery stream
+         Of lively portraiture display'd,
+         Softly on my eyelids laid:
+         And, as I wake, sweet music breathe
+         Above, about, or underneath,
+         Sent by some spirit to mortals good,
+         Or the unseen Genius of the wood.
+           But let my due feet never fail
+         To walk the studious cloister's pale,
+         And love the high-embowéd roof,
+         With antique pillars massy proof,
+         And storied windows richly dight
+         Casting a dim religious light:
+         There let the pealing organ blow
+         To the full-voiced quire below
+         In service high and anthems clear,
+         As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
+         Dissolve me into ecstasies,
+         And bring all Heaven before mine eyes.
+           And may at last my weary age
+         Find out the peaceful hermitage,
+         The hairy gown and mossy cell,
+         Where I may sit and rightly spell
+         Of every star that heaven doth show,
+         And every herb that sips the dew;
+         Till old experience do attain
+         To something like prophetic strain.
+
+           These pleasures, Melancholy, give,
+         And I with thee will choose to live.
+
+     J. MILTON.
+
+
+
+
+     114. SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA.
+
+     Where the remote Bermudas ride
+     In the ocean's bosom unespied,
+     From a small boat that row'd along
+     The listening woods received this song.
+
+       "What should we do but sing His praise
+     That led us through the watery maze
+     Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks,
+     That lift the deep upon their backs,
+     Unto an isle so long unknown,
+     And yet far kinder than our own?
+     He lands us on a grassy stage,
+     Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage:
+     He gave us this eternal spring
+     Which here enamels everything,
+     And sends the fowls to us in care
+     On daily visits through the air.
+     He hangs in shades the orange bright
+     Like golden lamps in a green night,
+     And does in the pomegranates close
+     Jewels more rich than Ormus shows:
+     He makes the figs our mouths to meet,
+     And throws the melons at our feet;
+     But apples plants of such a price,
+     No tree could ever bear them twice.
+     With cedars chosen by His hand
+     From Lebanon He stores the land;
+     And makes the hollow seas that roar
+     Proclaim the ambergris on shore.
+     He cast (of which we rather boast)
+     The Gospel's pearl upon our coast;
+     And in these rocks for us did frame
+     A temple where to sound His name.
+     O let our voice His praise exalt
+     Till it arrive at Heaven's vault,
+     Which then perhaps rebounding may
+     Echo beyond the Mexique bay!"
+     --Thus sung they in the English boat
+     A holy and a cheerful note:
+     And all the way, to guide their chime,
+     With falling oars they kept the time.
+
+     A. MARVELL.
+
+
+
+
+     115. AT A SOLEMN MUSIC.
+
+     Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy,
+     Sphere-born harmonious Sisters, Voice, and Verse,
+     Wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employ
+     Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce,
+     And to our high-raised phantasy present
+     That undisturbéd Song of pure concent,
+     Ay sung before the sapphire-colour'd throne
+        To Him that sits thereon,
+     With saintly shout and solemn jubilee;
+     Where the bright Seraphim in burning row
+     Their loud uplifted angel-trumpets blow;
+     And the Cherubic host in thousand quires
+     Touch their immortal harps of golden wires,
+     With those just Spirits that wear victorious palms
+        Hymns devout and holy psalms
+        Singing everlastingly:
+     That we on earth, with undiscording voice
+     May rightly answer that melodious noise;
+     As once we did, till disproportion'd sin
+     Jarr'd against nature's chime, and with harsh din
+     Broke the fair music that all creatures made
+     To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway'd
+     In perfect diapason, whilst they stood
+     In first obedience, and their state of good.
+     O may we soon again renew that Song,
+     And keep in tune with Heaven, till God ere long
+     To His celestial consort us unite,
+     To live with Him, and sing in endless morn of light!
+
+     J. MILTON.
+
+
+
+
+     116. ALEXANDER'S FEAST, OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC.
+
+     'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won
+     By Philip's warlike son--
+     Aloft in awful state
+     The godlike hero sate
+     On his imperial throne;
+     His valiant peers were placed around;
+     Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound
+     (So should desert in arms be crown'd).
+     The lovely Thais by his side
+     Sate like a blooming eastern bride
+     In flower of youth and beauty's pride:--
+     Happy, happy, happy pair!
+     None but the brave
+     None but the brave
+     None but the brave deserves the fair.
+
+       Timotheus placed on high
+     Amid the tuneful quire
+     With flying fingers touch'd the lyre:
+     The trembling notes ascend the sky
+     And heavenly joys inspire.
+     The song began from Jove
+     Who left his blissful seats above--
+     Such is the power of mighty love!
+     A dragon's fiery form belied the god;
+     Sublime on radiant spires he rode
+     When he to fair Olympia prest,
+     And while he sought her snowy breast;
+     Then round her slender waist he curl'd,
+     And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the world.
+     --The listening crowd admire the lofty sound!
+     A present deity! they shout around:
+     A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound!
+     With ravish'd ears
+     The monarch hears,
+     Assumes the god;
+     Affects to nod
+     And seems to shake the spheres.
+
+       The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung:
+     Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young:
+     The jolly god in triumph comes!
+     Sound the trumpets, beat the drums!
+     Flush'd with a purple grace
+     He shows his honest face:
+     Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes!
+     Bacchus, ever fair and young,
+     Drinking joys did first ordain;
+     Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,
+     Drinking is the soldier's pleasure:
+     Rich the treasure,
+     Sweet the pleasure,
+     Sweet is pleasure after pain.
+
+       Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain;
+     Fought all his battles o'er again,
+     And thrice he routed all his foes; and thrice he slew the slain!
+     The master saw the madness rise,
+     His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;
+     And while he Heaven and Earth defied
+     Changed his hand and check'd his pride.
+     He chose a mournful Muse
+     Soft pity to infuse:
+     He sung Darius great and good,
+     By too severe a fate
+     Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,
+     Fallen from his high estate,
+     And weltering in his blood;
+     Deserted, at his utmost need,
+     By those his former bounty fed;
+     On the bare earth exposed he lies
+     With not a friend to close his eyes.
+     --With downcast looks the joyless victor sate,
+     Revolving in his alter'd soul
+     The various turns of Chance below;
+     And now and then a sigh he stole;
+     And tears began to flow.
+
+       The mighty master smiled to see
+     That love was in the next degree;
+     'Twas but a kindred-sound to move,
+     For pity melts the mind to love.
+     Softly sweet, in Lydian measures,
+     Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures.
+     War, he sung, is toil and trouble,
+     Honour but an empty bubble,
+     Never ending, still beginning;
+     Fighting still, and still destroying;
+     If the world be worth thy winning,
+     Think, O think, it worth enjoying:
+     Lovely Thais sits beside thee,
+     Take the good the gods provide thee!
+     --The many rend the skies with loud applause;
+     So Love was crown'd, but Music won the cause.
+     The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
+     Gazed on the fair
+     Who caused his care,
+     And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd,
+     Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again:
+     At length, with love and wine at once opprest
+     The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast.
+
+       Now strike the golden lyre again:
+     A louder yet, and yet a louder strain!
+     Break his bands of sleep asunder,
+     And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder.
+     Hark, hark! the horrid sound
+     Has raised up his head:
+     As awaked from the dead,
+     And amazed he stares around.
+     Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries,
+     See the Furies arise!
+     See the snakes that they rear
+     How they hiss in their hair,
+     And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!
+     Behold a ghastly band
+     Each a torch in his hand!
+     Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain
+     And unburied remain
+     Inglorious on the plain:
+     Give the vengeance due
+     To the valiant crew!
+     Behold how they toss their torches on high,
+     How they point to the Persian abodes
+     And glittering temples of their hostile gods.
+     --The princes applaud with a furious joy:
+     And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy;
+     Thais led the way,
+     To light him to his prey,
+     And like another Helen, fired another Troy!
+
+     --Thus, long ago,
+     Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow,
+     While organs yet were mute,
+     Timotheus, to his breathing flute
+     And sounding lyre
+     Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.
+     At last divine Cecilia came,
+     Inventress of the vocal frame;
+     The sweet enthusiast from her sacred store
+     Enlarged the former narrow bounds,
+     And added length to solemn sounds,
+     With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before.
+     --Let old Timotheus yield the prize
+     Or both divide the crown;
+     He raised a mortal to the skies;
+     She drew an angel down!
+
+     J. DRYDEN.
+
+
+
+
+
+THIRD BOOK.
+
+
+SUMMARY.
+
+
+It is more difficult to characterise the English Poetry of the
+eighteenth century than that of any other. For it was an age not only of
+spontaneous transition, but of bold experiment: it includes not only
+such divergences of thought as distinguished the "Rape of the Lock" from
+the "Parish Register," but such vast contemporaneous differences as lie
+between Pope and Collins, Burns and Cowper. Yet we may clearly trace
+three leading moods or tendencies:--the aspects of courtly or educated
+life represented by Pope and carried to exhaustion by his followers; the
+poetry of Nature and of Man, viewed through a cultivated, and at the
+same time an impassioned frame of mind by Collins and Gray:--lastly, the
+study of vivid and simple narrative, including natural description,
+begun by Gay and Thomson, pursued by Burns and others in the north, and
+established in England by Goldsmith, Percy, Crabbe, and Cowper. Great
+varieties in style accompanied these diversities in aim: poets could not
+always distinguish the manner suitable for subjects so far apart; and
+the union of the language of courtly and of common life, exhibited most
+conspicuously by Burns, has given a tone to the poetry of that century
+which is better explained by reference to its historical origin than by
+naming it, in the common criticism of our day, artificial. There is
+again, a nobleness of thought, a courageous aim at high and, in a strict
+sense manly, excellence in many of the writers:--nor can that period be
+justly termed tame and wanting in originality, which produced poems such
+as Pope's Satires, Gray's Odes and Elegy, the ballads of Gay and Carey,
+the songs of Burns and Cowper. In truth Poetry at this as at all times
+was a more or less unconscious mirror of the genius of the age; and the
+brave and admirable spirit of Enquiry which made the eighteenth century
+the turning-time in European civilisation is reflected faithfully in its
+verse. An intelligent reader will find the influence of Newton as
+markedly in the poems of Pope, as of Elizabeth in the plays of
+Shakespeare. On this great subject, however, these indications must here
+be sufficient.
+
+
+
+
+     117. ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE.
+
+     Now the golden Morn aloft
+       Waves her dew-bespangled wing,
+     With vermeil cheek and whisper soft
+       She woos 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.
+
+     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 lour
+     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 tost
+       On the thorny bed of pain,
+     At length repair his vigour lost
+       And breathe and walk again:
+     The meanest floweret of the vale,
+     The simplest note that swells the gale,
+     The common sun, the air, the skies,
+     To him are opening Paradise.
+
+     T. GRAY.
+
+
+
+
+     118. SOLITUDE.
+
+     Happy the man, whose wish and care
+     A few paternal acres bound,
+     Content to breathe his native air
+                    In his own ground.
+
+     Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
+     Whose flocks supply him with attire;
+     Whose trees in summer yield him shade
+                    In winter, fire.
+
+     Blest, who can unconcern'dly find
+     Hours, days, and years, slide soft away
+     In health of body, peace of mind,
+                    Quiet by day,
+
+     Sound sleep by night; study and ease
+     Together mix'd; sweet recreation,
+     And innocence, which most does please
+                    With meditation.
+
+     Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
+     Thus unlamented let me die;
+     Steal from the world, and not a stone
+                    Tell where I lie.
+
+     A. POPE.
+
+
+
+
+     119. THE BLIND BOY.
+
+     O say what is that thing call'd Light,
+       Which I must ne'er enjoy;
+     What are the blessings of the sight,
+       O tell your poor blind boy!
+
+     You talk of wondrous things you see,
+       You say the sun shines bright;
+     I feel him warm, but how can he
+       Or make it day or night?
+
+     My day or night myself I make
+       Whene'er I sleep or play;
+     And could I ever keep awake
+       With me 'twere always day.
+
+     With heavy sighs I often hear
+       You mourn my hapless woe;
+     But sure with patience I can bear
+       A loss I ne'er can know.
+
+     Then let not what I cannot have
+       My cheer of mind destroy:
+     Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,
+       Although a poor blind boy.
+
+     C. CIBBER.
+
+
+
+
+     120. ON A FAVOURITE CAT, DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES.
+
+     'Twas on a lofty vase's side
+     Where China's gayest art had dyed
+     The azure flowers that blow,
+     Demurest of the tabby kind
+     The pensive Selima, reclined,
+     Gazed on the lake below.
+
+     Her conscious tail her joy declared:
+     The fair round face, the snowy beard,
+     The velvet of her paws,
+     Her coat that with the tortoise vies,
+     Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes--
+     She saw, and purr'd applause.
+
+     Still had she gazed, but 'midst the tide
+     Two angel forms were seen to glide,
+     The Genii of the stream:
+     Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue
+     Through richest purple, to the view
+     Betray'd a golden gleam.
+
+     The hapless Nymph with wonder saw;
+     A whisker first, and then a claw
+     With many an ardent wish
+     She stretch'd, in vain, to reach the prize--
+     What female heart can gold despise?
+     What cat's averse to fish?
+
+     Presumptuous maid! with looks intent
+     Again she stretch'd, again she bent,
+     Nor knew the gulf between--
+     Malignant Fate sat by and smiled--
+     The slippery verge her feet beguiled;
+     She tumbled headlong in!
+
+     Eight times emerging from the flood,
+     She mew'd to every watery God
+     Some speedy aid to send:--
+     No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd,
+     Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard--
+     A favourite has no friend!
+
+     From hence, ye Beauties! undeceived
+     Know one false step is ne'er retrieved,
+     And be with caution bold:
+     Not all that tempts your wandering eyes
+     And heedless hearts, is lawful prize,
+     Nor all that glisters, gold!
+
+     T. GRAY.
+
+
+
+
+     121. TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY.
+
+        Timely blossom, Infant fair,
+        Fondling 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 abandon'd 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 petty 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.
+
+     A. PHILIPS.
+
+
+
+
+     122. RULE BRITANNIA.
+
+       When Britain first at Heaven's command
+         Arose from out the azure main,
+       This was the charter of her land,
+         And guardian angels sung the strain:
+     Rule Brittania! Brittania rules the waves!
+           Britons never shall be slaves.
+
+       The nations not so blest as thee
+         Must in their turn to tyrants fall,
+       Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free
+         The dread and envy of them all.
+
+       Still more majestic shalt thou rise,
+         More dreadful from each foreign stroke;
+       As the loud blast that tears the skies
+         Serves but to root thy native oak.
+
+       Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame;
+         All their attempts to bend thee down
+       Will but arouse thy generous flame,
+         And work their woe and thy renown.
+
+       To thee belongs the rural reign;
+         Thy cities shall with commerce shine;
+       All thine shall be the subject main,
+         And every shore it circles thine!
+
+       The Muses, still with Freedom found,
+         Shall to thy happy coast repair;
+       Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crown'd,
+         And manly hearts to guard the fair:--
+     Rule Britannia! Brittania rules the waves!
+           Britons never shall be slaves!
+
+     J. THOMSON.
+
+
+
+
+     123. THE BARD.
+
+     _Pindaric Ode._
+
+     "Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!
+      Confusion on thy banners wait!
+     Tho' fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing
+      They mock the air with idle state.
+     Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail
+     Nor e'en 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 scatter'd wild dismay,
+     As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side
+      He wound with toilsome march his long array:--
+     Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance;
+     "To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couch'd quivering lance.
+
+      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 beard and hoary hair
+     Stream'd 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, O 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.
+
+      "Cold is Cadwallo's tongue
+      That hush'd 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-topt head.
+      On dreary Arvon's shore they lie
+     Smear'd with gore and ghastly pale:
+     Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail;
+      The famish'd 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 griesly 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.
+
+     "Weave the warp and weave the woof
+      The winding-sheet of Edward's race:
+     Give ample room and verge enough
+      The characters of hell to trace.
+     Mark the year and mark the night
+     When Severn shall re-echo with affright
+     The shrieks of death thro' Berkley's roof that ring,
+     Shrieks of an agonising 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.
+
+     "Mighty Victor, mighty lord,
+      Low on his funeral couch he lies!
+     No pitying heart, no eye, afford
+      A tear to grace his obsequies.
+     Is the sable warrior fled?
+     Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.
+     The swarm that in thy noon-tide beam were born?
+     --Gone to salute the rising morn.
+     Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr blows,
+      While proudly riding o'er the azure realm
+     In gallant trim the gilded Vessel goes:
+      Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm:
+     Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway,
+     That hush'd in grim repose expects his evening prey.
+
+      "Fill high the sparkling bowl,
+     The rich repast prepare;
+      Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast.
+     Close by the regal chair
+      Fell Thirst and Famine scowl
+      A baleful smile upon their baffled guest.
+     Heard ye the din of battle bray,
+      Lance to lance, and horse to horse?
+      Long years of havock urge their destined course,
+     And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way.
+      Ye Towers of Julius! London's lasting shame,
+     With many a foul and midnight murder fed,
+      Revere his Consort's faith, his Father's fame,
+     And spare the meek usurper's holy head!
+     Above, below, the rose of snow,
+      Twined with her blushing foe, we spread:
+     The bristled boar in infant gore
+      Wallows beneath the thorny shade.
+     Now, brothers, bending o'er the accurséd loom,
+     Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.
+
+     "Edward, lo! to sudden fate
+      (Weave we the woof; the thread is spun;)
+     Half of thy heart we consecrate.
+      (The web is wove; the work is done;)
+     Stay, O stay! nor thus forlorn
+     Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn:
+     In yon bright track that fires the western skies
+     They melt, they vanish from my eyes.
+     But O! 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!
+
+      "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
+     Attemper'd 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-colour'd wings.
+
+     "The verse adorn again,
+      Fierce War and faithful Love,
+     And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest.
+      In buskin'd 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 quench'd 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.
+
+     T. GRAY.
+
+
+
+
+     124. ODE WRITTEN IN MDCCXLVI.
+
+     How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
+     By all their Country's wishes blest!
+     When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
+     Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,
+     She there shall dress a sweeter sod
+     Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
+
+     By fairy hands their knell is rung,
+     By forms unseen their dirge is sung:
+     There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
+     To bless the turf that wraps their clay,
+     And Freedom shall awhile repair
+     To dwell a weeping hermit, there!
+
+     W. COLLINS.
+
+
+
+
+     125. LAMENT FOR CULLODEN.
+
+     The lovely lass o' Inverness,
+     Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;
+     For e'en and morn she cries, Alas!
+     And aye the saut tear blink's her ee:
+     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 ee!
+     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 wrong to thine or thee.
+
+     R. BURNS.
+
+
+
+
+     126. LAMENT FOR FLODDEN.
+
+     I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking,
+       Lasses a' lilting before dawn o' day;
+     But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning--
+       The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
+
+     At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning,
+       Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae;
+     Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing,
+       Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away.
+
+     In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
+       Bandsters are lyart, and runkled and gray;
+     At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching--
+       The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
+
+     At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming
+       'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play;
+     But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie--
+       The Flowers of the Forest are weded away.
+
+     Dool and wae for the order, sent out lads to the border!
+       The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;
+     The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,
+       The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay.
+
+     We'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe-milking;
+       Women and bairns are heartless and wae;
+     Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning--
+       The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
+
+     J. ELLIOTT.
+
+
+
+
+     127. THE BRAES OF YARROW.
+
+     Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream,
+     When first on them I met my lover;
+     Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream,
+     When now thy waves his body cover!
+     For ever now, O Yarrow stream!
+     Thou art to me a stream of sorrow;
+     For never on thy banks shall I
+     Behold my Love, the flower of Yarrow!
+
+     He promised me a milk-white steed
+     To bear me to his father's bowers;
+     He promised me a little page
+     To squire me to his father's towers;
+     He promised me a wedding-ring,--
+     The wedding-day was fix'd to-morrow;--
+     Now he is wedded to his grave,
+     Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow!
+
+     Sweet were his words when last we met;
+     My passion I as freely told him;
+     Clasp'd in his arms, I little thought
+     That I should never more behold him!
+     Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost;
+     It vanish'd with a shriek of sorrow;
+     Thrice did the water-wraith ascend,
+     And gave a doleful groan thro' Yarrow.
+
+     His mother from the window look'd
+     With all the longing of a mother;
+     His little sister weeping walk'd
+     The green-wood path to meet her brother;
+     They sought him east, they sought him west,
+     They sought him all the forest thorough;
+     They only saw the cloud of night,
+     They only heard the roar of Yarrow.
+
+     No longer from thy window look--
+     Thou hast no son, thou tender mother!
+     No longer walk, thou lovely maid;
+     Alas, thou hast no more a brother!
+     No longer seek him east or west
+     And search no more the forest thorough;
+     For, wandering in the night so dark,
+     He fell a lifeless corpse in Yarrow.
+
+     The tear shall never leave my cheek,
+     No other youth shall be my marrow--
+     I'll seek thy body in the stream,
+     And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow.
+     --The tear did never leave her cheek,
+     No other youth became her marrow;
+     She found his body in the stream,
+     And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow.
+
+     J. LOGAN.
+
+
+
+
+     128. WILLIE DROWNED IN YARROW.
+
+     Down in yon garden sweet and gay
+       Where bonnie grows the lily,
+     I heard a fair maid sighing say
+       "My wish be wi' sweet Willie!
+
+     "Willie's rare, and Willie's fair,
+       And Willie's wondrous bonny;
+     And Willie hecht to marry me
+       Gin e'er he married ony.
+
+     "O gentle wind, that bloweth south,
+       From where my Love repaireth,
+     Convey a kiss frae his dear mouth
+       And tell me how he fareth!
+
+     "O tell sweet Willie to come doon
+       And hear the mavis singing,
+     And see the birds on ilka bush
+       And leaves around them hinging.
+
+     "The lav'rock there, wi' her white breast
+       And gentle throat sae narrow;
+     There's sport eneuch for gentlemen
+       On Leader haughs and Yarrow.
+
+     "O Leader haughs are wide and braid
+       And Yarrow haughs are bonny;
+     There Willie hecht to marry me
+       If e'er he married ony.
+
+     "But Willie's gone, whom I thought on,
+       And does not hear me weeping;
+     Draws many a tear frae true love's e'e
+       When other maids are sleeping.
+
+     "Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid,
+       The night I'll mak' it narrow,
+     For a' the live-lang winter night
+       I lie twined o' my marrow.
+
+     "O came ye by yon water-side?
+       Pou'd you the rose or lily?
+     Or came you by yon meadow green,
+       Or saw you my sweet Willie?"
+
+     She sought him up, she sought him down,
+       She sought him braid and narrow;
+     Syne, in the cleaving of a craig,
+       She found him drown'd in Yarrow!
+
+     ANON.
+
+
+
+
+     129. LOSS OF THE _ROYAL GEORGE_.
+
+     Toll for the Brave!
+     The brave that are no more!
+     All sunk beneath the wave
+     Fast by their native shore!
+
+     Eight hundred of the brave
+     Whose courage well was tried,
+     Had made the vessel heel
+     And laid her on her side.
+
+     A land-breeze shook the shrouds
+     And she was overset;
+     Down went the _Royal George_,
+     With all her crew complete.
+
+     Toll for the brave!
+     Brave Kempenfelt is gone:
+     His last sea-fight is fought,
+     His work of glory done.
+
+     It was not in the battle;
+     No tempest gave the shock;
+     She sprang no fatal leak,
+     She ran upon no rock.
+
+     His sword was in its sheath,
+     His fingers held the pen,
+     When Kempenfeld went down
+     With twice four hundred men.
+
+     Weigh the vessel up
+     Once dreaded by our foes!
+     And mingle with our cup
+     The tear that England owes.
+
+     Her timbers yet are sound,
+     And she may float again
+     Full charged with England's thunder,
+     And plough the distant main:
+
+     But Kempenfeld is gone,
+     His victories are o'er;
+     And he and his eight hundred
+     Shall plough the wave no more.
+
+     W. COWPER.
+
+
+
+
+     130. BLACK-EYED SUSAN.
+
+     All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd,
+       The streamers waving in the wind,
+     When black-eyed Susan came aboard;
+       "O! 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
+       Rock'd with the billow to and fro,
+     Soon as her well-known voice he heard
+       He sigh'd, 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
+     Might 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 fair 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 kiss'd, she sigh'd, he hung his head.
+     Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land;
+     "Adieu!" she cries; and waved her lily hand.
+
+     J. GAY.
+
+
+
+
+     131. SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.
+
+     Of all the girls that are so smart
+      There's none like pretty Sally;
+     She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+     There is no lady in the land
+      Is half so sweet as Sally;
+     She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+
+     Her father he makes cabbage-nets,
+      And through the streets does cry 'em;
+     Her mother she sells laces long
+      To such as please to buy 'em;
+     But sure such folks could ne'er beget
+      So sweet a girl as Sally!
+     She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+
+     When she is by, I leave my work,
+      I love her so sincerely;
+     My master comes like any Turk,
+      And bangs me most severely--
+     But let him bang his bellyful,
+      I'll bear it all for Sally;
+     She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+
+     Of all the days that's in the week
+      I dearly love but one day--
+     And that's the day that comes betwixt
+      A Saturday and Monday;
+     For then I'm drest all in my best
+      To walk abroad with Sally:
+     She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+
+     My master carries me to church,
+      And often am I blamed
+     Because I leave him in the lurch
+      As soon as text is named;
+     I leave the church in sermon-time
+      And slink away to Sally;
+     She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+
+     When Christmas comes about again,
+      O then I shall have money;
+     I'll hoard it up, and box it all,
+      I'll give it to my honey:
+     I would it were ten thousand pound,
+      I'd give it all to Sally;
+     She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+
+     My master and the neighbours all
+      Make game of me and Sally,
+     And, but for her, I'd better be
+      A slave and row a galley;
+     But when my seven long years are out
+      O then I'll marry Sally,--
+     O then we'll wed, and then we'll bed,
+      But not in our alley!
+
+     H. CAREY.
+
+
+
+
+     132. A FAREWELL.
+
+     Go fetch to me a pint o' wine,
+      And fill it in a silver tassie;
+     That I may drink before I go
+      A service to my bonnie lassie:
+     The boat rocks at the pier of Leith,
+      Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry,
+     The ship rides by the Berwick-law,
+      And I maun leave my bonnie Mary.
+
+     The trumpets sound, the banners fly,
+      The glittering spears are rankéd ready;
+     The shouts o' war are heard afar,
+      The battle closes thick and bloody;
+     But it's not the roar o' sea or shore
+      Wad make me langer wish to tarry;
+     Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar--
+      It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary.
+
+     R. BURNS.
+
+
+
+
+     133.
+
+     If doughty deeds my lady please
+       Right soon I'll mount my steed;
+     And strong his arm, and fast his seat
+       That bears frae me the meed.
+     I'll wear thy colours in my cap
+       Thy picture in my heart;
+     And he that bends not to thine eye
+       Shall rue it to his smart!
+        Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;
+          O tell me how to woo thee!
+        For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take
+          Tho' ne'er another trow me.
+
+     If gay attire delight thine eye
+       I'll dight me in array;
+     I'll tend thy chamber door all night,
+       And squire thee all the day.
+     If sweetest sounds can win thine ear,
+       These sounds I'll strive to catch;
+     Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysell,
+       That voice that nane can match.
+
+     But if fond love thy heart can gain,
+       I never broke a vow;
+     Nae maiden lays her skaith to me,
+       I never loved but you.
+     For you alone I ride the ring,
+       For you I wear the blue;
+     For you alone I strive to sing,
+       O tell me how to woo!
+        Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;
+          O tell me how to woo thee!
+        For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take,
+          Tho' ne'er another trow me.
+
+     GRAHAM OF GARTMORE.
+
+
+
+
+     134. 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-bosom'd as that watery glass,
+     And Heaven reflected in her face.
+
+     W. COWPER.
+
+
+
+
+     135. THE SLEEPING BEAUTY.
+
+     Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile--
+     Tho' shut so close thy laughing eyes,
+     Thy rosy lips still wear a smile
+     And move, and breathe delicious sighs!
+
+     Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks
+     And mantle o'er her neck of snow:
+     Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks
+     What most I wish--and fear to know!
+
+     She starts, she trembles, and she weeps!
+     Her fair hands folded on her breast:
+     --And now, how like a saint she sleeps!
+     A seraph in the realms of rest!
+
+     Sleep on secure! Above controul
+     Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee:
+     And may the secret of thy soul
+     Remain within its sanctuary!
+
+     S. ROGERS.
+
+
+
+
+     136.
+
+     For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove
+     An unrelenting foe to Love,
+     And when we meet a mutual heart
+     Come in between, and bid us part?
+
+     Bid us sigh on from day to day,
+     And wish and wish the soul away;
+     Till youth and genial years are flown,
+     And all the life of life is gone?
+
+     But busy, busy, still art thou,
+     To bind the loveless joyless vow,
+     The heart from pleasure to delude,
+     To join the gentle to the rude.
+
+     For once, O Fortune, hear my prayer,
+     And I absolve thy future care;
+     All other blessings I resign,
+     Make but the dear Amanda mine.
+
+     J. THOMSON.
+
+
+
+
+     137.
+
+     The merchant, to secure his treasure,
+     Conveys it in a borrow'd name:
+     Euphelia serves to grace my measure,
+     But Cloe is my real flame.
+
+     My softest verse, my darling lyre
+     Upon Euphelia's toilet lay--
+     When Cloe noted her desire
+     That I should sing, that I should play.
+
+     My lyre I tune, my voice I raise,
+     But with my numbers mix my sighs:
+     And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise,
+     I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes.
+
+     Fair Cloe blush'd: Euphelia frown'd:
+     I sung, and gazed; I play'd, and trembled:
+     And Venus to the Loves around
+     Remark'd how ill we all dissembled.
+
+     M. PRIOR.
+
+
+
+
+     138.
+
+     When lovely woman stoops to folly
+     And finds too late that men betray,--
+     What charm can soothe her melancholy,
+     What art can wash her guilt away?
+
+     The only art her guilt to cover,
+     To hide her shame from every eye,
+     To give repentance to her lover
+     And wring his bosom, is--to die.
+
+     O. GOLDSMITH.
+
+
+
+
+     139.
+
+     Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon
+       How can ye blume sae fair!
+     How can ye chant, ye little birds,
+       And I sae fu' o' care!
+
+     Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird
+       That sings upon the bough;
+     Thou minds me o' the happy days
+       When my fause Luve was true.
+
+     Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird
+       That sings beside thy mate;
+     For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
+       And wist na o' my fate.
+
+     Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon
+       To see the woodbine twine,
+     And ilka bird sang o' its love;
+       And sae did I o' mine.
+
+     Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
+       Frae aff its thorny tree;
+     And my fause luver staw the rose,
+       But left the thorn wi' me.
+
+     R. BURNS.
+
+
+
+
+     140. THE PROGRESS OF POESY.
+
+     _A Pindaric Ode._
+
+       Awake, Aeolian lyre, awake,
+     And give to rapture all thy trembling strings.
+     From Helicon's harmonious springs
+       A thousand rills their mazy progress take:
+     The laughing flowers that round them blow
+     Drink life and fragrance as they flow.
+     Now the rich stream of Music winds along
+     Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong,
+     Through verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign;
+     Now rolling down the steep amain
+     Headlong, impetuous, see it pour:
+     The rocks and nodding groves re-bellow to the roar.
+
+       O Sovereign of the willing soul,
+     Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs,
+     Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares
+       And frantic Passions hear thy soft control.
+     On Thracia's hills the Lord of War
+     Has curb'd the fury of his car
+     And dropt his thirsty lance at thy command.
+     Perching on the sceptred hand
+     Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king
+     With ruffled plumes, and flagging wing:
+     Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie
+     The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye.
+
+     Thee the voice, the dance, obey,
+     Temper'd to thy warbled lay.
+     O'er Idalia's velvet-green
+     The rosy-crownéd Loves are seen
+     On Cytherea's day,
+     With antic Sport, and blue-eyed Pleasures,
+     Frisking light in frolic measures;
+     Now pursuing, now retreating,
+       Now in circling troops they meet:
+     To brisk notes in cadence beating
+       Glance their many-twinkling feet.
+     Slow-melting strains their Queen's approach declare:
+       Where'er she turns the Graces homage pay:
+     With arms sublime that float upon the air
+       In gliding state she wins her easy way:
+     O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom move
+     The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.
+
+       Man's feeble race what ills await!
+     Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain,
+     Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train,
+       And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate!
+     The fond complaint, my song, disprove,
+     And justify the laws of Jove.
+     Say, has he 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.
+
+       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.
+
+     Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep,
+     Isles, that crown th' Aegean deep,
+     Fields that cool Ilissus laves
+     Or where Maeander's amber waves
+     In lingering lab'rinths creep,
+     How do your tuneful echoes languish,
+     Mute, but to the voice of anguish!
+     Where each old poetic mountain
+       Inspiration breathed around;
+     Every shade and hallow'd fountain
+       Murmur'd deep a solemn sound:
+     Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour
+       Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains.
+     Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power,
+       And coward Vice, that revels in her chains.
+     When Latium had her lofty spirit lost,
+     They sought, O Albion! next, thy sea-encircled coast.
+
+       Far from the sun and summer-gale
+     In thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid,
+     What time, where lucid Avon stray'd,
+       To him the mighty Mother did unveil
+     Her awful face: the dauntless Child
+     Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smiled.
+     This pencil take (she said) whose colours clear
+     Richly paint the vernal year:
+     Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal Boy!
+     This can unlock the gates of Joy;
+     Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears,
+     Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic Tears.
+
+       Nor second He, that rode sublime
+     Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy
+     The secrets of the Abyss to spy:
+       He pass'd the flaming bounds of Place and Time:
+     The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze
+     Where Angels tremble while they gaze,
+     He saw; but blasted with excess of light,
+     Closed his eyes in endless night.
+     Behold where Dryden's less presumptuous car
+     Wide o'er the fields of Glory bear
+     Two coursers of ethereal race
+     With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding pace.
+
+     Hark! his hands the lyre explore!
+     Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o'er,
+     Scatters from her pictured urn
+     Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
+     But ah! 'tis heard no more--
+     O! Lyre divine, what daring Spirit
+     Wakes thee now! Tho' he inherit
+     Nor the pride, nor ample pinion
+       That the Theban Eagle bear,
+     Sailing with supreme dominion
+       Thro' the azure deep of air:
+     Yet oft before his infant eyes would run
+       Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray
+     With orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun:
+       Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way
+     Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate:
+     Beneath the Good how far--but far above the Great.
+
+     T. GRAY.
+
+
+
+
+     141. 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,
+     Throng'd around her magic cell
+     Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
+     Possest beyond the Muse's painting;
+     By turns they felt the glowing mind
+     Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refined:
+     'Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
+     Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired,
+     From the supporting myrtles round
+     They snatch'd 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 his hand, its skill to try,
+       Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,
+     And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
+       E'en at the sound himself had made.
+
+     Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,
+       In lightnings own'd 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 delighted measure?
+     Still it whisper'd 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 call'd 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-stain'd 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 each dreary pause between,
+          Dejected Pity at his side
+          Her soul-subduing voice applied,
+       Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien,
+     While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head.
+
+     Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd:
+       Sad proof of thy distressful state!
+     Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd;
+       And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate.
+
+     With eyes up-raised, as one inspired,
+     Pale Melancholy sat retired;
+     And from her wild sequester'd seat,
+     In notes by distance made more sweet,
+     Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul:
+       And dashing soft from rocks around
+       Bubbling runnels join'd 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 alter'd was its sprightlier tone
+     When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
+       Her bow across her shoulder flung,
+       Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,
+     Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,
+       The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known!
+     The oak-crown'd 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 leap'd up, and seized his beechen spear.
+
+     Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:
+     He, with viny crown advancing,
+       First to the lively pipe his hand addrest:
+     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 kiss'd the stings,
+       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 learn'd an all-commanding power,
+     Thy mimic soul, O nymph endear'd!
+     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, energetic, chaste, sublime!
+     Thy wonders, in that god-like 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!
+
+     W. COLLINS.
+
+
+
+
+     142. ODE ON THE SPRING.
+
+     Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours,
+       Fair Venus' train, appear,
+     Disclose the long-expecting flowers
+       And wake the purple year!
+     The Attic warbler pours her throat
+     Responsive to the cuckoo's note,
+     The untaught harmony of Spring:
+     While, whispering pleasure as they fly,
+     Cool Zephyrs through the clear blue sky
+       Their gather'd fragrance fling.
+
+     Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch
+       A broader, browner shade,
+     Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech
+       O'er-canopies the glade,
+     Beside some water's rushy brink
+     With me the Muse shall sit, and think
+     (At ease reclined in rustic state)
+     How vain the ardour of the Crowd,
+     How low, how little, are the Proud,
+       How indigent the Great!
+
+     Still is the toiling hand of Care;
+       The panting herds repose:
+     Yet hark, how thro' the peopled air
+       The busy murmur glows!
+     The insect youth are on the wing,
+     Eager to taste the honied spring
+     And float amid the liquid noon:
+     Some lightly o'er the current skim,
+     Some show their gaily-gilded trim
+       Quick-glancing to the sun.
+
+     To Contemplation's sober eye
+       Such is the race of Man:
+     And they that creep, and they that fly,
+       Shall end where they began.
+     Alike the busy and the gay
+     But flutter thro' life's little day,
+     In Fortune's varying colours drest:
+     Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance,
+     Or chill'd by Age, their airy dance
+       They leave, in dust to rest.
+
+     Methinks I hear in accents low,
+       The sportive kind reply:
+     Poor moralist! and what art thou?
+       A solitary fly!
+     Thy joys no glittering female meets,
+     No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,
+     No painted plumage to display:
+     On hasty wings thy youth is flown;
+     Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone--
+       We frolic while 'tis May.
+
+     T. GRAY.
+
+
+
+
+     143. THE POPLAR FIELD.
+
+     The poplars are fell'd, farewell to the shade
+     And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade;
+     The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,
+     Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.
+
+     Twelve years have elapsed since I last took a view
+     Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew:
+     And now in the grass behold they are laid,
+     And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade.
+
+     The blackbird has fled to another retreat
+     Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat;
+     And the scene where his melody charm'd me before
+     Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.
+
+     My fugitive years are all hasting away,
+     And I must ere long lie lowly as they,
+     With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head,
+     Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.
+
+     'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can,
+     To muse on the perishing pleasures of man;
+     Short-lived as we are, our enjoyments, I see,
+     Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we.
+
+     W. COWPER.
+
+
+
+
+     144. TO A FIELD-MOUSE.
+
+     Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', 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 and chase thee
+     Wi' murd'ring 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, whiles, 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!
+     It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
+     An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
+     O' foggage green!
+     And bleak December's winds ensuin'
+     Baith snell and keen!
+
+     Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
+     And weary winter comin' fast,
+     And cozie here, beneath the blast,
+     Thou thought to dwell,
+     Till crash! the cruel coulter past
+     Out thro' thy cell.
+
+     That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
+     Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
+     Now thou's turn'd 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 and men
+     Gang aft a-gley,
+     And lea'e us nought but grief and pain,
+     For promised joy.
+
+     Still thou art blest, 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 and fear.
+
+     R. BURNS.
+
+
+
+
+     145. A WISH.
+
+     Mine be a cot beside the hill;
+     A bee-hive's hum shall sooth my ear;
+     A willowy brook that turns a mill,
+     With many a fall shall linger near.
+
+     The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch
+     Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
+     Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
+     And share my meal, a welcome guest.
+
+     Around my ivied porch shall spring
+     Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
+     And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
+     In russet-gown and apron blue.
+
+     The village-church among the trees,
+     Where first our marriage-vows were given,
+     With merry peals shall swell the breeze
+     And point with taper spire to Heaven.
+
+     S. ROGERS.
+
+
+
+
+     146. TO EVENING.
+
+     If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song
+     May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear
+        Like thy own solemn springs,
+        Thy springs, and dying gales;
+
+     O Nymph reserved,--while now the bright-hair'd sun
+     Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts
+        With brede ethereal wove,
+        O'erhang his wavy bed,
+
+     Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat
+     With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing,
+        Or where the beetle winds
+        His small but sullen horn,
+
+     As oft he rises midst the twilight path
+     Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum,--
+        Now teach me, maid composed,
+        To breathe some soften'd strain
+
+     Whose numbers, stealing through thy dark'ning vale,
+     May not unseemly with its stillness suit;
+        As musing slow I hail
+        Thy genial loved return.
+
+     For when thy folding-star arising shows
+     His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
+        The fragrant Hours, and Elves
+        Who slept in buds the day,
+
+     And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge
+     And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still
+        The pensive Pleasures sweet,
+        Prepare thy shadowy car.
+
+     Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene;
+     Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells,
+        Whose walls more awful nod
+        By thy religious gleams.
+
+     Or if chill blustering winds or driving rain
+     Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut
+        That, from the mountain's side
+        Views wilds and swelling floods,
+
+     And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires;
+     And hears their simple bell; and marks o'er all
+        Thy dewy fingers draw
+        The gradual dusky veil.
+
+     While Spring shall pour his 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, regardful of thy quiet rule,
+     Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,
+        Thy gentlest influence own,
+        And love thy favourite name!
+
+     W. COLLINS.
+
+
+
+
+     147. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.
+
+     The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
+     The lowing herd wind 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 for ever 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 bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
+
+     Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
+     Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
+     Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
+     The short and simple annals of the Poor.
+
+     The boast of heraldry, the pomp of 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 sway'd,
+     Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:
+
+     But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
+     Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
+     Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
+     And froze the genial current of the soul.
+
+     Full many a gem of purest ray serene
+     The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
+     Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
+     And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
+
+     Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
+     The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
+     Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
+     Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.
+
+     Th' applause of 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 forbad; nor circumscribed alone
+     Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
+     Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,
+     And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;
+
+     The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
+     To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
+     Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
+     With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
+
+     Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife
+     Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
+     Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
+     They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
+
+     Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect
+     Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
+     With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
+     Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
+
+     Their name, their years, spelt by the unletter'd Muse,
+     The place of fame and elegy supply:
+     And many a holy text around she strews,
+     That teach the rustic moralist to die.
+
+     For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
+     This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
+     Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
+     Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?
+
+     On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
+     Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
+     E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
+     E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
+
+     For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
+     Dost in those 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 noon-tide 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 cross'd in hopeless love.
+
+     One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd 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 frown'd not on his humble birth,
+     And Melancholy mark'd 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 gain'd from Heaven, 'twas all he wish'd, a friend.
+
+     No farther seek his merits to disclose,
+     Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
+     (There they alike in trembling hope repose),
+     The bosom of his Father and his God.
+
+     T. GRAY.
+
+
+
+
+     148. MARY MORISON.
+
+     O Mary, at thy window be,
+     It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!
+     Those smiles and glances let me see
+     That make the miser's treasure poor:
+     How blythely wad I bide the 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 sigh'd, and said amang them a',
+     "Ye are na Mary Morison."
+
+     O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace
+     Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee?
+     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.
+
+     R. BURNS.
+
+
+
+
+     149. BONNIE LESLEY.
+
+     O saw ye bonnie Lesley
+       As she gaed o'er the border?
+     She's gane, like Alexander,
+       To spread her conquests farther.
+
+     To see her is to love her,
+       And love but her for ever;
+     For nature made her what she is,
+       And ne'er made sic anither!
+
+     Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,
+       Thy subjects we, before thee;
+     Thou art divine, fair Lesley,
+       The hearts o' men adore thee.
+
+     The deil he could na scaith thee,
+       Or aught that wad belang thee;
+     He'd look into thy bonnie face,
+       And say "I canna wrang thee!"
+
+     The Powers aboon will tent thee,
+       Misfortune sha' na steer thee;
+     Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely
+       That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.
+
+     Return again, fair Lesley,
+       Return to Caledonie!
+     That we may brag we hae a lass
+       There's nane again sae bonnie.
+
+     R. BURNS.
+
+
+
+
+     150.
+
+     O my Luve's like a red, red rose
+       That's newly sprung in June:
+     O my Luve's like the melodie
+       That's sweetly play'd in tune.
+
+     As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
+       So deep in luve am I:
+     And I will luve thee still, my dear,
+       Till a' the seas gang dry:
+
+     Till a' the seas gang dry, my Dear,
+       And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
+     I will luve thee still, my dear,
+       While the sands o' life shall run.
+
+     And fare thee weel, my only Luve!
+       And fare thee weel a while!
+     And I will come again, my Luve
+       Tho' it were ten thousand mile.
+
+     R. BURNS.
+
+
+
+
+     151. HIGHLAND MARY.
+
+     Ye banks and braes and streams around
+       The castle o' Montgomery,
+     Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
+       Your waters never drumlie!
+     There simmer first unfauld her robes,
+       And there the langest tarry;
+     For there I took the last fareweel
+       O' my sweet Highland Mary.
+
+     How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
+       How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
+     As underneath their fragrant shade
+       I clasp'd her to my bosom!
+     The golden hours on angel wings
+       Flew o'er me and my dearie;
+     For dear to me as light and life
+       Was my sweet Highland Mary.
+
+     Wi' mony a vow and lock'd 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 kiss'd sae fondly!
+     And closed for aye the sparkling glance
+       That dwelt on me sae kindly;
+     And mouldering now in silent dust
+       That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
+     But still within my bosom's core
+       Shall live my Highland Mary.
+
+     R. BURNS.
+
+
+
+
+     152. AULD ROBIN GRAY.
+
+     When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame,
+     And a' the warld to rest are gane,
+     The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e,
+     While my gudeman lies sound by me.
+
+     Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride;
+     But saving a croun he had naething else beside:
+     To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea;
+     And the croun and the pund were baith for me.
+
+     He hadna been awa' a week but only twa,
+     When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown awa;
+     My mother she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea--
+     And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me.
+
+     My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin;
+     I toil'd day and night, but their bread I couldna win;
+     Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e
+     Said, Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!
+
+     My heart it said nay; I look'd for Jamie back;
+     But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack;
+     His ship it was a wrack--Why didna Jamie dee?
+     Or why do I live to cry, Wae's me?
+
+     My father urgit sair: my mother didna speak;
+     But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break:
+     They gi'ed him my hand, but my heart was at the sea;
+     Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.
+
+     I hadna been a wife a week but only four,
+     When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door,
+     I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he--
+     Till he said, I'm come hame to marry thee.
+
+     O sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say;
+     We took but ae kiss, and I bad him gang away;
+     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.
+
+     LADY A. LINDSAY.
+
+
+
+
+     153. 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,
+     Look'd asklent and unco skeigh,
+     Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;
+        Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
+
+     Duncan fleech'd and Duncan pray'd;
+     Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig;
+     Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,
+     Grat his een baith bleert and blin',
+     Spak o' lowpin' ower a linn!
+
+     Time and chance are but a tide,
+     Slighted love is sair to bide;
+     Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,
+     For a haughty hizzie dee?
+     She may gae to--France for me!
+
+     How it comes let doctors tell,
+     Meg grew sick--as he grew heal;
+     Something in her bosom wrings,
+     For relief a sigh she brings;
+     And O, her een, they spak sic things!
+
+     Duncan was a lad o' grace;
+     Maggie's was a piteous case;
+     Duncan could na be her death,
+     Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath;
+     Now they're crouse and canty baith:
+        Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
+
+     R. BURNS.
+
+
+
+
+     154. THE SAILOR'S WIFE.
+
+     And are ye sure the news is true?
+       And are ye sure he's weel?
+     Is this a time to think o' wark?
+       Ye jades, lay by your wheel;
+     Is this the time to spin a thread,
+       When Colin's at the door?
+     Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay
+       And see him come ashore.
+     For there's nae luck about the house,
+       There's nae luck at a';
+     There's little pleasure in the house
+       When our gudeman's awa'.
+
+     And gie to me my bigonet,
+       My bishop's satin gown;
+     For I maun tell the baillie's wife
+       That Colin's in the town.
+     My Turkey slippers maun gae on,
+       My stockins pearly blue;
+     It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,
+       For he's baith leal and true.
+
+     Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,
+       Put on the muckle pot;
+     Gie little Kate her button gown
+       And Jock his Sunday coat;
+     And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
+       Their hose as white as snaw;
+     It's a' to please my ain gudeman,
+       For he's been long awa.
+
+     There's twa fat hens upo' the coop
+       Been fed this month and mair;
+     Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
+       That Colin weel may fare;
+     And spread the table neat and clean,
+       Gar ilka thing look braw,
+     For wha can tell how Colin fared
+       When he was far awa?
+
+     Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech.
+       His breath like caller air;
+     His very foot has music in't
+       As he comes up the stair--
+     And will I see his face again?
+       And will I hear him speak?
+     I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
+       In troth I'm like to greet!
+
+     If Colin's weel, and weel content,
+       I hae nae mair to crave:
+     And gin I live to keep him sae,
+       I'm blest aboon the lave:
+     And will I see his face again,
+       And will I hear him speak?
+     I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
+       In troth I'm like to greet!
+
+     For there's nae luck about the house,
+       There's nae luck at a';
+     There's little pleasure in the house
+       When our gudeman's awa.
+
+     W. J. MICKLE.
+
+
+
+
+     155. JEAN.
+
+     Of a' the airts the wind can blaw
+       I dearly like the West,
+     For there the bonnie lassie lives,
+       The lassie I lo'e best:
+     There wild woods grow, and rivers row,
+       And mony a hill between;
+     But day and night my fancy's flight
+       Is ever wi' my Jean.
+
+     I see her in the dewy flowers,
+       I see her sweet and fair:
+     I hear her in the tunefu' birds,
+       I hear her charm the air:
+     There's not a bonnie flower that springs,
+       By fountain, shaw, or green;
+     There's not a bonnie bird that sings
+       But minds me o' my Jean.
+
+     O blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saft
+       Amang the leafy trees;
+     Wi' balmy gale, frae hill and dale
+       Bring hame the laden bees;
+     And bring the lassie back to me
+       That's aye sae neat and clean;
+     Ae smile o' her wad banish care,
+       Sae charming is my Jean.
+
+     What sighs and vows amang the knowes
+       Hae pass'd atween us twa!
+     How fond to meet, how wae to part
+       That night she gaed awa!
+     The Powers aboon can only ken
+       To whom the heart is seen,
+     That nane can be sae dear to me
+       As my sweet lovely Jean!
+
+     R. BURNS.
+
+
+
+
+     156. JOHN ANDERSON.
+
+     John Anderson my jo, John,
+     When we were first acquent
+     Your locks were like the raven,
+     Your bonnie brow was brent;
+     But now your brow is bald, John,
+     Your locks are like the snow;
+     But blessings on your frosty pow,
+     John Anderson my jo.
+
+     John Anderson my jo, John,
+     We clamb the hill thegither,
+     And mony a canty day, John,
+     We've had wi' ane anither:
+     Now we maun totter down, John,
+     But hand in hand we'll go,
+     And sleep thegither at the foot,
+     John Anderson my jo.
+
+     R. BURNS.
+
+
+
+
+     157. THE LAND O' THE LEAL.
+
+     I'm wearing awa', Jean
+     Like snaw when its thaw, Jean,
+     I'm wearing awa'
+       To the land o' the leal.
+     There's nae sorrow there, Jean,
+     There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,
+     The day is aye fair
+       In the land o' the leal.
+
+     Ye were aye leal and true, Jean,
+     Your task's ended noo, Jean,
+     And I'll welcome you
+       To the land o' the leal.
+     Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean,
+     She was baith guid and fair, Jean;
+     O we grudged her right sair
+       To the land o' the leal!
+
+     Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean,
+     My soul langs to be free, Jean,
+     And angels wait on me
+       To the land o' the leal.
+     Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean
+     This warld's care is vain, Jean;
+     We'll meet and aye be fain
+       In the land o' the leal.
+
+     LADY NAIRN.
+
+
+
+
+     158. ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE.
+
+     Ye distant spires, ye antique towers
+       That crown the wat'ry 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 stray'd,
+       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 enthral?
+     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 possest;
+     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' alter'd 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 griesly 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,
+       Condemn'd alike to groan;
+     The tender for another's pain,
+       Th' 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.
+
+     T. GRAY.
+
+
+
+
+     159. 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, design'd,
+      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 learn'd to melt at others' 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 vow their truth, and are again believed.
+
+      And Melancholy, silent maid,
+       With leaden eye, that loves the ground,
+      Still on thy solemn steps attend:
+      Warm Charity, the general 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!
+      Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad,
+       Not 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 my own defects to scan,
+     What others are to feel, and know myself a Man.
+
+     T. GRAY.
+
+
+
+
+     160. THE SOLITUDE OF ALEXANDER SELKIRK.
+
+     I am monarch of all I survey;
+     My right there is none to dispute;
+     From the centre all round to the sea
+     I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
+     O Solitude! Where are the charms
+     That sages have seen in thy face?
+     Better dwell in the midst of alarms
+     Than reign in this horrible place.
+
+     I am out of humanity's reach,
+     I must finish my journey alone,
+     Never hear the sweet music of speech;
+     I start at the sound of my own.
+     The beasts that roam over the plain
+     My form with indifference see;
+     They are so unacquainted with man,
+     Their tameness is shocking to me.
+
+     Society, Friendship, and Love
+     Divinely bestow'd upon man,
+     O had I the wings of a dove
+     How soon would I taste you again!
+     My sorrows I then might assuage
+     In the ways of religion and truth,
+     Might learn from the wisdom of age,
+     And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.
+
+     Ye winds that have made me your sport,
+     Convey to this desolate shore
+     Some cordial endearing report
+     Of a land I shall visit no more:
+     My friends, do they now and then send
+     A wish or a thought after me?
+     O tell me I yet have a friend,
+     Though a friend I am never to see.
+
+     How fleet is a glance of the mind!
+     Compared with the speed of its flight,
+     The tempest itself lags behind,
+     And the swift-wingéd arrows of light.
+     When I think of my own native land
+     In a moment I seem to be there;
+     But alas! recollection at hand
+     Soon hurries me back to despair.
+
+     But the seafowl is gone to her nest,
+     The beast is laid down in his lair;
+     Even here is a season of rest,
+     And I to my cabin repair.
+     There's mercy in every place,
+     And mercy, encouraging thought!
+     Gives even affliction a grace
+     And reconciles man to his lot.
+
+     W. COWPER.
+
+
+
+
+     161. TO MARY UNWIN.
+
+     Mary! I want a lyre with other strings,
+     Such aid from heaven as some have feign'd they drew,
+     An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new
+     And undebased by praise of meaner things,
+
+     That ere through age or woe I shed my wings
+     I may record thy worth with honour due,
+     In verse as musical as thou art true
+     And that immortalizes whom it sings:--
+
+     But thou hast little need. There is a Book
+     By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,
+     On which the eyes of God not rarely look,
+
+     A chronicle of actions just and bright--
+     There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine;
+     And since, thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.
+
+     W. COWPER.
+
+
+
+
+     162. 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 play'dst the housewife's part,
+     And all thy threads with magic art
+     Have wound themselves about this heart,
+             My Mary!
+
+     Thy indistinct expressions seem
+     Like language utter'd in a dream;
+     Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,
+             My Mary!
+
+     Thy silver locks, once auburn bright
+     Are still more lovely in my sight
+     Than golden beams of orient light,
+             My Mary!
+
+     For could I view nor them nor thee,
+     What sight worth seeing could I see?
+     The sun would rise in vain for me,
+             My Mary!
+
+     Partakers of thy sad decline
+     Thy hands their little force resign;
+     Yet gently press'd, press gently mine,
+             My Mary!
+
+     Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st
+     That now at every step thou mov'st
+     Upheld by two; yet still thou lov'st,
+             My Mary!
+
+     And still to love, though press'd with ill,
+     In wintry age to feel no chill,
+     With me is to be lovely still,
+             My Mary!
+
+     But ah! by constant heed I know
+     How oft the sadness that I show
+     Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,
+             My Mary!
+
+     And should my future lot be cast
+     With much resemblance of the past
+     Thy worn-out heart will break at last--
+             My Mary!
+
+     W. COWPER.
+
+
+
+
+     163. THE DYING MAN IN HIS GARDEN.
+
+     Why, Damon, with the forward day
+     Dost thou thy little spot survey,
+     From tree to tree, with doubtful cheer,
+     Pursue the progress of the year,
+     What winds arise, what rains descend,
+     When thou before that year shalt end?
+
+     What do thy noontide walks avail,
+     To clear the leaf, and pick the snail,
+     Then wantonly to death decree
+     An insect usefuller than thee?
+     Thou and the worm are brother-kind,
+     As low, as earthy, and as blind.
+
+     Vain wretch! canst thou expect to see
+     The downy peach make court to thee?
+     Or that thy sense shall ever meet
+     The bean-flower's deep-embosom'd sweet
+     Exhaling with an evening blast?
+     Thy evenings then will all be past!
+
+     Thy narrow pride, thy fancied green
+     (For vanity's in little seen),
+     All must be left when Death appears,
+     In spite of wishes, groans, and tears;
+     Nor one of all thy plants that grow
+     But Rosemary will with thee go.
+
+     G. SEWELL.
+
+
+
+
+     164. TO-MORROW.
+
+     In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining,
+      May my lot no less fortunate be
+     Than a snug elbow-chair can afford for reclining,
+      And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea;
+     With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn,
+      While I carol away idle sorrow,
+     And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn
+      Look forward with hope for to-morrow.
+
+     With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too,
+      As the sunshine or rain may prevail;
+     And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too,
+      With a barn for the use of the flail:
+     A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game,
+      And a purse when a friend wants to borrow;
+     I'll envy no nabob his riches or fame,
+      Nor what honours await him to-morrow.
+
+     From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely
+      Secured by a neighbouring hill;
+     And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly
+      By the sound of a murmuring rill:
+     And while peace and plenty I find at my board,
+      With a heart free from sickness and sorrow,
+     With my friends may I share what to-day may afford,
+      And let them spread the table to-morrow.
+
+     And when I at last must throw off this frail covering
+      Which I've worn for three-score years and ten,
+     On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hovering,
+      Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again:
+     But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey,
+      And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow;
+     As this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare to-day
+      May become everlasting to-morrow.
+
+     -- COLLINS.
+
+
+
+
+     165.
+
+     Life! I know not what thou art,
+     But know that thou and I must part;
+     And when, or how, or where we met
+     I own to me's a secret yet.
+
+     Life! we've been long together
+     Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;
+     'Tis hard to part when friends are dear--
+     Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear;
+     --Then steal away, give little warning,
+       Choose thine own time;
+     Say not Good Night,--but in some brighter clime
+       Bid me Good Morning.
+
+     A L. BARBAULD.
+
+
+
+
+
+FOURTH BOOK.
+
+
+SUMMARY.
+
+
+It proves sufficiently the lavish wealth of our own age in Poetry, that
+the pieces which, without conscious departure from the standard of
+Excellence, render this Book by far the longest, were with very few
+exceptions composed during the first thirty years the nineteenth
+century. Exhaustive reasons can hardly be given for the strangely sudden
+appearance of individual genius: but none, in the Editor's judgment, can
+be less adequate than that which assigns the splendid national
+achievements of our recent poetry, to an impulse from the frantic
+follies and criminal wars that at the time disgraced the least
+essentially civilised of our foreign neighbours. The first French
+Revolution was rather, in his opinion, one result, and in itself by no
+means the most important, of that far wider and greater spirit which
+through enquiry and doubt, through pain and triumph, sweeps mankind
+round the circles of its gradual development: and it is to this that we
+must trace the literature of modern Europe. But, without more detailed
+discussion on the motive causes of Scott, Wordsworth, Campbell, Keats,
+and Shelley, we may observe that these Poets, with others, carried to
+further perfection the later tendencies of the Century preceding, in
+simplicity of narrative, reverence for human Passion and Character in
+every sphere, and impassioned love of Nature:--that, whilst maintaining
+on the whole the advances in art made since the Restoration, they
+renewed the half-forgotten melody and depth of tone which marked the
+best Elizabethan writers:--that, lastly, to what was thus inherited they
+added a richness in language and a variety in metre, a force and fire in
+narrative, a tenderness and bloom in feeling, an insight into the finer
+passages of the Soul and the inner meanings of the landscape, a larger
+and wiser Humanity,--hitherto hardly attained, and perhaps unattainable
+even by predecessors of not inferior individual genius. In a word, the
+Nation which, after the Greeks in their glory, has been the most gifted
+of all nations for Poetry, expressed in these men the highest strength
+and prodigality of its nature. They interpreted the age to itself--hence
+the many phases of thought and style they present:--to sympathise with
+each, fervently and impartially, without fear and without fancifulness,
+is no doubtful step in the higher education of the Soul. For, as with
+the Affections and the Conscience, Purity in Taste is absolutely
+proportionate to Strength:--and when once the mind has raised itself to
+grasp and to delight in Excellence, those who love most will be found to
+love most wisely.
+
+
+
+
+
+     166. ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER.
+
+     Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold
+     And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
+     Round many western islands have I been
+     Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
+
+     Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
+     That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne:
+     Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
+     Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
+
+     --Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
+     When a new planet swims into his ken;
+     Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes
+
+     He stared at the Pacific--and all his men
+     Look'd at each other with a wild surmise--
+     Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
+
+     J. KEATS.
+
+
+
+
+     167. ODE ON THE POETS.
+
+     Bards of Passion and of Mirth
+     Ye have left your souls on earth!
+     Have ye souls in heaven too,
+     Doubled-lived in regions new?
+     --Yes, and those of heaven commune
+     With the spheres of sun and moon;
+     With the noise of fountains wonderous
+     And the parle of voices thunderous;
+     With the whisper of heaven's trees
+     And one another, in soft ease
+     Seated on Elysian lawns
+     Browsed by none but Dian's fawns;
+     Underneath large blue-bells tented,
+     Where the daisies are rose-scented,
+     And the rose herself has got
+     Perfume which on earth is not;
+     Where the nightingale doth sing
+     Not a senseless, trancéd thing,
+     But divine melodious truth;
+     Philosophic numbers smooth;
+     Tales and golden histories
+     Of heaven and its mysteries.
+
+       Thus ye live on high, and then
+     On the earth ye live again;
+     And the souls ye left behind you
+     Teach us, here, the way to find you
+     Where your other souls are joying,
+     Never slumber'd, never cloying.
+     Here, your earth-born souls still speak
+     To mortals, of their little week;
+     Of their sorrows and delights;
+     Of their passions and their spites;
+     Of their glory and their shame;
+     What doth strengthen and what maim:--
+     Thus ye teach us, every day,
+     Wisdom, though fled far away.
+
+       Bards of Passion and of Mirth
+     Ye have left your souls on earth!
+     Ye have souls in heaven too,
+     Double-lived in regions new!
+
+     J. KEATS.
+
+
+
+
+     168. LOVE.
+
+     All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
+     Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
+     All are but ministers of Love,
+         And feed his sacred flame.
+
+     Oft in my waking dreams do I
+     Live o'er again that happy hour,
+     When midway on the mount I lay
+         Beside the ruin'd tower.
+
+     The moonshine stealing o'er the scene
+     Had blended with the lights of eve;
+     And she was there, my hope, my joy,
+         My own dear Genevieve!
+
+     She lean'd against the arméd man,
+     The statue of the arméd knight;
+     She stood and listen'd to my lay,
+         Amid the lingering light.
+
+     Few sorrows hath she of her own
+     My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!
+     She loves me best, whene'er I sing
+         The songs that make her grieve.
+
+     I play'd a soft and doleful air,
+     I sang an old and moving story--
+     An old rude song, that suited well
+         That ruin wild and hoary.
+
+     She listen'd with a flitting blush,
+     With downcast eyes and modest grace;
+     For well she knew, I could not choose
+         But gaze upon her face.
+
+     I told her of the Knight that wore
+     Upon his shield a burning brand;
+     And that for ten long years he woo'd
+         The Lady of the Land.
+
+     I told her how he pined: and ah!
+     The deep, the low, the pleading tone
+     With which I sang another's love,
+         Interpreted my own.
+
+     She listen'd with a flitting blush,
+     With downcast eyes, and modest grace;
+     And she forgave me, that I gazed
+         Too fondly on her face.
+
+     But when I told the cruel scorn
+     That crazed that bold and lovely Knight,
+     And that he cross'd the mountain-woods,
+         Nor rested day nor night;
+
+     That sometimes from the savage den,
+     And sometimes from the darksome shade,
+     And sometimes starting up at once
+         In green and sunny glade.
+
+     There came and look'd him in the face
+     An angel beautiful and bright;
+     And that he knew it was a Fiend,
+         This miserable Knight!
+
+     And that unknowing what he did,
+     He leap'd amid a murderous band,
+     And saved from outrage worse than death
+         The Lady of the Land;
+
+     And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees;
+     And how she tended him in vain;
+     And ever strove to expiate
+         The scorn that crazed his brain;
+
+     And that she nursed him in a cave,
+     And how his madness went away,
+     When on the yellow forest-leaves
+         A dying man he lay;
+
+     --His dying words--but when I reach'd
+     That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
+     My faltering voice and pausing harp
+         Disturb'd her soul with pity!
+
+     All impulses of soul and sense
+     Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve;
+     The music and the doleful tale,
+         The rich and balmy eve;
+
+     And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,
+     An undistinguishable throng,
+     And gentle wishes long subdued,
+         Subdued and cherish'd long!
+
+     She wept with pity and delight,
+     She blush'd with love, and virgin shame;
+     And like the murmur of a dream,
+         I heard her breathe my name.
+
+     Her bosom heaved--she stepp'd aside,
+     As conscious of my look she stept--
+     Then suddenly, with timorous eye
+         She fled to me and wept.
+
+     She half enclosed me with her arms,
+     She press'd me with a meek embrace;
+     And bending back her head, look'd up,
+         And gazed upon my face.
+
+     'Twas partly love, and partly fear,
+     And partly 'twas a bashful art,
+     That I might rather feel, than see.
+         The swelling of her heart.
+
+     I calm'd her fears, and she was calm,
+     And told her love with virgin pride;
+     And so I won my Genevieve,
+         My bright and beauteous Bride.
+
+     S. T. COLERIDGE.
+
+
+
+
+     169. ALL FOR LOVE.
+
+     O talk not to me of a name great in story;
+     The days of our youth are the days of our glory;
+     And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
+     Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.
+
+     What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?
+     'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled:
+     Then away with all such from the head that is hoary--
+     What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?
+
+     O Fame!--if I e'er took delight in thy praises,
+     'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,
+     Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover
+     She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
+
+     There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;
+     Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee;
+     When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story,
+     I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.
+
+     LORD BYRON.
+
+
+
+
+     170. THE OUTLAW.
+
+     O Brignall banks are wild and fair,
+      And Greta woods are green,
+     And you may gather garlands there
+      Would grace a summer-queen.
+     And as I rode by Dalton-Hall
+      Beneath the turrets high,
+     A Maiden on the castle-wall
+      Was singing merrily:
+     "O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
+      And Greta woods are green;
+     I'd rather rove with Edmund there
+      Than reign our English queen."
+
+     "If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me,
+      To leave both tower and town,
+     Thou first must guess what life lead we
+      That dwell by dale and down.
+     And if thou canst that riddle read,
+      As read full well you may,
+     Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed
+      As blithe as Queen of May."
+     Yet sung she "Brignall banks are fair,
+      And Greta woods are green;
+     I'd rather rove with Edmund there
+      Than reign our English queen.
+
+     "I read you by your bugle-horn
+      And by your palfrey good,
+     I read you for a ranger sworn
+      To keep the King's greenwood."
+     "A Ranger, Lady, winds his horn,
+      And 'tis at peep of light;
+     His blast is heard at merry morn,
+      And mine at dead of night."
+     Yet sung she, "Brignall banks are fair,
+      And Greta woods are gay;
+     I would I were with Edmund there
+      To reign his Queen of May!
+
+     "With burnish'd brand and musketoon
+      So gallantly you come,
+     I read you for a bold Dragoon,
+      That lists the tuck of drum."
+     "I list no more the tuck of drum,
+      No more the trumpet hear;
+     But when the beetle sounds his hum
+      My comrades take the spear.
+     And O! though Brignall banks be fair,
+      And Greta woods be gay,
+     Yet mickle must the maiden dare,
+      Would reign my Queen of May!
+
+     "Maiden! a nameless life I lead,
+      A nameless death I'll die;
+     The fiend whose lantern lights the mead
+      Were better mate than I!
+     And when I'm with my comrades met
+      Beneath the greenwood bough,
+     What once we were we all forget,
+      Nor think what we are now.
+
+                   _Chorus._
+
+     Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
+      And Greta woods are green,
+     And you may gather flowers there
+      Would grace a summer-queen.
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT.
+
+
+
+
+     171.
+
+     There be none of Beauty's daughters
+      With a magic like Thee;
+     And like music on the waters
+      Is thy sweet voice to me:
+     When, as if its sound were causing
+     The charméd ocean's pausing,
+     The waves lie still and gleaming,
+     And the lull'd winds seem dreaming
+     And the midnight moon is weaving
+      Her bright chain o'er the deep,
+     Whose breast is gently heaving,
+      As an infant's asleep:
+     So the spirit bows before thee
+     To listen and adore thee;
+     With a full but soft emotion,
+     Like the swell of Summer's ocean.
+
+     LORD BYRON.
+
+
+
+
+     172. LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR.
+
+     I arise from dreams of Thee
+     In the first sweet sleep of night,
+     When the winds are breathing low
+     And the stars are shining bright:
+     I arise from dreams of thee,
+     And a spirit in my feet
+     Hath led me--who knows how?
+     To thy chamber-window, Sweet!
+
+     The wandering airs they faint
+     On the dark, the silent stream--
+     The champak odours fail
+     Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
+     The nightingale's complaint,
+     It dies upon her heart,
+     As I must on thine,
+     Oh, belovéd as thou art!
+
+     Oh lift me from the grass!
+     I die! I faint, I fail!
+     Let thy love in kisses rain
+     On my lips and eyelids pale.
+     My cheek is cold and white, alas!
+     My heart beats loud and fast;
+     O! press it to thine own again
+     Where it will break at last.
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     173.
+
+     She walks in beauty, like the night
+     Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
+     And all that's best of dark and bright
+     Meets in her aspect and her eyes,
+     Thus mellow'd to that tender light
+     Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
+
+     One shade the more, one ray the less,
+     Had half impair'd the nameless grace
+     Which waves in every raven tress
+     Or softly lightens o'er her face,
+     Where thoughts serenely sweet express
+     How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
+
+     And on that cheek, and o'er that brow
+     So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
+     The smiles that win, the tints that glow
+     But tell of days in goodness spent,--
+     A mind at peace with all below,
+     A heart whose love is innocent.
+
+     LORD BYRON.
+
+
+
+
+     174.
+
+     She was a phantom of delight
+     When first she gleam'd upon my sight;
+     A lovely apparition, sent
+     To be a moment's ornament;
+     Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
+     Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
+     But all things else about her drawn
+     From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
+     A dancing shape, an image gay,
+     To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
+
+     I saw her upon nearer view,
+     A spirit, yet a woman too!
+     Her household motions light and free,
+     And steps of virgin-liberty;
+     A countenance in which did meet
+     Sweet records, promises as sweet;
+     A creature not too bright or good
+     For human nature's daily food,
+     For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
+     Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
+
+     And now I see with eye serene
+     The very pulse of the machine;
+     A being breathing thoughtful breath,
+     A traveller between life and death:
+     The reason firm, the temperate will,
+     Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
+     A perfect woman, nobly plann'd,
+     To warn, to comfort, and command;
+     And yet a Spirit still, and bright
+     With something of an angel-light.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     175.
+
+       She is not fair to outward view
+        As many maidens be;
+       Her loveliness I never knew
+        Until she smiled on me.
+       O then I saw her eye was bright,
+       A well of love, a spring of light.
+
+       But now her looks are coy and cold,
+        To mine they ne'er reply,
+       And yet I cease not to behold
+        The love-light in her eye:
+       Her very frowns are fairer far
+       Than smiles of other maidens are.
+
+     H. COLERIDGE.
+
+
+
+
+     176.
+
+     I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden;
+     Thou needest not fear mine;
+     My spirit is too deeply laden
+     Ever to burthen thine.
+
+     I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion;
+     Thou needest not fear mine;
+     Innocent is the heart's devotion
+     With which I worship thine.
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     177. THE LOST LOVE.
+
+     She dwelt among the untrodden ways
+       Beside the springs of Dove;
+     A maid whom there were none to praise,
+       And very few to love.
+
+     A violet by a mossy stone
+       Half hidden from the eye!
+     --Fair as a star, when only one
+       Is shining in the sky.
+
+     She lived unknown, and few could know
+       When Lucy ceased to be;
+     But she is in her grave, and O!
+       The difference to me!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     178.
+
+     I travell'd among unknown men
+       In lands beyond the sea;
+     Nor, England! did I know till then
+       What love I bore to thee.
+
+     'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
+       Nor will I quit thy shore
+     A second time, for still I seem
+       To love thee more and more.
+
+     Among thy mountains did I feel
+       The joy of my desire;
+     And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel
+       Beside an English fire.
+
+     Thy mornings showed, thy nights conceal'd,
+       The bowers where Lucy play'd;
+     And thine too is the last green field
+       That Lucy's eyes survey'd.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     179. THE EDUCATION OF NATURE.
+
+     Three years she grew in sun and shower;
+     Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower
+     On earth was never sown;
+     This child I to myself will take;
+     She shall be mine, and I will make
+     A lady of my own.
+
+     "Myself will to my darling be
+     Both law and impulse: and with me
+     The girl, in rock and plain,
+     In earth and heaven, in glade and bower
+     Shall feel an overseeing power
+     To kindle or restrain.
+
+     "She shall be sportive as the fawn
+     That wild with glee across the lawn
+     Or up the mountain springs;
+     And her's shall be the breathing balm,
+     And her's the silence and the calm
+     Of mute insensate things.
+
+     "The floating clouds their state shall lend
+     To her; for her the willow bend;
+     Nor shall she fail to see
+     E'en in the motions of the storm
+     Grace that shall mould the maiden's form
+     By silent sympathy.
+
+     "The stars of midnight shall be dear
+     To her; and she shall lean her ear
+     In many a secret place
+     Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
+     And beauty born of murmuring sound
+     Shall pass into her face.
+
+     "And vital feelings of delight
+     Shall rear her form to stately height,
+     Her virgin bosom swell;
+     Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
+     While she and I together live
+     Here in this happy dell."
+
+     Thus Nature spake--The work was done--
+     How soon my Lucy's race was run!
+     She died, and left to me
+     This heath, this calm and quiet scene;
+     The memory of what has been,
+     And never more will be.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     180.
+
+     A slumber did my spirit seal;
+       I had no human fears:
+     She seem'd a thing that could not feel
+       The touch of earthly years.
+
+     No motion has she now, no force;
+       She neither hears nor sees;
+     Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course
+       With rocks, and stones, and trees!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     181. LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.
+
+     A Chieftain to the Highlands bound
+     Cries "Boatman, do not tarry!
+     And I'll give thee a silver pound
+     To row us o'er the ferry!"
+
+     "Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle
+     This dark and stormy water?"
+     "O I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,
+     And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.
+
+     "And fast before her father's men
+     Three days we've fled together,
+     For should he find us in the glen,
+     My blood would stain the heather.
+
+     "His horsemen hard behind us ride--
+     Should they our steps discover,
+     Then who will cheer my bonny bride
+     When they have slain her lover?"
+
+     Out spoke the hardy Highland wight
+     "I'll go, my chief, I'm ready:
+     It is not for your silver bright,
+     But for your winsome lady:--
+
+     "And by my word! the bonny bird
+     In danger not shall tarry;
+     So though the waves are raging white
+     I'll row you o'er the ferry."
+
+     By this the storm grew loud apace,
+     The water-wraith was shrieking;
+     And in the scowl of heaven each face
+     Grew dark as they were speaking.
+
+     But still as wilder blew the wind
+     And as the night grew drearer,
+     Adown the glen rode arméd men,
+     Their trampling sounded nearer.
+
+     "O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,
+     "Though tempests round us gather;
+     I'll meet the raging of the skies,
+     But not an angry father."
+
+     The boat has left a stormy land,
+     A stormy sea before her,--
+     When O! too strong for human hand
+     The tempest gather'd o'er her.
+
+     And still they row'd amidst the roar
+     Of waters fast prevailing:
+     Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,--
+     His wrath was changed to wailing.
+
+     For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shade
+     His child he did discover:--
+     One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,
+     And one was round her lover.
+
+     "Come back! come back!" he cried in grief,
+     "Across this stormy water:
+     And I'll forgive your Highland chief,
+     My daughter!--O my daughter!"
+
+     'Twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore,
+     Return or aid preventing:
+     The waters wild went o'er his child,
+     And he was left lamenting.
+
+     T. CAMPBELL.
+
+
+
+
+     182. JOCK O' HAZELDEAN.
+
+     "Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?
+       Why weep ye by the tide?
+     I'll wed ye to my youngest son,
+       And ye sall be his bride:
+     And ye sall be his bride, ladie,
+       Sae comely to be seen"--
+     But aye she loot the tears doon fa'
+       For Jock o' Hazeldean.
+
+     "Now let this wilfu' grief be done,
+       And dry that cheek so pale;
+     Young Frank is chief of Errington
+       And lord of Langley-dale;
+     His step is first in peaceful ha',
+       His sword in battle keen"--
+     But aye she loot the tears down fa'
+       For Jock o' Hazeldean.
+
+     "A chain of gold ye shall not lack,
+       Nor braid to bind your hair,
+     Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk
+       Nor palfrey fresh and fair;
+     And you the foremost o' them a'
+       Shall ride our forest queen"--
+     But aye she loot the tears down fa'
+       For Jock o' Hazeldean.
+
+     The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide,
+       The tapers glimmer'd fair;
+     The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,
+       And dame and knight are there:
+     They sought her baith by bower and ha';
+       The ladie was not seen!
+     She's o'er the Border, and awa'
+       Wi' Jock o' Hazeldean.
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT.
+
+
+
+
+     183. FREEDOM AND LOVE.
+
+     How delicious is the winning
+     Of a kiss at love's beginning,
+     When two mutual hearts are sighing
+     For the knot there's no untying!
+
+     Yet remember, 'midst your wooing,
+     Love has bliss, but Love has ruing;
+     Other smiles may make you fickle,
+     Tears for other charms may trickle.
+
+     Love he comes, and Love he tarries,
+     Just as fate or fancy carries;
+     Longest stays, when sorest chidden;
+     Laughs and flies, when press'd and bidden.
+
+     Bind the sea to slumber stilly,
+     Bind its odour to the lily,
+     Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver,
+     Then bind Love to last for ever.
+
+     Love's a fire that needs renewal
+     Of fresh beauty for its fuel:
+     Love's wing moults when caged and captured,
+     Only free, he soars enraptured.
+
+     Can you keep the bee from ranging
+     Or the ringdove's neck from changing?
+     No! nor fetter'd Love from dying
+     In the knot there's no untying.
+
+     T. CAMPBELL.
+
+
+
+
+     184. LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY.
+
+     The fountains mingle with the river
+     And the rivers with the ocean,
+     The winds of heaven mix for ever
+     With a sweet emotion;
+     Nothing in the world is single,
+     All things by a law divine
+     In one another's being mingle--
+     Why not I with thine?
+
+     See the mountains kiss high heaven
+     And the waves clasp one another;
+     No sister-flower would be forgiven
+     If it disdain'd its brother:
+     And the sunlight clasps the earth,
+     And the moonbeams kiss the sea--
+     What are all these kissings worth,
+     If thou kiss not me?
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     185. ECHOES.
+
+     How sweet the answer Echo makes
+     To Music at night
+     When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
+     And far away o'er lawns and lakes
+     Goes answering light!
+
+     Yet Love hath echoes truer far
+     And far more sweet
+     Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star,
+     Of horn or lute or soft guitar
+     The songs repeat.
+
+     'Tis when the sigh,--in youth sincere
+     And only then,
+     The sigh that's breathed for one to hear--
+     Is by that one, that only Dear
+     Breathed back again.
+
+     T. MOORE.
+
+
+
+
+     186. A SERENADE.
+
+     Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,
+       The sun has left the lea,
+     The orange-flower perfumes the bower,
+       The breeze is on the sea.
+     The lark, his lay who trill'd all day,
+       Sits hush'd his partner nigh;
+     Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,
+       But where is County Guy?
+
+     The village maid steals through the shade
+       Her shepherd's suit to hear;
+     To Beauty shy, by lattice high,
+       Sings high-born Cavalier.
+     The star of Love, all stars above,
+       Now reigns o'er earth and sky,
+     And high and low the influence know--
+       But where is County Guy?
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT.
+
+
+
+
+     187. TO THE EVENING STAR.
+
+     Gem of the crimson-colour'd Even,
+     Companion of retiring day,
+     Why at the closing gates of heaven,
+     Beloved Star, dost thou delay?
+
+     So fair thy pensile beauty burns
+     When soft the tear of twilight flows;
+     So due thy plighted love returns
+     To chambers brighter than the rose;
+
+     To Peace, to Pleasure, and to love
+     So kind a star thou seem'st to be,
+     Sure some enamour'd orb above
+     Descends and burns to meet with thee.
+
+     Thine is the breathing, blushing hour
+     When all unheavenly passions fly,
+     Chased by the soul-subduing power
+     Of Love's delicious witchery.
+
+     O! sacred to the fall of day
+     Queen of propitious stars, appear,
+     And early rise, and long delay
+     When Caroline herself is here!
+
+     Shine on her chosen green resort
+     Whose trees the sunward summit crown,
+     And wanton flowers, that well may court
+     An angel's feet to tread them down:--
+
+     Shine on her sweetly scented road
+     Thou star of evening's purple dome,
+     That lead'st the nightingale abroad,
+     And guid'st the pilgrim to his home.
+
+     Shine where my charmer's sweeter breath
+     Embalms the soft exhaling dew,
+     Where dying winds a sigh bequeath
+     To kiss the cheek of rosy hue:--
+
+     Where, winnow'd by the gentle air,
+     Her silken tresses darkly flow
+     And fall upon her brow so fair,
+     Like shadows on the mountain snow.
+
+     Thus, ever thus, at day's decline
+     In converse sweet to wander far--
+     O bring with thee my Caroline,
+     And thou shalt be my Ruling Star!
+
+     T. CAMPBELL.
+
+
+
+
+     188. TO THE NIGHT.
+
+     Swiftly walk over the western wave,
+                 Spirit of Night!
+     Out of the misty eastern cave
+     Where all the long and lone daylight
+     Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear
+     Which make thee terrible and dear,--
+                 Swift be thy flight!
+
+     Wrap thy form in a mantle gray,
+                 Star-inwrought!
+     Blind with thine hair the eyes of day,
+     Kiss her until she be wearied out,
+     Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land,
+     Touching all with thine opiate wand--
+                 Come, long-sought!
+
+     When I arose and saw the dawn,
+                 I sigh'd for thee;
+     When light rode high, and the dew was gone,
+     And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,
+     And the weary Day turn'd to his rest,
+     Lingering like an unloved guest,
+                 I sigh'd for thee.
+
+     Thy brother Death came, and cried,
+                 Wouldst thou me?
+     Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,
+     Murmur'd like a noon-tide bee
+     Shall I nestle near thy side?
+     Wouldst thou me?--And I replied
+                 No, not thee!
+
+     Death will come when thou art dead,
+                 Soon, too soon--
+     Sleep will come when thou art fled;
+     Of neither would I ask the boon
+     I ask of thee, belovéd Night--
+     Swift be thine approaching flight,
+                 Come soon, soon!
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     189. TO A DISTANT FRIEND.
+
+     Why art thou silent! Is thy love a plant
+     Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air
+     Of absence withers what was once so fair?
+     Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant?
+
+     Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant,
+     Bound to thy service with unceasing care--
+     The mind's least generous wish a mendicant
+     For nought but what thy happiness could spare.
+
+     Speak!--though this soft warm heart, once free to hold
+     A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine,
+     Be left more desolate, more dreary cold
+     Than a forsaken bird's-nest fill'd with snow
+     'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine--
+     Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     190.
+
+          When we two parted
+          In silence and tears,
+          Half broken-hearted
+          To sever for years,
+          Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
+          Colder thy kiss;
+          Truly that hour foretold
+          Sorrow to this!
+
+          The dew of the morning
+          Sunk chill on my brow;
+          It felt like the warning
+          Of what I feel now.
+          Thy vows are all broken,
+          And light is thy fame:
+          I hear thy name spoken,
+          And share in its shame.
+
+          They name thee before me,
+          A knell to mine ear;
+          A shudder comes o'er me--
+          Why wert thou so dear?
+          They know not I knew thee,
+          Who knew thee too well:
+          Long, long shall I rue thee
+          Too deeply to tell.
+
+          In secret we met:
+          In silence I grieve
+          That thy heart could forget,
+          Thy spirit deceive.
+          If I should meet thee
+          After long years,
+          How should I greet thee?--
+          With silence and tears.
+
+     LORD BYRON.
+
+
+
+
+     191. HAPPY INSENSIBILITY.
+
+     In a drear-nighted December,
+     Too happy, happy Tree
+     Thy branches ne'er remember
+     Their green felicity:
+     The north cannot undo them
+     With a sleety whistle through them,
+     Nor frozen thawings glue them
+     From budding at the prime.
+
+     In a drear-nighted December
+     Too happy, happy Brook
+     Thy bubblings ne'er remember
+     Apollo's summer look;
+     But with a sweet forgetting
+     They stay their crystal fretting,
+     Never, never petting
+     About the frozen time.
+
+     Ah! would 'twere so with many
+     A gentle girl and boy!
+     But were there ever any
+     Writhed not at passéd joy?
+     To know the change and feel it,
+     When there is none to heal it
+     Nor numbéd sense to steal it--
+     Was never said in rhyme.
+
+     J. KEATS.
+
+
+
+
+     192.
+
+     Where shall the lover rest
+      Whom the fates sever
+     From his true maiden's breast
+      Parted for ever?
+     Where, through groves deep and high
+      Sounds the far billow,
+     Where early violets die
+      Under the willow.
+        Eleu loro
+      Soft shall be his pillow.
+
+     There, through the summer day
+      Cool streams are laving:
+     There, while the tempests sway,
+      Scarce are boughs waving;
+     There thy rest shalt thou take,
+      Parted for ever,
+     Never again to wake
+      Never, O never!
+        Eleu loro
+      Never, O never!
+
+     Where shall the traitor rest,
+      He, the deceiver,
+     Who would win maiden's breast,
+      Ruin, and leave her?
+     In the lost battle,
+      Borne down by the flying,
+     Where mingles war's rattle
+      With groans of the dying;
+        Eleu loro
+      There shall he be lying.
+
+     Her wing shall the eagle flap
+      O'er the falsehearted;
+     His warm blood the wolf shall lap
+      Ere life be parted:
+     Shame and dishonour sit
+      By his grave ever;
+     Blessing shall hallow it
+      Never, O never!
+        Eleu loro
+      Never, O never!
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT.
+
+
+
+
+     193. LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI.
+
+     "O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
+      Alone and palely loitering?
+     The sedge has wither'd from the lake,
+      And no birds sing.
+
+     "O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
+      So haggard and so woe-begone?
+     The squirrel's granary is full,
+      And the harvest's done.
+
+     "I see a lily on thy brow
+      With anguish moist and fever-dew,
+     And on thy cheeks a fading rose
+      Fast withereth too."
+
+     "I met a lady in the meads,
+      Full beautiful--a faery's child,
+     Her hair was long, her foot was light,
+      And her eyes were wild.
+
+     "I made a garland for her head,
+      And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
+     She look'd at me as she did love,
+      And made sweet moan.
+
+     "I set her on my pacing steed
+      And nothing else saw all day long,
+     For sidelong would she bend, and sing
+      A faery's song.
+
+     "She found me roots of relish sweet,
+      And honey wild and manna-dew,
+     And sure in language strange she said,
+      'I love thee true.'
+
+     "She took me to her elfin grot,
+      And there she wept, and sigh'd full sore,
+     And there I shut her wild wild eyes
+      With kisses four.
+
+     "And there she lulléd me asleep,
+      And there I dream'd--Ah! woe betide!
+     The latest dream I ever dream'd
+      On the cold hill's side.
+
+     "I saw pale kings and princes too,
+      Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
+     They cried--'La belle Dame sans Merci
+      Hath thee in thrall!'
+
+     "I saw their starved lips in the gloam
+      With horrid warning gapéd wide,
+     And I awoke and found me here,
+      On the cold hill's side.
+
+     "And this is why I sojourn here
+      Alone and palely loitering,
+     Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
+      And no birds sing."
+
+     J. KEATS.
+
+
+
+
+     194. THE ROVER.
+
+     "A weary lot is thine, fair maid,
+       A weary lot is thine!
+     To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
+       And press the rue for wine.
+     A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,
+       A feather of the blue,
+     A doublet of the Lincoln green--
+       No more of me you knew,
+                   My Love!
+     No more of me you knew.
+
+     "The morn is merry June, I trow,
+       The rose is budding fain;
+     But she shall bloom in winter snow
+       Ere we two meet again."
+     He turn'd his charger as he spake
+       Upon the river shore,
+     He gave the bridle-reins a shake,
+       Said "Adieu for evermore,
+                   My Love!
+     And adieu for evermore."
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT.
+
+
+
+
+     195. THE FLIGHT OF LOVE.
+
+     When the lamp is shatter'd,
+     The light in the dust lies dead--
+     When the cloud is scatter'd,
+     The rainbow's glory is shed.
+     When the lute is broken,
+     Sweet tones are remember'd not;
+     When the lips have spoken,
+     Loved accents are soon forgot.
+
+     As music and splendour
+     Survive not the lamp and the lute,
+     The heart's echoes render
+     No song when the spirit is mute--
+     No song but sad dirges,
+     Like the wind through a ruin'd cell,
+     Or the mournful surges
+     That ring the dead seaman's knell.
+
+     When hearts have once mingled,
+     Love first leaves the well-built nest;
+     The weak one is singled
+     To endure what it once possest.
+     O Love! who bewailest
+     The frailty of all things here,
+     Why choose you the frailest
+     For your cradle, your home, and your bier?
+
+     Its passions will rock thee
+     As the storms rock the ravens on high;
+     Bright reason will mock thee
+     Like the sun from a wintry sky.
+     From thy nest every rafter
+     Will rot, and thine eagle home
+     Leave thee naked to laughter,
+     When leaves fall and cold winds come.
+
+     P. B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     196. THE MAID OF NEIDPATH.
+
+     O lovers' eyes are sharp to see,
+      And lovers' ears in hearing;
+     And love, in life's extremity
+      Can lend an hour of cheering.
+     Disease had been in Mary's bower
+      And slow decay from mourning,
+     Though now she sits on Neidpath's tower
+      To watch her Love's returning.
+
+     All sunk and dim her eyes so bright,
+      Her form decay'd by pining,
+     Till through her wasted hand, at night,
+      You saw the taper shining.
+     By fits a sultry hectic hue
+      Across her cheek was flying;
+     By fits so ashy pale she grew
+      Her maidens thought her dying.
+
+     Yet keenest powers to see and hear
+      Seem'd in her frame residing;
+     Before the watch-dog prick'd his ear
+      She heard her lover's riding;
+     Ere scarce a distant form was kenn'd
+      She knew and waved to greet him,
+     And o'er the battlement did bend
+      As on the wing to meet him.
+
+     He came--he pass'd--an heedless gaze
+      As o'er some stranger glancing;
+     Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase,
+      Lost in his courser's prancing--
+
+     The castle-arch, whose hollow tone
+      Returns each whisper spoken,
+     Could scarcely catch the feeble moan
+      Which told her heart was broken.
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT
+
+
+
+
+     197. THE MAID OF NEIDPATH.
+
+     Earl March look'd on his dying child,
+      And smit with grief to view her--
+     The youth, he cried, whom I exiled
+      Shall be restored to woo her.
+
+     She's at the window many an hour
+      His coming to discover:
+     And he look'd up to Ellen's bower
+      And she look'd on her lover--
+
+     But ah! so pale, he knew her not,
+      Though her smile on him was dwelling--
+     And am I then forgot--forgot?
+      It broke the heart of Ellen.
+
+     In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs,
+      Her cheek is cold as ashes;
+     Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes
+      To lift their silken lashes.
+
+     T. CAMPBELL
+
+
+
+
+     198.
+
+     Bright Star! would I were steadfast as thou art--
+     Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,
+     And watching, with eternal lids apart,
+     Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,
+
+     The moving waters at their priestlike task
+     Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
+     Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask
+     Of snow upon the mountains and the moors:--
+
+     No--yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
+     Pillow'd upon my fair Love's ripening breast
+     To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
+     Awake for ever in a sweet unrest;
+
+     Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
+     And so live ever,--or else swoon to death.
+
+     J. KEATS.
+
+
+
+
+     199. THE TERROR OF DEATH.
+
+     When I have fears that I may cease to be
+     Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
+     Before high-piléd books, in charact'ry,
+     Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;
+
+     When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
+     Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
+     And think that I may never live to trace
+     Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
+
+     And when I feel, fair Creature of an hour!
+     That I shall never look upon thee more,
+     Never have relish in the fairy power
+     Of unreflecting love--then on the shore
+
+     Of the wide world I stand alone, and think,
+     Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.
+
+     J. KEATS.
+
+
+
+
+     200. DESIDERIA.
+
+     Surprized by joy--impatient as the wind--
+     I turn'd to share the transport--Oh, with whom
+     But Thee--deep buried in the silent tomb,
+     That spot which no vicissitude can find?
+
+     Love, faithful love recall'd thee to my mind--
+     But how could I forget thee? Through what power
+     Even for the least division of an hour
+     Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
+
+     To my most grievous loss?--That thought's return
+     Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore
+     Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
+
+     Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
+     That neither present time, nor years unborn
+     Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     201.
+
+     At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping,
+           I fly
+     To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in
+           thine eye;
+     And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions
+           of air
+     To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to
+           me there
+     And tell me our love is remember'd even in the sky!
+
+     Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear
+     When our voices, commingling, breathed like one on
+           the ear;
+     And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison
+           rolls,
+     I think, O my love! 'tis thy voice, from the Kingdom
+           of Souls
+     Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.
+
+     T. MOORE.
+
+
+
+
+     202. ELEGY ON THYRZA.
+
+     And thou art dead, as young and fair
+       As aught of mortal birth;
+     And forms so soft and charms so rare
+       Too soon return'd to Earth!
+     Though Earth received them in her bed,
+     And o'er the spot the crowd may tread
+       In carelessness or mirth,
+     There is an eye which could not brook
+     A moment on that grave to look.
+
+     I will not ask where thou liest low
+       Nor gaze upon the spot;
+     There flowers and weeds at will may grow
+       So I behold them not:
+     It is enough for me to prove
+     That what I loved and long must love
+       Like common earth can rot;
+     To me there needs no stone to tell
+     'Tis Nothing that I loved so well.
+
+     Yet did I love thee to the last,
+       As fervently as thou
+     Who didst not change through all the past
+       And canst not alter now.
+     The love where Death has set his seal
+     Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,
+       Nor falsehood disavow:
+     And, what were worse, thou canst not see
+     Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.
+
+     The better days of life were ours;
+       The worst can be but mine:
+     The sun that cheers, the storm that lours
+       Shall never more be thine.
+     The silence of that dreamless sleep
+     I envy now too much to weep;
+       Nor need I to repine
+     That all those charms have pass'd away
+     I might have watch'd through long decay.
+
+     The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd
+       Must fall the earliest prey;
+     Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,
+       The leaves must drop away.
+     And yet it were a greater grief
+     To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,
+       Than see it pluck'd to-day;
+     Since earthly eye but ill can bear
+     To trace the change from foul to fair.
+
+     I know not if I could have borne
+       To see thy beauties fade;
+     The night that follow'd such a morn
+       Had worn a deeper shade:
+     Thy day without a cloud hath past,
+     And thou wert lovely to the last,
+       Extinguish'd, not decay'd;
+     As stars that shoot along the sky
+     Shine brightest as they fall from high.
+
+     As once I wept if I could weep,
+       My tears might well be shed
+     To think I was not near, to keep
+       One vigil o'er thy bed:
+     To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
+     To fold thee in a faint embrace,
+       Uphold thy drooping head;
+     And show that love, however vain,
+     Nor thou nor I can feel again.
+
+     Yet how much less it were to gain,
+       Though thou hast left me free,
+     The loveliest things that still remain
+       Than thus remember thee!
+     The all of thine that cannot die
+     Through dark and dread Eternity
+       Returns again to me,
+     And more thy buried love endears
+     Than aught except its living years.
+
+     LORD BYRON.
+
+
+
+
+     203.
+
+     One word is too often profaned
+       For me to profane it,
+     One feeling too falsely disdain'd
+       For thee to disdain it.
+     One hope is too like despair
+       For prudence to smother,
+     And Pity from thee more dear
+       Than that from another.
+
+     I can give not what men call love;
+       But wilt thou accept not
+     The worship the heart lifts above
+       And the Heavens reject not:
+     The desire of the moth for the star,
+       Of the night for the morrow,
+     The devotion to something afar
+       From the sphere of our sorrow?
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     204. GATHERING SONG OF DONALD THE BLACK.
+
+       Pibroch of Donuil Dhu
+        Pibroch of Donuil
+       Wake thy wild voice anew,
+        Summon Clan Conuil.
+       Come away, come away,
+        Hark to the summons!
+       Come in your war-array,
+        Gentles and commons.
+
+       Come from deep glen, and
+        From mountain so rocky;
+       The war-pipe and pennon
+        Are at Inverlochy.
+       Come every hill-plaid, and
+        True heart that wears one,
+       Come every steel blade, and
+        Strong hand that bears one.
+
+       Leave untended the herd,
+        The flock without shelter;
+       Leave the corpse uninterr'd,
+        The bride at the altar;
+       Leave the deer, leave the steer,
+        Leave nets and barges:
+       Come with your fighting gear,
+        Broadswords and targes.
+
+       Come as the winds come, when
+        Forests are rended,
+       Come as the waves come, when
+        Navies are stranded:
+       Faster come, faster come,
+        Faster and faster,
+       Chief, vassal, page and groom,
+        Tenant and master.
+
+       Fast they come, fast they come;
+        See how they gather!
+       Wide waves the eagle plume
+        Blended with heather.
+       Cast your plaids, draw your blades,
+        Forward each man set!
+       Pibroch of Donuil Dhu
+        Knell for the onset!
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT.
+
+
+
+
+     205.
+
+     A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
+       A wind that follows fast
+     And fills the white and rustling sail
+       And bends the gallant mast;
+     And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
+       While like the eagle free
+     Away the good ship flies, and leaves
+       Old England on the lee.
+
+     O for a soft and gentle wind!
+       I heard a fair one cry;
+     But give to me the snoring breeze
+       And white waves heaving high;
+     And white waves heaving high, my lads,
+       The good ship tight and free--
+     The world of waters is our home,
+       And merry men are we.
+
+     There's tempest in yon hornéd moon,
+       And lightning in yon cloud;
+     But hark the music, mariners!
+       The wind is piping loud;
+     The wind is piping loud, my boys,
+       The lightning flashes free--
+     While the hollow oak our palace is,
+       Our heritage the sea.
+
+     A. CUNNINGHAM.
+
+
+
+
+     206.
+
+     Ye Mariners of England
+     That guard our native seas!
+     Whose flag has braved, a thousand years
+     The battle and the breeze!
+     Your glorious standard launch again
+     To match another foe:
+     And sweep through the deep,
+     While the stormy winds do blow;
+     While the battle rages loud and long
+     And the stormy winds do blow.
+
+     The spirits of your fathers
+     Shall start from every wave--
+     For the deck it was their field of fame,
+     And Ocean was their grave:
+     Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell
+     Your manly hearts shall glow,
+     As ye sweep through the deep,
+     While the stormy winds do blow;
+     While the battle rages loud and long
+     And the stormy winds do blow.
+
+     Britannia needs no bulwarks,
+     No towers along the steep;
+     Her march is o'er the mountain waves,
+     Her home is on the deep.
+     With thunders from her native oak
+     She quells the floods below--
+     As they roar on the shore,
+     When the stormy winds do blow;
+     When the battle rages loud and long
+     And the stormy winds do blow.
+
+     The meteor flag of England
+     Shall yet terrific burn;
+     Till danger's troubled night depart
+     And the star of peace return.
+     Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!
+     Our song and feast shall flow
+     To the fame of your name,
+     When the storm has ceased to blow;
+     When the fiery fight is heard no more,
+     And the storm has ceased to blow.
+
+     T. CAMPBELL.
+
+
+
+
+     207. BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.
+
+     Of Nelson and the North
+     Sing the glorious day's renown,
+     When to battle fierce came forth
+     All the might of Denmark's crown,
+     And her arms along the deep proudly shone;
+     By each gun the lighted brand
+     In a bold determined hand,
+     And the Prince of all the land
+     Led them on.
+
+     Like leviathans afloat
+     Lay their bulwarks on the brine;
+     While the sign of battle flew
+     On the lofty British line:
+     It was ten of April morn by the chime:
+     As they drifted on their path
+     There was silence deep as death;
+     And the boldest held his breath
+     For a time.
+
+     But the might of England flush'd
+     To anticipate the scene;
+     And her van the fleeter rush'd
+     O'er the deadly space between.
+     "Hearts of oak!" our captains cried, when each gun
+     From its adamantine lips
+     Spread a death-shade round the ships,
+     Like the hurricane eclipse
+     Of the sun.
+
+     Again! again! again!
+     And the havoc did not slack,
+     Till a feeble cheer the Dane
+     To our cheering sent us back;--
+     Their shots along the deep slowly boom:--
+     Then ceased--and all is wail,
+     As they strike the shatter'd sail,
+     Or in conflagration pale
+     Light the gloom.
+
+     Out spoke the victor then
+     As he hail'd them o'er the wave,
+     "Ye are brothers! ye are men!
+     And we conquer but to save:--
+     So peace instead of death let us bring:
+     But yield, proud foe, thy fleet
+     With the crews, at England's feet,
+     And make submission meet
+     To our King."
+
+     Then Denmark blest our chief
+     That he gave her wounds repose;
+     And the sounds of joy and grief
+     From her people wildly rose,
+     As death withdrew his shades from the day:
+     While the sun look'd smiling bright
+     O'er a wide and woeful sight,
+     Where the fires of funeral light
+     Died away.
+
+     Now joy, old England, raise!
+     For the tidings of thy might,
+     By the festal cities' blaze,
+     Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;
+     And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
+     Let us think of them that sleep
+     Full many a fathom deep
+     By thy wild and stormy steep,
+     Elsinore!
+
+     Brave hearts! to Britain's pride
+     Once so faithful and so true,
+     On the deck of fame that died
+     With the gallant good Riou:
+     Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave!
+     While the billow mournful rolls
+     And the mermaid's song condoles
+     Singing glory to the souls
+     Of the brave!
+
+     T. CAMPBELL.
+
+
+
+
+     208. ODE TO DUTY
+
+       Stern Daughter of the voice of God!
+       O Duty! if that name thou love
+       Who art a light to guide, a rod
+       To check the erring, and reprove;
+       Thou who art victory and law
+       When empty terrors overawe;
+       From vain temptations dost set free,
+     And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!
+
+       There are who ask not if thine eye
+       Be on them; who, in love and truth
+       Where no misgiving is, rely
+       Upon the genial sense of youth:
+       Glad hearts! without reproach or blot,
+       Who do thy work, and know it not:
+       Oh! if through confidence misplaced
+     They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast.
+
+       Serene will be our days and bright
+       And happy will our nature be
+       When love is an unerring light,
+       And joy its own security.
+       And they a blissful course may hold
+       Ev'n now who, not unwisely bold,
+       Live in the spirit of this creed;
+     Yet find that other strength, according to their need.
+
+       I, loving freedom, and untried;
+       No sport of every random gust,
+       Yet being to myself a guide,
+       Too blindly have reposed my trust:
+       And oft, when in my heart was heard
+       Thy timely mandate, I deferr'd
+       The task, in smoother walks to stray;
+     But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.
+
+       Through no disturbance of my soul
+       Or strong compunction in me wrought,
+       I supplicate for thy controul,
+       But in the quietness of thought:
+       Me this uncharter'd freedom tires;
+       I feel the weight of chance desires;
+       My hopes no more must change their name;
+     I long for a repose which ever is the same.
+
+       Stern lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
+       The Godhead's most benignant grace;
+       Nor know we anything so fair
+       As is the smile upon thy face:
+       Flowers laugh before thee on their beds,
+       And fragrance in thy footing treads;
+       Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong;
+     And the most ancient Heavens, through thee, are fresh and strong.
+
+       To humbler functions, awful Power!
+       I call thee: I myself commend
+       Unto thy guidance from this hour;
+       O let my weakness have an end!
+       Give unto me, made lowly wise,
+       The spirit of self-sacrifice;
+       The confidence of reason give;
+     And in the light of Truth thy bondman let me live.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     209. ON THE CASTLE OF CHILLON.
+
+     Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind!
+     Brightest in dungeons, Liberty, thou art--
+     For there thy habitation is the heart--
+     The heart which love of Thee alone can bind;
+
+     And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd,
+     To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom,
+     Their country conquers with their martyrdom
+     And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind.
+
+     Chillon! thy prison is a holy place
+     And thy sad floor an altar, for 'twas trod
+     Until his very steps have left a trace
+
+     Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod,
+     By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface!
+     For they appeal from tyranny to God.
+
+     LORD BYRON.
+
+
+
+
+     210. ENGLAND AND SWITZERLAND.
+
+                      1802.
+
+     Two Voices are there; one is of the Sea,
+     One of the Mountains; each a mighty voice:
+     In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,
+     They were thy chosen music, Liberty!
+
+     There came a tyrant, and with holy glee
+     Thou fought'st against him,--but hast vainly striven:
+     Thou from thy Alpine holds at length are driven
+     Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.
+
+     --Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft;
+     Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left--
+     For, high-soul'd Maid, what sorrow would it be
+
+     That Mountain floods should thunder as before,
+     And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
+     And neither awful Voice be heard by Thee!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     211. ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC.
+
+     Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee
+     And was the safeguard of the West; the worth
+     Of Venice did not fall below her birth,
+     Venice, the eldest child of liberty.
+
+     She was a maiden city, bright and free;
+     No guile seduced, no force could violate;
+     And when she took unto herself a mate,
+     She must espouse the everlasting Sea.
+
+     And what if she had seen those glories fade,
+     Those titles vanish, and that strength decay,--
+     Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid
+
+     When her long life hath reach'd its final day:
+     Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade
+     Of that which once was great has pass'd away.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     212. LONDON, MDCCCII.
+
+     O Friend! I know not which way I must look
+     For comfort, being, as I am, opprest
+     To think that now our life is only drest
+     For show; mean handiwork of craftsman, cook,
+
+     Or groom!--We must run glittering like a brook
+     In the open sunshine, or we are unblest;
+     The wealthiest man among us is the best:
+     No grandeur now in Nature or in book
+
+     Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,
+     This is idolatry; and these we adore:
+     Plain living and high thinking are no more:
+
+     The homely beauty of the good old cause
+     Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,
+     And pure religion breathing household laws.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     213. THE SAME.
+
+     Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:
+     England hath need of thee: she is a fen
+     Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
+     Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
+
+     Have forfeited their ancient English dower
+     Of inward happiness. We are selfish men
+     O! raise us up, return to us again;
+     And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
+
+     Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:
+     Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea,
+     Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free;
+
+     So didst thou travel on life's common way
+     In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
+     The lowliest duties on herself did lay.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     214.
+
+     When I have borne in memory what has tamed
+     Great nations; how ennobling thoughts depart
+     When men change swords for ledgers, and desert
+     The student's bower for gold,--some fears unnamed
+
+     I had, my Country!--am I to be blamed?
+     Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art,
+     Verily, in the bottom of my heart
+     Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.
+
+     For dearly must we prize thee; we who find
+     In thee a bulwark of the cause of men;
+     And I by my affection was beguiled:
+
+     What wonder if a Poet now and then,
+     Among the many movements of his mind,
+     Felt for thee as a lover or a child!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     215. HOHENLINDEN.
+
+     On Linden, when the sun was low,
+     All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;
+     And dark as winter was the flow
+        Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
+
+     But Linden saw another sight,
+     When the drum beat at dead of night
+     Commanding fires of death to light
+        The darkness of her scenery.
+
+     By torch and trumpet fast array'd
+     Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
+     And furious every charger neigh'd
+        To join the dreadful revelry.
+
+     Then shook the hills with thunder riven;
+     Then rush'd the steed, to battle driven;
+     And louder than the bolts of Heaven
+        Far flash'd the red artillery.
+
+     But redder yet that light shall glow
+     On Linden's hills of stainéd snow;
+     And bloodier yet the torrent flow
+        Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
+
+     'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun
+     Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
+     Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
+       Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
+
+     The combat deepens. On, ye Brave
+     Who rush to glory, or the grave!
+     Wave, Munich all thy banners wave,
+        And charge with all thy chivalry!
+
+     Few, few shall part, where many meet!
+     The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
+     And every turf beneath their feet
+        Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
+
+     T. CAMPBELL.
+
+
+
+
+     216. AFTER BLENHEIM.
+
+     It was a summer evening,
+       Old Kaspar's work was done,
+     And he before his cottage door
+       Was sitting in the sun;
+     And by him sported on the green
+     His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
+
+     She saw her brother Peterkin
+       Roll something large and round
+     Which he beside the rivulet
+       In playing there had found
+     He came to ask what he had found
+     That was so large and smooth and round.
+
+     Old Kaspar took it from the boy
+       Who stood expectant by;
+     And then the old man shook his head,
+       And with a natural sigh
+     "'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he,
+     "Who fell in the great victory.
+
+     "I find then in the garden,
+       For there's many here about;
+     And often when I go to plough
+       The ploughshare turns them out.
+     For many thousand men," said he,
+     "Were slain in that great victory."
+
+     "Now tell us what 'twas all about,"
+       Young Peterkin he cries;
+     And little Wilhelmine looks up
+       With wonder-waiting eyes;
+     "Now tell us all about the war,
+     And what they fought each other for."
+
+     "It was the English," Kaspar cried,
+       "Who put the French to rout;
+     But what they fought each other for
+       I could not well make out.
+     But every body said," quoth he,
+     "That 'twas a famous victory.
+
+     "My father lived at Blenheim then,
+       Yon little stream hard by;
+     They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
+       And he was forced to fly:
+     So with his wife and child he fled,
+     Nor had he where to rest his head.
+
+     "With fire and sword the country round
+       Was wasted far and wide,
+     And many a childing mother then
+       And newborn baby died:
+     But things like that, you know, must be
+     At every famous victory.
+
+     "They say it was a shocking sight
+       After the field was won;
+     For many thousand bodies here
+       Lay rotting in the sun:
+     But things like that, you know, must be
+     After a famous victory.
+
+     "Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won
+       And our good Prince Eugene";
+     "Why 'twas a very wicked thing!"
+       Said little Wilhelmine;
+     "Nay--nay--my little girl," quoth he,
+     "It was a famous victory.
+
+     And every body praised the Duke
+       Who this great fight did win."
+     "But what good came of it at last?"
+       Quoth little Peterkin:--
+     "Why that I cannot tell," said he,
+     "But 'twas a famous victory."
+
+     R. SOUTHEY.
+
+
+
+
+     217. PRO PATRIA MORI.
+
+     When he who adores thee has left but the name
+       Of his fault and his sorrows behind,
+     O! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame
+       Of a life that for thee was resign'd!
+     Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,
+       Thy tears shall efface their decree;
+     For, Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,
+       I have been but too faithful to thee.
+
+     With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;
+       Every thought of my reason was thine;
+     In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above
+       Thy name shall be mingled with mine!
+     O! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live
+       The days of thy glory to see;
+     But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give
+       Is the pride of thus dying for thee.
+
+     T. MOORE.
+
+
+
+
+     218. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA.
+
+     Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
+       As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;
+     Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
+       O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
+
+     We buried him darkly at dead of night,
+       The sods with our bayonets turning;
+     By the struggling moonbeam's misty light
+       And the lantern dimly burning.
+
+     No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
+       Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him:
+     But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
+       With his martial cloak around him.
+
+     Few and short were the prayers we said
+       And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
+     But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
+       And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
+
+     We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed
+       And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,
+     That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
+       And we far away on the billow!
+
+     Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
+       And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him--
+     But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
+       In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
+
+     But half of our heavy task was done
+       When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
+     And we heard the distant and random gun
+       That the foe was sullenly firing.
+
+     Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
+       From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
+     We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
+       But we left him alone with his glory.
+
+     C. WOLFE.
+
+
+
+
+     219. SIMON LEE THE OLD HUNTSMAN.
+
+     In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
+     Not far from pleasant Ivor Hall,
+     An old man dwells, a little man,
+     I've heard he once was tall.
+     Full five-and-thirty years he lived
+     A running huntsman merry;
+     And still the centre of his cheek
+     Is red as a ripe cherry.
+
+     No man like him the horn could sound,
+     And hill and valley rang with glee,
+     When Echo bandied round and round
+     The halloo of Simon Lee.
+     In those proud days he little cared
+     For husbandry or tillage;
+     To blither tasks did Simon rouse
+     The sleepers of the village.
+
+     He all the country could outrun,
+     Could leave both man and horse behind;
+     And often, ere the chase was done,
+     He reel'd and was stone-blind.
+     And still there's something in the world
+     At which his heart rejoices;
+     For when the chiming hounds are out,
+     He dearly loves their voices.
+
+     But O the heavy change!--bereft
+     Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see
+     Old Simon to the world is left
+     In liveried poverty:
+     His master's dead, and no one now
+     Dwells in the Hall of Ivor;
+     Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;
+     He is the sole survivor.
+
+     And he is lean and he is sick,
+     His body dwindled and awry
+     Rests upon ankles swoln and thick;
+     His legs are thin and dry.
+     He has no son, he has no child;
+     His wife, an aged woman,
+     Lives with him, near the waterfall,
+     Upon the village common.
+
+     Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,
+     Not twenty paces from the door,
+     A scrap of land they have, but they
+     Are poorest of the poor.
+     This scrap of land he from the heath
+     Enclosed when he was stronger;
+     But what avails the land to them
+     Which he can till no longer?
+
+     Oft, working by her husband's side,
+     Ruth does what Simon cannot do;
+     For she, with scanty cause for pride,
+     Is stouter of the two.
+     And, though you with your utmost skill
+     From labour could not wean them,
+     'Tis little, very little, all
+     That they can do between them.
+
+     Few months of life has he in store
+     As he to you will tell,
+     For still, the more he works, the more
+     Do his weak ankles swell.
+     My gentle reader, I perceive
+     How patiently you've waited,
+     And now I fear that you expect
+     Some tale will be related.
+
+     O reader! had you in your mind
+     Such stores as silent thought can bring,
+     O gentle reader! you would find
+     A tale in everything.
+     What more I have to say is short,
+     And you must kindly take it;
+     It is no tale; but, should you think,
+     Perhaps a tale you'll make it.
+
+     One summer-day I chanced to see
+     This old man doing all he could
+     To unearth the root of an old tree,
+     A stump of rotten wood.
+     The mattock totter'd in his hand
+     So vain was his endeavour
+     That at the root of the old tree
+     He might have work'd for ever.
+
+     "You're overtask'd, good Simon Lee,
+     Give me your tool," to him I said;
+     And at the word right gladly he
+     Received my proffer'd aid.
+     I struck, and with a single blow
+     The tangled root I sever'd,
+     At which the poor old man so long
+     And vainly had endeavour'd.
+
+     The tears into his eyes were brought,
+     And thanks and praises seem'd to run
+     So fast out of his heart, I thought
+     They never would have done.
+     --I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds
+     With coldness still returning;
+     Alas! the gratitude of men
+     Has oftener left me mourning.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     220. THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES.
+
+     I have had playmates, I have had companions
+     In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days;
+     All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
+
+     I have been laughing, I have been carousing,
+     Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies;
+     All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
+
+     I loved a Love once, fairest among women:
+     Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her--
+     All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
+
+     I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man:
+     Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;
+     Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.
+
+     Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood,
+     Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse,
+     Seeking to find the old familiar faces.
+
+     Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,
+     Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?
+     So might we talk of the old familiar faces,
+
+     How some they have died, and some they have left me,
+     And some are taken from me; all are departed;
+     All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
+
+     C. LAMB.
+
+
+
+
+     221. THE JOURNEY ONWARDS.
+
+     As slow our ship her foamy track
+      Against the wind was cleaving,
+     Her trembling pennant still look'd back
+      To that dear isle 'twas leaving.
+     So loth we part from all we love,
+      From all the links that bind us;
+     So turn our hearts, as on we rove,
+      To those we've left behind us!
+
+     When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years
+      We talk with joyous seeming--
+     With smiles that might as well be tears,
+      So faint, so sad their beaming;
+     While memory brings us back again
+      Each early tie that twined us,
+     Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then
+      To those we've left behind us!
+
+     And when in other climes, we meet
+      Some isle or vale enchanting,
+     Where all looks flowery wild and sweet,
+      And nought but love is wanting;
+     We think how great had been our bliss
+      If Heaven had but assign'd us
+     To live and die in scenes like this,
+      With some we've left behind us!
+
+     As travellers oft look back at eve
+      When eastward darkly going,
+     To gaze upon that light they leave
+      Still faint behind them glowing,--
+     So, when the close of pleasure's day
+      To gloom hath near consign'd us,
+     We turn to catch our fading ray
+      Of joy that's left behind us.
+
+     T. MOORE.
+
+
+
+
+     222. YOUTH AND AGE.
+
+     There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away
+     When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay;
+     'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone which fades so fast,
+     But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.
+
+     Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness
+     Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess:
+     The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain
+     The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again.
+
+     Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down;
+     It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own;
+     That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears,
+     And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears.
+
+     Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast,
+     Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest;
+     'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe,
+     All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath.
+
+     O could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been,
+     Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanish'd scene,--
+     As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be,
+     So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me!
+
+     LORD BYRON.
+
+
+
+
+     223. A LESSON.
+
+     There is a flower, the Lesser Celandine,
+     That shrinks like many more from cold and rain,
+     And the first moment that the sun may shine,
+     Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again!
+
+     When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm,
+     Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest,
+     Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm
+     In close self-shelter, like a thing at rest.
+
+     But lately, one rough day, this flower I past,
+     And recognised it, though an alter'd form,
+     Now standing forth an offering to the blast,
+     And buffeted at will by rain and storm.
+
+     I stopp'd and said with inly-mutter'd voice,
+     "It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold;
+     This neither is its courage nor its choice,
+     But its necessity in being old.
+
+     "The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew;
+     It cannot help itself in its decay;
+     Stiff in its members, wither'd, changed of hue."
+     And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was gray.
+
+     To be a prodigal's favourite--then, worse truth,
+     A miser's pensioner--behold our lot!
+     O Man! that from thy fair and shining youth
+     Age might but take the things Youth needed not!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     224. PAST AND PRESENT.
+
+     I remember, I remember
+     The house where I was born,
+     The little window where the sun
+     Came peeping in at morn;
+     He never came a wink too soon
+     Nor brought too long a day;
+     But now, I often wish the night
+     Had borne my breath away.
+
+     I remember, I remember
+     The roses, red and white,
+     The violets, and the lily-cups--
+     Those flowers made of light!
+     The lilacs where the robin built,
+     And where my brother set
+     The laburnum on his birthday,--
+     The tree is living yet!
+
+     I remember, I remember
+     Where I was used to swing,
+     And thought the air must rush as fresh
+     To swallows on the wing;
+     My spirit flew in feathers then
+     That is so heavy now,
+     And summer pools could hardly cool
+     The fever on my brow.
+
+     I remember, I remember
+     The fir trees dark and high;
+     I used to think their slender tops
+     Were close against the sky:
+     It was a childish ignorance,
+     But now 'tis little joy
+     To know I'm farther off from Heaven
+     Than when I was a boy.
+
+     T. HOOD.
+
+
+
+
+     225. THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS.
+
+     Oft, in the stilly night,
+      Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
+     Fond Memory brings the light
+      Of other days around me:
+        The smiles, the tears
+        Of boyhood's years,
+      The words of love then spoken;
+        The eyes that shone,
+        Now dimm'd and gone,
+      The cheerful hearts now broken!
+     Thus in the stilly night,
+      Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
+     Sad Memory brings the light
+      Of other days around me.
+
+     When I remember all
+      The friends, so link'd together,
+     I've seen around me fall
+      Like leaves in wintry weather,
+        I feel like one
+        Who treads alone
+      Some banquet-hall deserted,
+        Whose lights are fled,
+        Whose garlands dead,
+      And all but he departed!
+     Thus in the stilly night,
+      Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
+     Sad Memory brings the light
+      Of other days around me.
+
+     T. MOORE.
+
+
+
+
+     226. INVOCATION.
+
+     Rarely, rarely, comest thou,
+       Spirit of Delight!
+     Wherefore hast thou left me now
+       Many a day and night?
+     Many a weary night and day
+     'Tis since thou art fled away.
+
+     How shall ever one like me
+       Win thee back again?
+     With the joyous and the free
+       Thou wilt scoff at pain.
+     Spirit false! thou hast forgot
+     All but those who need thee not.
+
+     As a lizard with the shade
+       Of a trembling leaf,
+     Thou with sorrow art dismay'd;
+       Even the sighs of grief
+     Reproach thee, that thou art not near,
+     And reproach thou wilt not hear.
+
+     Let me set my mournful ditty
+       To a merry measure;--
+     Thou wilt never come for pity,
+       Thou wilt come for pleasure;--
+     Pity then will cut away
+     Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.
+
+     I love all that thou lovest,
+       Spirit of Delight!
+     The fresh Earth in new leaves drest
+       And the starry night;
+     Autumn evening, and the morn
+     When the golden mists are born.
+
+     I love snow, and all the forms
+       Of the radiant frost;
+     I love waves, and winds, and storms,
+       Everything almost
+     Which is Nature's, and may be
+     Untainted by man's misery.
+
+     I love tranquil solitude,
+       And such society
+     As is quiet, wise, and good;
+       Between thee and me
+     What diff'rence? but thou dost possess
+     The things I seek, not love them less.
+
+     I love Love--though he has wings,
+       And like light can flee,
+     But above all other things,
+       Spirit, I love thee--
+     Thou art love and life! O come!
+     Make once more my heart thy home!
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     227. STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES.
+
+         The sun is warm, the sky is clear,
+         The waves are dancing fast and bright,
+         Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
+         The purple noon's transparent light:
+         The breath of the moist air is light
+         Around its unexpanded buds;
+         Like many a voice of one delight--
+         The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods'--
+     The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's.
+
+         I see the Deep's untrampled floor
+         With green and purple sea-weeds strown;
+         I see the waves upon the shore
+         Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown;
+         I sit upon the sands alone;
+         The lightning of the noon-tide ocean
+         Is flashing round me, and a tone
+         Arises from its measured motion--
+     How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.
+
+         Alas! I have nor hope nor health,
+         Nor peace within nor calm around,
+         Nor that Content, surpassing wealth,
+         The sage in meditation found,
+         And walked with inward glory crown'd--
+         Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure;
+         Others I see whom these surround--
+         Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;
+     To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.
+
+         Yet now despair itself is mild
+         Even as the winds and waters are;
+         I could lie down like a tired child,
+         And weep away the life of care
+         Which I have borne, and yet must bear,
+         Till death like sleep might steal on me,
+         And I might feel in the warm air
+         My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
+     Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     228. THE SCHOLAR.
+
+     My days among the Dead are past;
+     Around me I behold,
+     Where'er these casual eyes are cast,
+     The mighty minds of old:
+     My never-failing friends are they,
+     With whom I converse day by day.
+
+     With them I take delight in weal
+     And seek relief in woe;
+     And while I understand and feel
+     How much to them I owe,
+     My cheeks have often been bedew'd
+     With tears of thoughtful gratitude.
+
+     My thoughts are with the Dead; with them
+     I live in long-past years,
+     Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
+     Partake their hopes and fears,
+     And from their lessons seek and find
+     Instruction with an humble mind.
+
+     My hopes are with the Dead; anon
+     My place with them will be,
+     And I with them shall travel on
+     Through all Futurity;
+     Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
+     That will not perish in the dust.
+
+     R. SOUTHEY.
+
+
+
+
+     229. THE MERMAID TAVERN.
+
+     Souls of Poets dead and gone
+     What Elysium have ye known,
+     Happy field or mossy cavern,
+     Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
+     Have ye tippled drink more fine
+     Than mine host's Canary wine?
+     Or are fruits of Paradise
+     Sweeter than those dainty pies
+     Of Venison? O generous food!
+     Drest as though bold Robin Hood
+     Would, with his Maid Marian,
+     Sup and browse from horn and can.
+
+       I have heard that on a day
+     Mine host's signboard flew away
+     Nobody knew whither, till
+     An astrologer's old quill
+     To a sheepskin gave the story--
+     Said he saw you in your glory
+     Underneath a new-old Sign
+     Sipping beverage divine,
+     And pledging with contented smack
+     The Mermaid in the Zodiac!
+       Souls of poets dead and gone
+     What Elysium have ye known--
+     Happy field or mossy cavern--
+     Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
+
+     J. KEATS.
+
+
+
+
+     230. THE PRIDE OF YOUTH.
+
+     Proud Maisie is in the wood,
+      Walking so early;
+     Sweet Robin sits on the bush,
+      Singing so rarely.
+
+     "Tell me, thou bonny bird,
+      When shall I marry me?"
+     --"When six braw gentlemen
+      Kirkward shall carry ye."
+
+     "Who makes the bridal bed,
+      Birdie, say truly?"
+     --"The gray-headed sexton
+      That delves the grave duly.
+
+     "The glowworm o'er grave and stone
+      Shall light thee steady;
+     The owl from the steeple sing
+      Welcome, proud lady!"
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT.
+
+
+
+
+     231. THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.
+
+         One more Unfortunate
+         Weary of breath
+         Rashly importunate,
+         Gone to her death!
+
+         Take her up tenderly,
+         Lift her with care;
+         Fashion'd so slenderly
+         Young, and so fair!
+
+         Look at her garments
+         Clinging like cerements;
+         Whilst the wave constantly
+         Drips from her clothing;
+         Take her up instantly,
+         Loving, not loathing.
+
+         Touch her not scornfully;
+         Think of her mournfully,
+         Gently and humanly;
+         Not of the stains of her--
+         All that remains of her
+         Now is pure womanly.
+
+         Make no deep scrutiny
+         Into her mutiny
+         Rash and undutiful:
+         Past all dishonour,
+         Death has left on her
+         Only the beautiful.
+
+         Still, for all slips of hers,
+         One of Eve's family--
+         Wipe those poor lips of hers
+         Oozing so clammily.
+
+         Loop up her tresses
+         Escaped from the comb,
+         Her fair auburn tresses;
+         Whilst wonderment guesses
+         Where was her home?
+
+         Who was her father?
+         Who was her mother?
+         Had she a sister?
+         Had she a brother?
+         Or was there a dearer one
+         Still, and a nearer one
+         Yet, than all other?
+
+         Alas! for the rarity
+         Of Christian charity
+         Under the sun!
+         O! it was pitiful!
+         Near a whole city full,
+         Home she had none.
+
+         Sisterly, brotherly,
+         Fatherly, motherly
+         Feelings had changed:
+         Love, by harsh evidence,
+         Thrown from its eminence;
+         Even God's providence
+         Seeming estranged.
+
+         Where the lamps quiver
+         So far in the river,
+         With many a light
+         From window and casement,
+         From garret to basement,
+         She stood, with amazement,
+         Houseless by night.
+
+         The bleak wind of March
+         Made her tremble and shiver;
+         But not the dark arch,
+         Or the black flowing river:
+         Mad from life's history,
+         Glad to death's mystery,
+         Swift to be hurl'd--
+         Any where, any where
+         Out of the world!
+
+         In she plunged boldly,
+         No matter how coldly
+         The rough river ran,
+         Over the brink of it,--
+         Picture it, think of it,
+         Dissolute Man!
+         Lave in it, drink of it,
+         Then, if you can!
+
+         Take her up tenderly,
+         Lift her with care;
+         Fashion'd so slenderly,
+         Young, and so fair!
+
+         Ere her limbs frigidly
+         Stiffen too rigidly,
+         Decently, kindly,
+         Smooth and compose them;
+         And her eyes, close them,
+         Staring so blindly!
+
+         Dreadfully staring
+         Thro' muddy impurity,
+         As when with the daring
+         Last look of despairing
+         Fix'd on futurity.
+
+         Perishing gloomily,
+         Spurr'd by contumely,
+         Cold inhumanity,
+         Burning insanity,
+         Into her rest.
+         --Cross her hands humbly
+         As if praying dumbly,
+         Over her breast!
+
+         Owning her weakness,
+         Her evil behaviour,
+         And leaving, with meekness,
+         Her sins to her Saviour!
+
+     T. HOOD.
+
+
+
+
+     232. ELEGY.
+
+       O snatch'd away in beauty's bloom!
+       On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;
+       But on thy turf shall roses rear
+       Their leaves, the earliest of the year,
+     And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:
+
+       And oft by yon blue gushing stream
+       Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,
+       And feed deep thought with many a dream,
+       And lingering pause and lightly tread;
+     Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead!
+
+       Away! we know that tears are vain,
+       That Death nor heeds nor hears distress:
+       Will this unteach us to complain?
+       Or make one mourner weep the less?
+       And thou, who tell'st me to forget,
+     Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.
+
+     LORD BYRON.
+
+
+
+
+     233. HESTER.
+
+     When maidens such as Hester die
+     Their place ye may not well supply,
+     Though ye among a thousand try
+            With vain endeavour.
+     A month or more hath she been dead,
+     Yet cannot I by force be led
+     To think upon the wormy bed
+            And her together.
+
+     A springy motion in her gait,
+     A rising step, did indicate
+     Of pride and joy no common rate,
+            That flush'd her spirit:
+     I know not by what name beside
+     I shall it call: if 'twas not pride,
+     It was a joy to that allied,
+            She did inherit.
+
+     Her parents held the Quaker rule
+     Which doth the human feeling cool;
+     But she was train'd in Nature's school;
+            Nature had blest her.
+     A waking eye, a prying mind;
+     A heart that stirs, is hard to bind;
+     A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind;
+            Ye could not Hester.
+
+     My sprightly neighbour! gone before
+     To that unknown and silent shore,
+     Shall we not meet, as heretofore
+            Some summer morning--
+     When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
+     Hath struck a bliss upon the day,
+     A bliss that would not go away,
+            A sweet fore-warning?
+
+     C. LAMB.
+
+
+
+
+     234. CORONACH.
+
+     He is gone on the mountain,
+       He is lost to the forest
+     Like a summer-dried fountain,
+       When our need was the sorest.
+     The fount reappearing
+       From the raindrops shall borrow,
+     But to us comes no cheering,
+       To Duncan no morrow!
+
+     The hand of the reaper
+       Take the ears that are hoary,
+     But the voice of the weeper
+       Wails manhood in glory.
+     The autumn winds rushing
+       Waft the leaves that are serest,
+     But our flower was in flushing
+       When blighting was nearest.
+
+     Fleet foot on the correi,
+       Sage counsel in cumber,
+     Red hand in the foray,
+       How sound is thy slumber!
+     Like the dew on the mountain,
+       Like the foam on the river,
+     Like the bubble on the fountain,
+       Thou art gone, and for ever!
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT.
+
+
+
+
+     235. THE DEATH BED.
+
+     We watch'd her breathing thro' the night,
+      Her breathing soft and low,
+     As in her breast the wave of life
+      Kept heaving to and fro.
+
+     But when the morn came dim and sad
+      And chill with early showers,
+     Her quiet eyelids closed--she had
+      Another morn than ours.
+
+     T. HOOD.
+
+
+
+
+     236. ROSABELLE.
+
+     O listen, listen, ladies gay!
+      No haughty feat of arms I tell;
+     Soft is the note, and sad the lay
+      That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.
+
+     "Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew,
+      And, gentle lady, deign to stay!
+     Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,
+      Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.
+
+     "The blackening wave is edged with white;
+      To inch and rock the sea-mews fly;
+     The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite,
+      Whose screams forbode that wreck is nigh.
+
+     "Last night the gifted Seer did view
+      A wet shroud swathed round lady gay;
+     Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch;
+      Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?
+
+     "'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir
+      To-night at Roslin leads the ball,
+     But that my lady-mother there
+      Sits lonely in her castle-hall.
+
+     "'Tis not because the ring they ride,
+      And Lindesay at the ring rides well,
+     But that my sire the wine will chide
+      If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle."
+
+     --O'er Roslin all that dreary night
+      A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;
+     'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light,
+      And redder than the bright moonbeam.
+
+     It glared on Roslin's castled rock,
+      It ruddied all the copse-wood glen;
+     'Twas seen from Dryden's grove of oak,
+      And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.
+
+     Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud
+      Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie,
+     Each baron, for a sabled shroud,
+      Sheathed in his iron panoply.
+
+     Seem'd all on fire within, around,
+      Deep sacristy and altar's pale;
+     Shone every pillar foliage-bound,
+      And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail.
+
+     Blazed battlement and pinnet high,
+      Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair--
+     So still they blaze, when fate is nigh
+      The lordly line of high Saint Clair.
+
+     There are twenty of Roslin's baron's bold
+      Lie buried within that proud chapelle;
+     Each one the holy vault doth hold,
+      But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle!
+
+     And each Saint Clair was buried there
+      With candle, with book, and with knell;
+     But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung
+      The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT.
+
+
+
+
+     237. ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN.
+
+     I saw where in the shroud did lurk
+     A curious frame of Nature's work;
+     A flow'ret crushéd in the bud,
+     A nameless piece of Babyhood
+     Was in her cradle-coffin lying;
+     Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying:
+     So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb
+     For darker closets of the tomb!
+     She did but ope an eye, and put
+     A clear beam forth, then straight up shut
+     For the long dark: ne'er more to see
+     Through glasses of mortality.
+     Riddle of destiny, who can show
+     What thy short visit meant, or know
+     What thy errand here below?
+     Shall we say, that Nature blind
+     Check'd her hand, and changed her mind
+     Just when she had exactly wrought
+     A finish'd pattern without fault?
+     Could she flag, or could she tire,
+     Or lack'd she the Promethean fire
+     (With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd)
+     That should thy little limbs have quicken'd?
+     Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure
+     Life of health, and days mature:
+     Woman's self in miniature!
+     Limbs so fair, they might supply
+     (Themselves now but cold imagery)
+     The sculptor to make Beauty by.
+     Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry
+     That babe or mother, one must die;
+     So in mercy left the stock
+     And cut the branch; to save the shock
+     Of young years widow'd, and the pain
+     When Single State comes back again
+     To the lone man who, reft of wife,
+     Thenceforward drags a maiméd life?
+     The economy of Heaven is dark,
+     And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark
+     Why human buds, like this, should fall,
+     More brief than fly ephemeral
+     That has his day; while shrivell'd crones
+     Stiffen with age to stocks and stones;
+     And crabbéd use the conscience sears
+     In sinners of an hundred years.
+     --Mother's prattle, mother's kiss,
+     Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss:
+     Rites, which custom does impose,
+     Silver bells, and baby clothes;
+     Coral redder than those lips
+     Which pale death did late eclipse;
+     Music framed for infants' glee,
+     Whistle never tuned for thee;
+     Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them,
+     Loving hearts were they which gave them.
+     Let not one be missing; nurse,
+     See them laid upon the hearse
+     Of infant slain by doom perverse.
+     Why should kings and nobles have
+     Pictured trophies to their grave,
+     And we, churls, to thee deny
+     Thy pretty toys with thee to lie--
+     A more harmless vanity?
+
+     C. LAMB.
+
+
+
+
+     238. THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET.
+
+     Where art thou, my beloved Son,
+     Where art thou, worse to me than dead!
+     Oh find me, prosperous or undone!
+     Or if the grave be now thy bed,
+     Why am I ignorant of the same
+     That I may rest; and neither blame
+     Nor sorrow may attend thy name?
+
+     Seven years, alas! to have received
+     No tidings of an only child--
+     To have despair'd, have hoped, believed,
+     And be for evermore beguiled,--
+     Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss!
+     I catch at them, and then I miss;
+     Was ever darkness like to this?
+
+     He was among the prime in worth,
+     An object beauteous to behold;
+     Well born, well bred; I sent him forth
+     Ingenuous, innocent, and bold:
+     If things ensued that wanted grace,
+     As hath been said, they were not base;
+     And never blush was on my face.
+
+     Ah! little doth the young-one dream,
+     When full of play and childish cares,
+     What power is in his wildest scream,
+     Heard by his mother unawares!
+     He knows it not, he cannot guess:
+     Years to a mother bring distress;
+     But do not make her love the less.
+
+     Neglect me! no, I suffer'd long
+     From that ill thought; and being blind
+     Said, "Pride shall help me in my wrong:
+     Kind mother have I been, as kind
+     As ever breathed": and that is true;
+     I've wet my path with tears like dew,
+     Weeping for him when no one knew.
+
+     My Son, if thou be humbled, poor,
+     Hopeless of honour and of gain,
+     O! do not dread thy mother's door,
+     Think not of me with grief and pain:
+     I now can see with better eyes;
+     And worldly grandeur I despise
+     And fortune with her gifts and lies.
+
+     Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings
+     And blasts of heaven will aid their flight;
+     They mount--how short a voyage brings
+     The wanderers back to their delight!
+     Chains tie us down by land and sea;
+     And wishes, vain as mine, may be
+     All that is left to comfort thee.
+
+     Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan
+     Maim'd, mangled by inhuman men;
+     Or thou upon a desert thrown
+     Inheritest the lion's den;
+     Or hast been summoned to the deep,
+     Thou, thou, and all thy mates, to keep
+     An incommunicable sleep.
+
+     I look for ghosts: but none will force
+     Their way to me; 'tis falsely said
+     That there was ever intercourse
+     Between the living and the dead;
+     For surely then I should have sight
+     Of him I wait for day and night
+     With love and longings infinite.
+
+     My apprehensions come in crowds;
+     I dread the rustling of the grass;
+     The very shadows of the clouds
+     Have power to shake me as they pass;
+     I question things, and do not find
+     One that will answer to my mind;
+     And all the world appears unkind.
+
+     Beyond participation lie
+     My troubles, and beyond relief:
+     If any chance to heave a sigh
+     They pity me, and not my grief.
+     Then come to me, my Son, or send
+     Some tidings that my woes may end!
+     I have no other earthly friend.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     239. HUNTING SONG.
+
+     Waken, lords and ladies gay,
+     On the mountain dawns the day;
+     All the jolly chase is here
+     With hawk and horse and hunting-spear;
+     Hounds are in their couples yelling,
+     Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,
+     Merrily merrily mingle they,
+     "Waken, lords and ladies gay."
+
+     Waken, lords and ladies gay,
+     The mist has left the mountains gray,
+     Springlets in the dawn are streaming,
+     Diamonds on the brake are gleaming,
+     And foresters have busy been
+     To track the buck in thicket green;
+     Now we come to chant our lay
+     "Waken, lords and ladies gay."
+
+     Waken, lords and ladies gay,
+     To the greenwood haste away;
+     We can show you where he lies,
+     Fleet of foot and tall of size;
+     We can show the marks he made
+     When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd;
+     You shall see him brought to bay;
+     "Waken, lords and ladies gay."
+
+     Louder, louder chant the lay
+     Waken, lords and ladies gay!
+     Tell them youth and mirth and glee
+     Run a course as well as we;
+     Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk,
+     Staunch as hound and fleet as hawk;
+     Think of this, and rise with day
+     Gentle lords and ladies gay!
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT.
+
+
+
+
+     240. TO THE SKYLARK.
+
+     Ethereal Minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!
+     Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?
+     Or while the wings aspire, are heart and eye
+     Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
+     Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will,
+     Those quivering wings composed, that music still!
+
+     To the last point of vision, and beyond,
+     Mount, daring warbler!--that love-prompted strain
+     --'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond--
+     Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain:
+     Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing
+     All independent of the leafy Spring.
+
+     Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;
+     A privacy of glorious light is thine;
+     Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood
+     Of harmony, with instinct more divine;
+     Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam--
+     True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     241. TO A SKYLARK.
+
+             Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
+               Bird thou never wert,
+             That from heaven, or near it
+               Pourest thy full heart
+     In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
+
+             Higher still and higher
+               From the earth thou springest,
+             Like a cloud of fire;
+               The blue deep thou wingest,
+     And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
+
+             In the golden lightning
+               Of the sunken sun
+             O'er which clouds are brightening,
+               Thou dost float and run,
+     Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
+
+             The pale purple even
+               Melts around thy flight;
+             Like a star of heaven
+               In the broad daylight
+     Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight:
+
+             Keen as are the arrows
+               Of that silver sphere,
+             Whose intense lamp narrows
+               In the white dawn clear
+     Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.
+
+             All the earth and air
+               With thy voice is loud,
+             As, when night is bare,
+               From one lonely cloud
+     The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd.
+
+             What thou art we know not;
+               What is most like thee?
+             From rainbow clouds there flow not
+               Drops so bright to see
+     As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
+
+             Like a poet hidden
+               In the light of thought,
+             Singing hymns unbidden
+               Till the world is wrought
+     To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
+
+             Like a high-born maiden
+               In a palace tower,
+             Soothing her love-laden
+               Soul in secret hour
+     With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:
+
+             Like a glow-worm golden
+               In a dell of dew,
+             Scattering unbeholden
+               Its aerial hue
+     Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:
+
+             Like a rose embower'd
+               In its own green leaves,
+             By warm winds deflower'd,
+               Till the scent it gives
+     Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-wingéd thieves.
+
+             Sound of vernal showers
+               On the twinkling grass,
+             Rain-awaken'd flowers,
+               All that ever was
+     Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.
+
+             Teach us, sprite or bird,
+               What sweet thoughts are thine:
+             I have never heard
+               Praise of love or wine
+     That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
+
+             Chorus hymeneal
+               Or triumphal chaunt
+             Match'd with thine, would be all
+               But an empty vaunt--
+     A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
+
+             What objects are the fountains
+               Of thy happy strain?
+             What fields, or waves, or mountains?
+               What shapes of sky or plain?
+     What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?
+
+             With thy clear keen joyance
+               Languor cannot be:
+             Shadow of annoyance
+               Never came near thee:
+     Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
+
+             Waking or asleep
+               Thou of death must deem
+             Things more true and deep
+               Than we mortals dream,
+     Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
+
+             We look before and after,
+               And pine for what is not:
+             Our sincerest laughter
+               With some pain is fraught;
+     Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
+
+             Yet if we could scorn
+               Hate, and pride, and fear;
+             If we were things born
+               Not to shed a tear,
+     I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
+
+             Better than all measures
+               Of delightful sound,
+             Better than all treasures
+               That in books are found,
+     Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
+
+             Teach me half the gladness
+               That thy brain must know,
+             Such harmonious madness
+               From my lips would flow
+     The world should listen then, as I am listening now!
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     242. THE GREEN LINNET.
+
+     Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed
+     Their snow white blossoms on my head,
+     With brightest sunshine round me spread
+     Of Spring's unclouded weather,
+     In this sequester'd nook how sweet
+     To sit upon my orchard-seat!
+     And birds and flowers once more to greet,
+     My last year's friends together.
+
+     One have I mark'd, the happiest guest
+     In all this covert of the blest:
+     Hail to Thee, far above the rest
+     In joy of voice and pinion!
+     Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,
+     Presiding Spirit here to-day
+     Dost lead the revels of the May,
+     And this is thy dominion.
+
+     While birds, and butterflies, and flowers
+     Make all one band of paramours,
+     Thou, ranging up and down the bowers
+     Art sole in thy employment;
+     A Life, a Presence like the air,
+     Scattering thy gladness without care,
+     Too blest with any one to pair;
+     Thyself thy own enjoyment.
+
+     Amid yon tuft of hazel trees,
+     That twinkle to the gusty breeze,
+     Behold him perch'd in ecstasies,
+     Yet seeming still to hover;
+     There, where the flutter of his wings
+     Upon his back and body flings
+     Shadows and sunny glimmerings,
+     That cover him all over.
+
+     My dazzled sight he oft deceives--
+     A brother of the dancing leaves;
+     Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves
+     Pours forth his song in gushes,
+     As if by that exulting strain
+     He mock'd and treated with disdain
+     The voiceless Form he chose to feign
+     While fluttering in the bushes.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     243. TO THE CUCKOO.
+
+       O blithe new-comer! I have heard,
+       I hear thee and rejoice:
+       O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird,
+       Or but a wandering Voice?
+
+       While I am lying on the grass
+       Thy twofold shout I hear;
+       From hill to hill it seems to pass,
+       At once far off and near.
+
+       Though babbling only to the vale
+       Of sunshine and of flowers,
+       Thou bringest unto me a tale
+       Of visionary hours.
+
+       Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
+       Even yet thou art to me
+       No bird, but an invisible thing,
+       A voice, a mystery;
+
+       The same whom in my school-boy days
+       I listen'd to; that Cry
+       Which made me look a thousand ways
+       In bush, and tree, and sky.
+
+       To seek thee did I often rove
+       Through woods and on the green;
+       And thou wert still a hope, a love;
+       Still long'd for, never seen!
+
+       And I can listen to thee yet;
+       Can lie upon the plain
+       And listen, till I do beget
+       That golden time again.
+
+       O blesséd bird! the earth we pace
+       Again appears to be
+       An unsubstantial, fairy place;
+       That is fit home for Thee!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     244. ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE.
+
+     My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
+      My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
+     Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
+      One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
+     'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
+      But being too happy in thine happiness,--
+       That thou, light-wingéd Dryad of the trees,
+          In some melodious plot
+      Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
+       Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
+
+     O for a draught of vintage, that hath been
+      Cool'd a long age in the deep-delvéd earth,
+     Tasting of Flora and the country-green,
+      Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
+     O for a beaker full of the warm South,
+      Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
+       With beaded bubbles winking at the brim
+          And purple-stainéd mouth;
+      That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
+       And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
+
+     Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
+      What thou among the leaves hast never known,
+     The weariness, the fever, and the fret
+      Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
+     Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
+      Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
+       Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
+          And leaden-eyed despairs;
+      Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
+       Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
+
+     Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
+      Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
+     But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
+      Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
+     Already with thee! tender is the night,
+      And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
+       Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
+          But here there is no light
+      Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
+       Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
+
+     I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
+      Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
+     But, in embalméd darkness, guess each sweet
+      Wherewith the seasonable month endows
+     The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
+      White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
+       Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
+          And mid-May's eldest child,
+      The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
+       The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
+
+     Darkling I listen; and for many a time
+      I have been half in love with easeful Death,
+     Call'd him soft names in many a muséd rhyme,
+      To take into the air my quiet breath;
+     Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
+      To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
+       While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
+          In such an ecstasy!
+      Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain--
+       To thy high requiem become a sod.
+
+     Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
+      No hungry generations tread thee down;
+     The voice I hear this passing night was heard
+      In ancient days by emperor and clown:
+     Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
+      Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
+       She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
+          The same that oft-times hath
+      Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
+       Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
+
+     Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
+      To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
+     Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
+      As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
+     Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
+      Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
+       Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
+          In the next valley-glades:
+      Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
+       Fled is that music:--do I wake or sleep?
+
+     J. KEATS.
+
+
+
+
+     245. UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE.
+
+              _Sept._ 3, 1802.
+
+     Earth has not anything to show more fair:
+     Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
+     A sight so touching in its majesty:
+     This City now doth like a garment wear
+     The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
+     Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
+     Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
+     All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
+
+     Never did sun more beautifully steep
+     In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;
+     Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
+
+     The river glideth at his own sweet will:
+     Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
+     And all that mighty heart is lying still!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     246. OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT.
+
+     I met a traveller from an antique land
+     Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
+     Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand
+     Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
+     And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
+     Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
+     Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
+     The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed;
+     And on the pedestal these words appear:
+     "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
+     Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
+     Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
+     Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
+     The lone and level sands stretch far away.
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     247. COMPOSED AT NEIDPATH CASTLE, THE PROPERTY OF LORD QUEENSBERRY,
+          1803.
+
+     Degenerate Douglas! O the unworthy lord!
+     Whom mere despite of heart could so far please
+     And love of havoc (for with such disease
+     Fame taxes him) that he could send forth word
+
+     To level with the dust a noble horde,
+     A brotherhood of venerable trees,
+     Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like these
+     Beggar'd and outraged!--Many hearts deplored
+
+     The fate of those old trees; and oft with pain
+     The traveller at this day will stop and gaze
+     On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed:
+
+     For shelter'd places, bosoms, nooks, and bays,
+     And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed,
+     And the green silent pastures, yet remain.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     248. ADMONITION TO A TRAVELLER.
+
+     Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!
+     --The lovely cottage in the guardian nook
+     Hath stirr'd thee deeply; with its own dear brook,
+     Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!
+
+     But covet not the abode--O do not sigh
+     As many do, repining while they look;
+     Intruders who would tear from Nature's book
+     This precious leaf with harsh impiety:
+
+     --Think what the home would be if it were thine,
+     Even thine, though few thy wants!--Roof, window, door,
+     The very flowers are sacred to the Poor,
+
+     The roses to the porch which they entwine:
+     Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the day
+     On which it should be touch'd would melt away!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     249. TO THE HIGHLAND GIRL OF INVERSNEYDE.
+
+     Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower
+     Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
+     Twice seven consenting years have shed
+     Their utmost bounty on thy head:
+     And these grey rocks, this household lawn,
+     These trees--a veil just half withdrawn,
+     This fall of water that doth make
+     A murmur near the silent lake,
+     This little bay, a quiet road
+     That holds in shelter thy abode;
+     In truth together ye do seem
+     Like something fashion'd in a dream;
+     Such forms as from their covert peep
+     When earthly cares are laid asleep!
+     But, O fair Creature! in the light
+     Of common day, so heavenly bright,
+     I bless Thee, Vision as thou art,
+     I bless thee with a human heart;
+     God shield thee to thy latest years!
+     I neither know thee nor thy peers:
+     And yet my eyes are fill'd with tears.
+
+     With earnest feeling I shall pray
+     For thee when I am far away;
+     For never saw I mien or face
+     In which more plainly I could trace
+     Benignity and home-bred sense
+     Ripening in perfect innocence.
+     Here scatter'd like a random seed,
+     Remote from men, Thou dost not need
+     The embarrass'd look of shy distress,
+     And maidenly shamefacedness:
+     Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear
+     The freedom of a mountaineer:
+     A face with gladness overspread,
+     Soft smiles, by human kindness bred;
+     And seemliness complete, that sways
+     Thy courtesies, about thee plays;
+     With no restraint, but such as springs
+     From quick and eager visitings
+     Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach
+     Of thy few words of English speech:
+     A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strife
+     That gives thy gestures grace and life!
+     So have I, not unmoved in mind,
+     Seen birds of tempest-loving kind,
+     Thus beating up against the wind.
+
+     What hand but would a garland cull
+     For thee who art so beautiful?
+     O happy pleasure! here to dwell
+     Beside thee in some heathy dell;
+     Adopt your homely ways and dress,
+     A shepherd, thou a shepherdess!
+     But I could frame a wish for thee
+     More like a grave reality:
+     Thou art to me but as a wave
+     Of the wild sea: and I would have
+     Some claim upon thee, if I could,
+     Though but of common neighbourhood.
+     What joy to hear thee, and to see!
+     Thy elder brother I would be,
+     Thy father, anything to thee.
+
+     Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace
+     Hath led me to this lonely place.
+     Joy have I had; and going hence
+     I bear away my recompense.
+     In spots like these it is we prize
+     Our memory, feel that she hath eyes:
+     Then why should I be loth to stir?
+     I feel this place was made for her;
+     To give new pleasure like the past,
+     Continued long as life shall last.
+     Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart,
+     Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part;
+     For I, methinks, till I grow old
+     As fair before me shall behold
+     As I do now, the cabin small,
+     The lake, the bay, the waterfall;
+     And Thee, the spirit of them all!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     250. THE REAPER.
+
+     Behold her, single in the field,
+     Yon solitary Highland Lass!
+     Reaping and singing by herself;
+     Stop here, or gently pass!
+     Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
+     And sings a melancholy strain;
+     O listen! for the vale profound
+     Is overflowing with the sound.
+
+     No nightingale did ever chaunt
+     More welcome notes to weary bands
+     Of travellers in some shady haunt,
+     Among Arabian sands:
+     No sweeter voice was ever heard
+     In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,
+     Breaking the silence of the seas
+     Among the farthest Hebrides.
+
+     Will no one tell me what she sings?
+     Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
+     For old, unhappy, far-off things,
+     And battles long ago:
+     Or is it some more humble lay,
+     Familiar matter of to-day?
+     Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
+     That has been, and may be again?
+
+     Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
+     As if her song could have no ending;
+     I saw her singing at her work,
+     And o'er the sickle bending;
+     I listen'd till I had my fill;
+     And, as I mounted up the hill,
+     The music in my heart I bore
+     Long after it was heard no more.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     251. THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN.
+
+     At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears
+     Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:
+     Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot, and has heard
+     In the silence of morning the song of the bird.
+
+     'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees
+     A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
+     Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
+     And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
+
+     Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale
+     Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail;
+     And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,
+     The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.
+
+     She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade
+     The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;
+     The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
+     And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     252. TO A LADY, WITH A GUITAR.
+
+     Ariel to Miranda:--Take
+     This slave of music, for the sake
+     Of him who is the slave of thee;
+     And teach it all the harmony
+     In which thou canst, and only thou,
+     Make the delighted spirit glow,
+     Till joy denies itself again
+     And, too intense, is turn'd to pain;
+     For by permission and command
+     Of thine own Prince Ferdinand,
+     Poor Ariel sends this silent token
+     Of more than ever can be spoken;
+     Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who
+     From life to life, must still pursue
+     Your happiness, for thus alone
+     Can Ariel ever find his own;
+     From Prospero's enchanted cell,
+     As the mighty verses tell,
+     To the throne of Naples he
+     Lit you o'er the trackless sea,
+     Flitting on, your prow before,
+     Like a living meteor.
+     When you die, the silent Moon,
+     In her interlunar swoon
+     Is not sadder in her cell
+     Than deserted Ariel;
+     When you live again on earth,
+     Like an unseen Star of birth
+     Ariel guides you o'er the sea
+     Of life from your nativity:--
+     Many changes have been run
+     Since Ferdinand and you begun
+     Your course of love, and Ariel still
+     Has track'd your steps and served your will.
+     Now in humbler, happier lot,
+     This is all remember'd not;
+     And now, alas! the poor sprite is
+     Imprison'd for some fault of his
+     In a body like a grave--
+     From you he only dares to crave
+     For his service and his sorrow
+     A smile to-day, a song to-morrow.
+
+     The artist who this viol wrought
+     To echo all harmonious thought,
+     Fell'd a tree, while on the steep
+     The woods were in their winter sleep,
+     Rock'd in that repose divine
+     On the wind-swept Apennine;
+     And dreaming, some of autumn past,
+     And some of spring approaching fast,
+     And some of April buds and showers,
+     And some of songs in July bowers,
+     And all of love; and so this tree,--
+     O that such our death may be!--
+     Died in sleep, and felt no pain,
+     To live in happier form again:
+     From which, beneath Heaven's fairest star,
+     The artist wrought this loved Guitar;
+     And taught it justly to reply
+     To all who question skilfully
+     In language gentle as thine own;
+     Whispering in enamour'd tone
+     Sweet oracles of woods and dells,
+     And summer winds in sylvan cells;
+     --For it had learnt all harmonies
+     Of the plains and of the skies,
+     Of the forests and the mountains,
+     And the many-voicéd fountains;
+     The clearest echoes of the hills,
+     The softest notes of falling rills,
+     The melodies of birds and bees,
+     The murmuring of summer seas,
+     And pattering rain, and breathing dew,
+     And airs of evening; and it knew
+     That seldom-heard mysterious sound
+     Which, driven on its diurnal round,
+     As it floats through boundless day,
+     Our world enkindles on its way:
+     --All this it knows, but will not tell
+     To those who cannot question well
+     The spirit that inhabits it;
+     It talks according to the wit
+     Of its companions; and no more
+     Is heard than has been felt before
+     By those who tempt it to betray
+     These secrets of an elder day:
+     But, sweetly as its answers will
+     Flatter hands of perfect skill,
+     It keeps its highest holiest tone
+     For one beloved Friend alone.
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     253. THE DAFFODILS.
+
+       I wander'd lonely as a cloud
+       That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
+       When all at once I saw a crowd,
+       A host of golden daffodils,
+       Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
+       Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
+
+       Continuous as the stars that shine
+       And twinkle on the milky way,
+       They stretch'd in never-ending line
+       Along the margin of a bay:
+       Ten thousand saw I at a glance
+       Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
+
+       The waves beside them danced; but they
+       Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:--
+       A Poet could not but be gay
+       In such a jocund company!
+       I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
+       What wealth the show to me had brought;
+
+       For oft, when on my couch I lie
+       In vacant or in pensive mood,
+       They flash upon that inward eye
+       Which is the bliss of solitude;
+       And then my heart with pleasure fills,
+       And dances with the daffodils.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     254. TO THE DAISY.
+
+       With little here to do or see
+       Of things that in the great world be,
+       Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee
+           For thou art worthy,
+       Thou unassuming commonplace
+       Of Nature, with that homely face,
+       And yet with something of a grace,
+           Which love makes for thee!
+
+       Oft on the dappled turf at ease
+       I sit and play with similes,
+       Loose types of things through all degrees,
+           Thoughts of thy raising;
+       And many a fond and idle name
+       I give to thee, for praise or blame,
+       As is the humour of the game,
+           While I am gazing.
+
+       A nun demure, of lowly port;
+       Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court,
+       In thy simplicity the sport
+           Of all temptations;
+       A queen in crown of rubies drest;
+       A starveling in a scanty vest;
+       Are all, as seem to suit thee best,
+           Thy appellations.
+
+       A little Cyclops, with one eye
+       Staring to threaten and defy,
+       That thought comes next--and instantly
+           The freak is over,
+       The shape will vanish, and behold!
+       A silver shield with boss of gold
+       That spreads itself, some fairy bold
+           In fight to cover.
+
+       I see thee glittering from afar--
+       And then thou art a pretty star,
+       Not quite so fair as many are
+           In heaven above thee!
+       Yet like a star, with glittering crest,
+       Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest;--
+       May peace come never to his nest,
+           Who shall reprove thee!
+
+       Sweet Flower! for by that name at last
+       When all my reveries are past
+       I call thee and to that cleave fast,
+           Sweet silent Creature!
+       That breath'st with me in sun and air,
+       Do thou, as thou art wont, repair
+       My heart with gladness, and a share
+           Of thy meek nature!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     255. ODE TO AUTUMN.
+
+     Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
+     Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
+     Conspiring with him how to load and bless
+     With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
+     To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
+     And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
+     To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
+     With a sweet kernel; to set budding more
+     And still more, later flowers for the bees,
+     Until they think warm days will never cease;
+     For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.
+
+     Who hath not seen Thee oft amid thy store?
+     Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
+     Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
+     Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
+     Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
+     Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
+     Spares the next swath and all its twinéd flowers;
+     And sometime like a gleaner thou dost keep
+     Steady thy laden head across a brook;
+     Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
+     Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
+
+     Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
+     Think not of them,--thou hast thy music too,
+     While barréd clouds bloom the soft-dying day
+     And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
+     Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
+     Among the river sallows, borne aloft
+     Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
+     And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
+     Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft
+     The redbreast whistles from a garden croft;
+     And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
+
+     J. KEATS.
+
+
+
+
+     256. ODE TO WINTER.
+
+          _Germany_, _December_, 1800.
+
+     When first the fiery mantled Sun
+     His heavenly race began to run,
+     Round the earth and ocean blue
+     His children four the Seasons flew:--
+      First, in green apparel dancing,
+     The young Spring smiled with angel-grace;
+      Rosy Summer next advancing,
+     Rush'd into her sire's embrace--
+     Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep
+      For ever nearest to his smiles,
+     On Calpe's olive-shaded steep
+      Or India's citron-cover'd isles.
+     More remote and buxom-brown,
+      The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne;
+     A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown,
+      A ripe sheaf bound her zone.
+
+     But howling Winter fled afar
+     To hills that prop the polar star;
+     And loves on deer-borne car to ride
+     With barren darkness at his side
+     Round the shore where loud Lofoden
+      Whirls to death the roaring whale,
+     Round the hall where Runic Odin
+      Howls his war-song to the gale--
+     Save when adown the ravaged globe
+      He travels on his native storm,
+     Deflowering Nature's grassy robe
+      And trampling on her faded form;
+     Till light's returning Lord assume
+      The shaft that drives him to his northern fields,
+     Of power to pierce his raven plume
+      And crystal-cover'd shield.
+
+     O sire of storms! whose savage ear
+     The Lapland drum delights to hear,
+     When Frenzy with her bloodshot eye
+     Implores thy dreadful deity--
+     Archangel! Power of desolation!
+      Fast descending as thou art,
+     Say, hath mortal invocation
+      Spells to touch thy stony heart:
+     Then, sullen Winter! hear my prayer,
+     And gently rule the ruin'd year;
+     Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare
+     Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear:
+     To shuddering Want's unmantled bed
+      Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend,
+     And gently on the orphan head
+      Of Innocence descend.
+
+     But chiefly spare, O king of clouds!
+     The sailor on his airy shrouds,
+     When wrecks and beacons strew the deep
+     And spectres walk along the deep.
+     Milder yet thy snowy breezes
+      Pour on yonder tented shores,
+     Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes,
+      Or the dark-brown Danube roars.
+     O winds of Winter! list ye there
+      To many a deep and dying groan?
+     Or start, ye demons of the midnight air,
+      At shrieks and thunders louder than your own?
+     Alas! e'en your unhallow'd breath
+      May spare the victim fallen low;
+     But Man will ask no truce to death,
+      No bounds to human woe.
+
+     T. CAMPBELL.
+
+
+
+
+     257. YARROW UNVISITED.
+
+               1803.
+
+     From Stirling castle we had seen
+     The mazy Forth unravell'd,
+     Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay,
+     And with the Tweed had travell'd;
+     And when we came to Clovenford,
+     Then said my "winsome Marrow."
+     "Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,
+     And see the Braes of Yarrow."
+
+     "Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,
+     Who have been buying, selling,
+     Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own,
+     Each maiden to her dwelling!
+     On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,
+     Hares couch, and rabbits burrow,
+     But we will downward with the Tweed,
+     Nor turn aside to Yarrow.
+
+     "There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
+     Both lying right before us;
+     And Dryburgh, where with chiming Tweed
+     The lintwhites sing in chorus;
+     There's pleasant Tiviotdale, a land
+     Made blythe with plough and harrow:
+     Why throw away a needful day
+     To go in search of Yarrow?
+
+     "What's Yarrow but a river bare
+     That glides the dark hills under?
+     There are a thousand such elsewhere
+     As worthy of your wonder."
+     --Strange words they seem'd of slight and scorn;
+     My true-love sighed for sorrow,
+     And look'd me in the face, to think
+     I thus could speak of Yarrow!
+
+     "O green," said I, "are Yarrow's holms,
+     And sweet is Yarrow flowing!
+     Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
+     But we will leave it growing.
+     O'er hilly path, and open strath,
+     We'll wander Scotland thorough;
+     But, though so near, we will not turn
+     Into the dale of Yarrow.
+
+     "Let beeves and home-bred kine partake
+     The sweets of Burn-mill meadow;
+     The swan on still Saint Mary's Lake
+     Float double, swan and shadow!
+     We will not see them; will not go
+     To-day, nor yet to-morrow;
+     Enough if in our hearts we know
+     There's such a place as Yarrow.
+
+     "Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown;
+     It must, or we shall rue it:
+     We have a vision of our own;
+     Ah! why should we undo it?
+     The treasured dreams of times long past,
+     We'll keep them, winsome Marrow!
+     For when we're there, although 'tis fair,
+     'Twill be another Yarrow.
+
+     "If care with freezing years should come
+     And wandering seem but folly,--
+     Should we be loth to stir from home,
+     And yet be melancholy;
+     Should life be dull, and spirits low,
+     'Twill soothe us in our sorrow
+     That earth has something yet to show,
+     The bonny Holms of Yarrow!"
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     258. YARROW VISITED.
+
+               _September_, 1814.
+
+     And is this--Yarrow?--This is the Stream
+     Of which my fancy cherish'd
+     So faithfully, a waking dream,
+     An image that hath perish'd?
+     O that some minstrel's harp were near
+     To utter notes of gladness
+     And chase this silence from the air,
+     That fills my heart with sadness!
+
+     Yet why?--a silvery current flows
+     With uncontroll'd meanderings;
+     Nor have these eyes by greener hills
+     Been soothed, in all my wanderings.
+     And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake
+     Is visibly delighted;
+     For not a feature of those hills
+     Is in the mirror slighted.
+
+     A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow Vale,
+     Save where that pearly whiteness
+     Is round the rising sun diffused,
+     A tender hazy brightness;
+     Mild dawn of promise! that excludes
+     All profitless dejection;
+     Though not unwilling here to admit
+     A pensive recollection.
+
+     Where was it that the famous Flower
+     Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding?
+     His bed perchance was yon smooth mound
+     On which the herd is feeding:
+     And haply from this crystal pool,
+     Now peaceful as the morning,
+     The water-Wraith ascended thrice,
+     And gave his doleful warning.
+
+     Delicious is the Lay that sings
+     The haunts of happy lovers,
+     The path that leads them to the grove,
+     The leafy grove that covers:
+     And pity sanctifies the verse
+     That paints, by strength of sorrow,
+     The unconquerable strength of love;
+     Bear witness, rueful Yarrow!
+
+     But thou that didst appear so fair
+     To fond imagination
+     Dost rival in the light of day
+     Her delicate creation:
+     Meek loveliness is round thee spread,
+     A softness still and holy:
+     The grace of forest charms decay'd,
+     And pastoral melancholy.
+
+     That region left, the vale unfolds
+     Rich groves of lofty stature,
+     With Yarrow winding through the pomp
+     Of cultivated Nature;
+     And rising from those lofty groves
+     Behold a ruin hoary,
+     The shatter'd front of Newark's Towers,
+     Renown'd in Border story.
+
+     Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom,
+     For sportive youth to stray in,
+     For manhood to enjoy his strength,
+     And age to wear away in!
+     Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss,
+     A covert for protection
+     Of studious ease and generous cares,
+     And every chaste affection!
+
+     How sweet on this autumnal day
+     The wild-wood fruits to gather,
+     And on my true-love's forehead plant
+     A crest of blooming heather!
+     And what if I enwreathed my own?
+     'Twere no offence to reason;
+     The sober hills thus deck their brows
+     To meet the wintry season.
+
+     I see--but not by sight alone
+     Loved Yarrow, have I won thee;
+     A ray of Fancy still survives--
+     Her sunshine plays upon thee!
+     Thy ever-youthful waters keep
+     A course of lively pleasure;
+     And gladsome notes my lips can breathe
+     Accordant to the measure.
+
+     The vapours linger round the heights,
+     They melt, and soon must vanish;
+     One hour is theirs, nor more is mine--
+     Sad thought! which I would banish,
+     But that I know, where'er I go,
+     Thy genuine image, Yarrow!
+     Will dwell with me, to heighten joy
+     And cheer my mind in sorrow.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     259. THE INVITATION.
+
+     Best and Brightest, come away,
+     Fairer far than this fair day,
+     Which, like thee, to those in sorrow
+     Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow
+     To the rough year just awake
+     In its cradle on the brake.
+     The brightest hour of unborn Spring
+     Through the winter wandering,
+     Found, it seems, the halcyon morn
+     To hoar February born;
+     Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth,
+     It kiss'd the forehead of the earth,
+     And smiled upon the silent sea,
+     And bade the frozen streams be free,
+     And waked to music all their fountains,
+     And breathed upon the frozen mountains,
+     And like a prophetess of May
+     Strew'd flowers upon the barren way,
+     Making the wintry world appear
+     Like one on whom thou smilest, Dear.
+
+     Away, away, from men and towns,
+     To the wild wood and the downs--
+     To the silent wilderness
+     Where the soul need not repress
+     Its music, lest it should not find
+     An echo in another's mind,
+     While the touch of Nature's art
+     Harmonises heart to heart.
+
+     Radiant Sister of the Day
+     Awake! arise! and come away!
+     To the wild woods and the plains,
+     And the pools where winter rains
+     Image all their roof of leaves,
+     Where the pine its garland weaves
+     Of sapless green, and ivy dun,
+     Round stems that never kiss the sun,
+     Where the lawns and pastures be
+     And the sandhills of the sea,
+     Where the melting hoar-frost wets
+     The daisy-star that never sets,
+     And wind-flowers and violets
+     Which yet join not scent to hue
+     Crown the pale year weak and new;
+     When the night is left behind
+     In the deep east, dim and blind,
+     And the blue noon is over us,
+     And the multitudinous
+     Billows murmur at our feet,
+     Where the earth and ocean meet,
+     And all things seem only one
+     In the universal Sun.
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     260. THE RECOLLECTION.
+
+     Now the last day of many days
+     All beautiful and bright as thou,
+     The loveliest and the last, is dead,
+     Rise, Memory, and write its praise!
+     Up, do thy wonted work! come, trace
+     The epitaph of glory fled,
+     For now the Earth has changed its face,
+     A frown is on the Heaven's brow.
+
+     We wander'd to the Pine Forest
+      That skirts the Ocean's foam;
+     The lightest wind was in its nest,
+      The tempest in its home.
+     The whispering waves were half asleep,
+      The clouds were gone to play,
+     And on the bosom of the deep
+      The smile of Heaven lay;
+     It seem'd as if the hour were one
+      Sent from beyond the skies
+     Which scatter'd from above the sun
+      A light of Paradise!
+
+     We paused amid the pines that stood
+      The giants of the waste,
+     Tortured by storms to shapes as rude
+      As serpents interlaced,--
+     And soothed by every azure breath
+      That under heaven is blown
+     To harmonies and hues beneath,
+      As tender as its own:
+     Now all the tree-tops lay asleep
+      Like green waves on the sea,
+     As still as in the silent deep
+      The ocean-woods may be.
+
+     How calm it was!--the silence there
+      By such a chain was bound,
+     That even the busy woodpecker
+      Made stiller by her sound
+     The inviolable quietness;
+      The breath of peace we drew
+     With its soft motion made not less
+      The calm that round us grew.
+     There seem'd from the remotest seat
+      Of the wide mountain waste
+     To the soft flower beneath our feet
+      A magic circle traced
+     A spirit interfused around,
+      A thrilling silent life;
+     To momentary peace it bound
+      Our mortal nature's strife;--
+     And still I felt the centre of
+      The magic circle there
+     Was one fair Form that fill'd with love
+      The lifeless atmosphere.
+
+     We paused beside the pools that lie
+      Under the forest bough;
+     Each seemed as 'twere a little sky
+      Gulf'd in a world below;
+     A firmament of purple light
+      Which in the dark earth lay,
+     More boundless than the depth of night
+      And purer than the day--
+     In which the lovely forests grew
+      As in the upper air,
+     More perfect both in shape and hue
+      Than any spreading there.
+     There lay the glade and neighbouring lawn,
+      And through the dark green wood
+     The white sun twinkling like the dawn
+      Out of a speckled cloud.
+     Sweet views which in our world above
+      Can never well be seen
+     Were imaged by the water's love
+      Of that fair forest green:
+     And all was interfused beneath
+      With an Elysian glow,
+     An atmosphere without a breath,
+      A softer day below.
+     Like one beloved the scene had lent
+      To the dark water's breast
+     Its very leaf and lineament
+      With more than truth exprest;
+     Until an envious wind crept by,
+      Like an unwelcome thought
+     Which from the mind's too faithful eye
+      Blots one dear image out.
+     --Though Thou art ever fair and kind,
+      The forests ever green,
+     Less oft is peace in Shelley's mind,
+      Than calm in waters seen!
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     261. BY THE SEA.
+
+     It is a beauteous evening, calm and free;
+     The holy time is quiet as a nun
+     Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
+     Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
+
+     The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea:
+     Listen! the mighty being is awake,
+     And doth with his eternal motion make
+     A sound like thunder--everlastingly.
+
+     Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here,
+     If thou appear untouch'd by solemn thought
+     Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
+
+     Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year;
+     And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine,
+     God being with thee when we know it not.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     262. TO THE EVENING STAR.
+
+     Star that bringest home the bee,
+     And sett'st the weary labourer free!
+     If any star shed peace, 'tis Thou
+       That send'st it from above,
+     Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow
+       Are sweet as hers we love.
+
+     Come to the luxuriant skies,
+     Whilst the landscape's odours rise,
+     Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard
+       And songs when toil is done,
+     From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd
+       Curls yellow in the sun.
+
+     Star of love's soft interviews,
+     Parted lovers on thee muse;
+     Their remembrancer in Heaven
+       Of thrilling vows thou art,
+     Too delicious to be riven
+       By absence from the heart.
+
+     T. CAMPBELL.
+
+
+
+
+     263. DATUR HORA QUIETI.
+
+     The sun upon the lake is low,
+      The wild birds hush their song,
+     The hills have evening's deepest glow,
+      Yet Leonard tarries long.
+     Now all whom varied toil and care
+      From home and love divide,
+     In the calm sunset may repair
+      Each to the loved one's side.
+
+     The noble dame on turret high,
+      Who waits her gallant knight,
+     Looks to the western beam to spy
+      The flash of armour bright.
+     The village maid, with hand on brow
+      The level ray to shade,
+     Upon the footpath watches now
+      For Colin's darkening plaid.
+
+     Now to their mates the wild swans row,
+      By day they swam apart,
+     And to the thicket wanders slow
+      The hind beside the hart.
+     The woodlark at his partner's side
+      Twitters his closing song--
+     All meet whom day and care divide,
+      But Leonard tarries long!
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT.
+
+
+
+
+     264. TO THE MOON.
+
+         Art thou pale for weariness
+       Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth,
+         Wandering companionless
+       Among the stars that have a different birth,--
+     And ever-changing, like a joyless eye
+     That finds no object worth its constancy?
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     265.
+
+       A widow bird sate mourning for her Love
+         Upon a wintry bough;
+       The frozen wind crept on above,
+         The freezing stream below.
+
+       There was no leaf upon the forest bare,
+         No flower upon the ground,
+       And little motion in the air
+         Except the mill-wheel's sound.
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     266. TO SLEEP.
+
+     A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by
+     One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
+     Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
+     Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;--
+
+     I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie
+     Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies
+     Must hear, first utter'd from my orchard trees,
+     And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
+
+     Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay,
+     And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:
+     So do not let me wear to-night away:
+
+     Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?
+     Come, blesséd barrier between day and day,
+     Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     267. THE SOLDIERS DREAM.
+
+     Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd,
+      And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
+     And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,
+      The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
+
+     When reposing that night on my pallet of straw
+      By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,
+     At the dead of the night a sweet Vision I saw;
+      And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.
+
+     Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array
+      Far, far, I had roam'd on a desolate track:
+     'Twas Autumn,--and sunshine arose on the way
+      To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.
+
+     I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft
+      In life's morning march, when my bosom was young;
+     I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
+      And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
+
+     Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore
+      From my home and my weeping friends never to part;
+     My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,
+      And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.
+
+     "Stay--stay with us!--rest!--thou art weary and worn!"--
+      And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;--
+     But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,
+      And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
+
+     T. CAMPBELL.
+
+
+
+
+     268. A DREAM OF THE UNKNOWN.
+
+     I dream'd that, as I wander'd by the way
+      Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring,
+     And gentle odours led my steps astray,
+      Mix'd with a sound of waters murmuring
+     Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay
+      Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling
+     Its green arms round the bosom of the stream,
+     But kiss'd it and then fled, as Thou mightest in dream.
+
+     There grew pied wind-flowers and violets,
+      Daisies, those pearl'd Arcturi of the earth,
+     The constellated flower that never sets;
+      Faint oxlips; tender blue-bells, at whose birth
+     The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets
+     Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears,
+     When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears.
+
+     And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,
+      Green cow-bind and the moonlight-colour'd May,
+     And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whose wine
+      Was the bright dew yet drain'd not by the day;
+     And wild roses, and ivy serpentine,
+      With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray;
+     And flowers azure, black, and streak'd with gold,
+     Fairer than any waken'd eyes behold.
+
+     And nearer to the rivers trembling edge
+      There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prankt with white,
+     And starry river-buds among the sedge,
+      And floating water-lilies, broad and bright,
+     Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge
+      With moonlight beams of their own watery light;
+     And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green
+     As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.
+
+     Methought that of these visionary flowers
+      I made a nosegay, bound in such a way
+     That the same hues, which in their natural bowers
+      Were mingled or opposed, the like array
+     Kept these imprison'd children of the Hours
+      Within my hand;--and then, elate and gay,
+     I hasten'd to the spot whence I had come
+     That I might there present it--O! to Whom?
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     269. THE INNER VISION.
+
+     Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes
+     To pace the ground, if path there be or none,
+     While a fair region round the Traveller lies
+     Which he forbears again to look upon;
+
+     Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene
+     The work of Fancy, or some happy tone
+     Of meditation, slipping in between
+     The beauty coming and the beauty gone.
+
+     --If Thought and Love desert us, from that day
+     Let us break off all commerce with the Muse:
+     With Thought and Love companions of our way--
+
+     Whate'er the senses take or may refuse,--
+     The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews
+     Of inspiration on the humblest lay.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     270. THE REALM OF FANCY.
+
+     Ever let the Fancy roam!
+     Pleasure never is at home:
+     At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth,
+     Like to bubbles when rain pelteth;
+     Then let wingéd Fancy wander
+     Through the thought still spread beyond her:
+     Open wide the mind's cage-door,
+     She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.
+     O sweet Fancy! let her loose;
+     Summer's joys are spoilt by use,
+     And the enjoying of the Spring
+     Fades as does its blossoming:
+     Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too
+     Blushing through the mist and dew
+     Cloys with tasting: What do then?
+     Sit thee by the ingle, when
+     The sear faggot blazes bright,
+     Spirit of a winter's night;
+     When the soundless earth is muffled,
+     And the cakéd snow is shuffled
+     From the ploughboy's heavy shoon;
+     When the Night doth meet the Noon
+     In dark conspiracy
+     To banish Even from her sky.
+     --Sit thee there, and send abroad
+     With a mind self-overawed
+     Fancy, high-commission'd:--send her!
+     She has vassals to attend her;
+     She will bring, in spite of frost,
+     Beauties that the earth hath lost;
+     She will bring thee, all together,
+     All delights of summer weather;
+     All the buds and bells of May,
+     From dewy sward or thorny spray;
+     All the heapéd Autumn's wealth,
+     With a still, mysterious stealth:
+     She will mix these pleasures up
+     Like three fit wines in a cup,
+     And thou shalt quaff it;--thou shalt hear
+     Distant harvest-carols clear;
+     Rustle of the reapéd corn;
+     Sweet birds antheming the morn:
+     And in the same moment--hark!
+     'Tis the early April lark,
+     Or the rooks, with busy caw,
+     Foraging for sticks and straw.
+     Thou shalt, at one glance, behold
+     The daisy and the marigold;
+     White-plumed lilies, and the first
+     Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst;
+     Shaded hyacinth, alway
+     Sapphire queen of the mid-May;
+     And every leaf, and every flower
+     Pearléd with the self-same shower.
+     Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep
+     Meagre from its celléd sleep;
+     And the snake all winter-thin
+     Cast on sunny bank its skin;
+     Freckled nest eggs thou shalt see
+     Hatching in the hawthorn-tree,
+     When the hen-bird's wing doth rest
+     Quiet on her mossy nest;
+     Then the hurry and alarm
+     When the bee-hive casts its swarm;
+     Acorns ripe down-pattering
+     While the autumn breezes sing.
+
+       O sweet Fancy! let her loose;
+     Everything is spoilt by use:
+     Where's the cheek that doth not fade,
+     Too much gazed at? Where's the maid
+     Whose lip mature is ever new?
+     Where's the eye, however blue,
+     Doth not weary? Where's the face
+     One would meet in every place?
+     Where's the voice, however soft,
+     One would hear so very oft?
+     At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth
+     Like to bubbles when rain pelteth.
+     Let then wingéd Fancy find
+     Thee a mistress to thy mind:
+     Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter,
+     Ere the God of Torment taught her
+     How to frown and how to chide;
+     With a waist and with a side
+     White as Hebe's, when her zone
+     Slipt its golden clasp, and down
+     Fell her kirtle to her feet,
+     While she held the goblet sweet,
+     And Jove grew languid.--Break the mesh
+     Of the Fancy's silken leash;
+     Quickly break her prison-string,
+     And such joys as these she'll bring:
+     --Let the wingéd Fancy roam!
+     Pleasure never is at home.
+
+     J. KEATS.
+
+
+
+
+     271. HYMN TO THE SPIRIT OF NATURE.
+
+     Life of Life! Thy lips enkindle
+      With their love the breath between them;
+     And thy smiles before they dwindle
+      Make the cold air fire; then screen them
+     In those locks, where whoso gazes
+     Faints, entangled in their mazes.
+
+     Child of Light! Thy limbs are burning
+      Through the veil which seems to hide them,
+     As the radiant lines of morning
+      Through thin clouds, ere they divide them;
+     And this atmosphere divinest
+     Shrouds thee wheresoe'er thou shinest.
+
+     Fair are others; none beholds Thee;
+      But thy voice sounds low and tender
+     Like the fairest, for it folds thee
+      From the sight, that liquid splendour;
+     And all feel, yet see thee never,--
+     As I feel now, lost for ever!
+
+     Lamp of Earth! Where'er thou movest
+      Its dim shapes are clad with brightness,
+     And the souls of whom thou lovest
+      Walk upon the winds with lightness
+     Till they fail, as I am failing,
+     Dizzy, lost, yet unbewailing!
+
+     P. B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     272. WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.
+
+     I heard a thousand blended notes
+     While in a grove I sat reclined,
+     In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
+     Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
+
+     To her fair works did Nature link
+     The human soul that through me ran;
+     And much it grieved my heart to think
+     What Man has made of Man.
+
+     Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,
+     The periwinkle trail'd its wreaths;
+     And 'tis my faith that every flower
+     Enjoys the air it breathes.
+
+     The birds around me hopp'd and play'd,
+     Their thoughts I cannot measure--
+     But the least motion which they made
+     It seem'd a thrill of pleasure.
+
+     The budding twigs spread out their fan
+     To catch the breezy air;
+     And I must think, do all I can,
+     That there was pleasure there.
+
+     If this belief from heaven be sent,
+     If such be Nature's holy plan,
+     Have I not reason to lament
+     What Man has made of Man?
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     273. RUTH: OR THE INFLUENCES OF NATURE.
+
+     When Ruth was left half desolate,
+     Her father took another mate;
+     And Ruth, not seven years old,
+     A slighted child, at her own will
+     Went wandering over dale and hill,
+     In thoughtless freedom bold.
+
+     And she had made a pipe of straw,
+     And music from that pipe could draw
+     Like sounds of winds and floods;
+     Had built a bower upon the green,
+     As if she from her birth had been
+     An infant of the woods.
+
+     Beneath her father's roof, alone
+     She seem'd to live; her thoughts her own;
+     Herself her own delight:
+     Pleased with herself, nor sad nor gay,
+     She pass'd her time; and in this way
+     Grew up to woman's height.
+
+     There came a youth from Georgia's shore--
+     A military casque he wore
+     With splendid feathers drest;
+     He brought them from the Cherokees;
+     The feathers nodded in the breeze
+     And made a gallant crest.
+
+     From Indian blood you deem him sprung:
+     But no! he spake the English tongue
+     And bore a soldier's name;
+     And, when America was free
+     From battle and from jeopardy,
+     He 'cross the ocean came.
+
+     With hues of genius on his cheek,
+     In finest tones the youth could speak:
+     --While he was yet a boy
+     The moon, the glory of the sun,
+     And streams that murmur as they run
+     Had been his dearest joy.
+
+     He was a lovely youth! I guess
+     The panther in the wilderness
+     Was not so fair as he;
+     And when he chose to sport and play,
+     No dolphin ever was so gay
+     Upon the tropic sea.
+
+     Among the Indians he had fought,
+     And with him many tales he brought
+     Of pleasure and of fear;
+     Such tales as, told to any maid
+     By such a youth, in the green shade,
+     Were perilous to hear.
+
+     He told of girls, a happy rout!
+     Who quit their fold with dance and shout,
+     Their pleasant Indian town,
+     To gather strawberries all day long;
+     Returning with a choral song
+     When daylight is gone down.
+
+     He spake of plants that hourly change
+     Their blossoms, through a boundless range
+     Of intermingling hues;
+     With budding, fading, faded flowers,
+     They stand the wonder of the bowers
+     From morn to evening dews,
+
+     He told of the Magnolia, spread
+     High as a cloud, high over head!
+     The cypress and her spire;
+     --Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam
+     Cover a hundred leagues, and seem
+     To set the hills on fire.
+
+     The youth of green savannahs spake,
+     And many an endless, endless lake,
+     With all its fairy crowds
+     Of islands, that together lie
+     As quietly as spots of sky
+     Among the evening clouds.
+
+     And then he said, "How sweet it were
+     A fisher or a hunter there,
+     In sunshine or in shade
+     To wander with an easy mind,
+     And build a household fire, and find
+     A home in every glade!
+
+     "What days and what bright years! Ah me!
+     Our life were life indeed, with Thee
+     So pass'd in quiet bliss;
+     And all the while," said he, "to know
+     That we were in a world of woe,
+     On such an earth as this!"
+
+     And then he sometimes interwove
+     Fond thoughts about a father's love,
+     "For there," said he, "are spun
+     Around the heart such tender ties,
+     That our own children to our eyes
+     Are dearer than the sun.
+
+     "Sweet Ruth! and could you go with me
+     My helpmate in the woods to be,
+     Our shed at night to rear;
+     Or run, my own adopted bride,
+     A sylvan huntress at my side,
+     And drive the flying deer!
+
+     "Beloved Ruth!"--No more he said.
+     The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed
+     A solitary tear:
+     She thought again--and did agree
+     With him to sail across the sea,
+     And drive the flying deer.
+
+     "And now, as fitting is and right,
+     We in the church our faith will plight,
+     A husband and a wife."
+     Even so they did; and I may say
+     That to sweet Ruth that happy day
+     Was more than human life.
+
+     Through dream and vision did she sink,
+     Delighted all the while to think
+     That, on those lonesome floods,
+     And green savannahs, she should share
+     His board with lawful joy, and bear
+     His name in the wild woods.
+
+     But, as you have before been told,
+     This Stripling, sportive, gay, and bold,
+     And with his dancing crest
+     So beautiful, through savage lands
+     Had roam'd about, with vagrant bands
+     Of Indians in the West.
+
+     The wind, the tempest roaring high,
+     The tumult of a tropic sky
+     Might well be dangerous food
+     For him, a youth to whom was given
+     So much of earth--so much of heaven,
+     And such impetuous blood.
+
+     Whatever in those climes he found
+     Irregular in sight or sound
+     Did to his mind impart
+     A kindred impulse, seem'd allied
+     To his own powers, and justified
+     The workings of his heart.
+
+     Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought,
+     The beauteous forms of Nature wrought,--
+     Fair trees and gorgeous flowers;
+     The breezes their own languor lent;
+     The stars had feelings, which they sent
+     Into those favour'd bowers.
+
+     Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween
+     That sometimes there did intervene
+     Pure hopes of high intent:
+     For passions link'd to forms so fair
+     And stately, needs must have their share
+     Of noble sentiment.
+
+     But ill he lived, much evil saw,
+     With men to whom no better law
+     Nor better life was known;
+     Deliberately and undeceived,
+     Those wild men's vices he received,
+     And gave them back his own.
+
+     His genius and his moral frame
+     Were thus impair'd, and he became
+     The slave of low desires:
+     A man who without self-control
+     Would seek what the degraded soul
+     Unworthily admires.
+
+     And yet he with no feign'd delight
+     Had woo'd the maiden, day and night
+     Had loved her, night and morn:
+     What could he less than love a maid
+     Whose heart with so much nature play'd--
+     So kind and so forlorn?
+
+     Sometimes most earnestly he said,
+     "O Ruth! I have been worse than dead;
+     False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain
+     Encompass'd me on every side
+     When I, in confidence and pride,
+     Had cross'd the Atlantic main.
+
+     "Before me shone a glorious world
+     Fresh as a banner bright, unfurl'd
+     To music suddenly:
+     I look'd upon those hills and plains,
+     And seem'd as if let loose from chains
+     To live at liberty!
+
+     "No more of this--for now, by thee,
+     Dear Ruth! more happily set free
+     With nobler zeal I burn;
+     My soul from darkness is released
+     Like the whole sky when to the east
+     The morning doth return."
+
+     Full soon that better mind was gone;
+     No hope, no wish remain'd, not one,--
+     They stirr'd him now no more;
+     New objects did new pleasure give,
+     And once again he wish'd to live
+     As lawless as before.
+
+     Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared,
+     They for the voyage were prepared,
+     And went to the sea-shore,
+     But, when they thither came, the youth
+     Deserted his poor bride, and Ruth
+     Could never find him more.
+
+     God help thee, Ruth!--Such pains she had
+     That she in half a year was mad
+     And in a prison housed;
+     And there, exulting in her wrongs,
+     Among the music of her songs
+     She fearfully caroused.
+
+     Yet sometimes milder hours she knew,
+     Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew,
+     Nor pastimes of the May;
+     --They all were with her in her cell;
+     And a clear brook with cheerful knell
+     Did o'er the pebbles play.
+
+     When Ruth three seasons thus had lain,
+     There came a respite to her pain;
+     She from her prison fled;
+     But of the vagrant none took thought;
+     And where it liked her best she sought
+     Her shelter and her bread.
+
+     Among the fields she breathed again:
+     The master-current of her brain
+     Ran permanent and free;
+     And, coming to the banks of Tone,
+     There did she rest; and dwell alone
+     Under the greenwood tree.
+
+     The engines of her pain, the tools
+     That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools,
+     And airs that gently stir
+     The vernal leaves--she loved them still,
+     Nor ever tax'd them with the ill
+     Which had been done to her.
+
+     A barn her Winter bed supplies;
+     But, till the warmth of Summer skies
+     And Summer days is gone,
+     (And all do in this tale agree)
+     She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree,
+     And other home hath none.
+
+     An innocent life, yet far astray!
+     And Ruth will, long before her day,
+     Be broken down and old:
+     Sore aches she needs must have! but less
+     Of mind, than body's wretchedness,
+     From damp, and rain, and cold.
+
+     If she is prest by want of food
+     She from her dwelling in the wood
+     Repairs to a road-side;
+     And there she begs at one steep place
+     Where up and down with easy pace
+     The horsemen-travellers ride.
+
+     That oaten pipe of hers is mute
+     Or thrown away; but with a flute
+     Her loneliness she cheers;
+     This flute, made of a hemlock stalk,
+     At evening in his homeward walk
+     The Quantock woodman hears.
+
+     I, too, have pass'd her on the hills
+     Setting her little water-mills
+     By spouts and fountains wild--
+     Such small machinery as she turn'd
+     Ere she had wept, ere she had mourn'd,
+     A young and happy child!
+
+     Farewell! and when thy days are told,
+     Ill-fated Ruth! in hallow'd mould
+     Thy corpse shall buried be;
+     For thee a funeral bell shall ring,
+     And all the congregation sing
+     A Christian psalm for thee.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     274. WRITTEN IN THE EUGANEAN HILLS, NORTH ITALY.
+
+     Many a green isle needs must be
+     In the deep wide sea of misery,
+     Or the mariner, worn and wan,
+     Never thus could voyage on
+     Day and night, and night and day,
+     Drifting on his dreary way,
+     With the solid darkness black
+     Closing round his vessel's track;
+     Whilst above, the sunless sky
+     Big with clouds, hangs heavily,
+     And behind the tempest fleet
+     Hurries on with lightning feet,
+     Riving sail, and cord, and plank,
+     Till the ship has almost drank
+     Death from the o'er-brimming deep;
+     And sinks down, down, like that sleep
+     When the dreamer seems to be
+     Weltering through eternity;
+     And the dim low line before
+     Of a dark and distant shore
+     Still recedes, as ever still
+     Longing with divided will,
+     But no power to seek or shun,
+     He is ever drifted on
+     O'er the unreposing wave,
+     To the haven of the grave.
+
+     Ah, many flowering islands lie
+     In the waters of wide agony:
+     To such a one this morn was led
+     My bark, by soft winds piloted.
+     --'Mid the mountains Euganean
+     I stood listening to the paean
+     With which the legion'd rooks did hail
+     The Sun's uprise majestical:
+     Gathering round with wings all hoar,
+     Through the dewy mist they soar
+     Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven
+     Bursts, and then,--as clouds of even
+     Fleck'd with fire and azure, lie
+     In the unfathomable sky,--
+     So their plumes of purple grain
+     Starr'd with drops of golden rain
+     Gleam above the sunlight woods,
+     As in silent multitudes
+     On the morning's fitful gale
+     Through the broken mist they sail;
+     And the vapours cloven and gleaming
+     Follow down the dark steep streaming,
+     Till all is bright, and clear, and still
+     Round the solitary hill.
+
+       Beneath is spread like a green sea
+     The waveless plain of Lombardy,
+     Bounded by the vaporous air,
+     Islanded by cities fair;
+     Underneath day's azure eyes,
+     Ocean's nursling, Venice lies,--
+     A peopled labyrinth of walls,
+     Amphitrite's destined halls,
+     Which her hoary sire now paves
+     With his blue and beaming waves.
+     Lo! the sun upsprings behind,
+     Broad, red, radiant, half-reclined
+     On the level quivering line
+     Of the waters crystalline;
+     And before that chasm of light,
+     As within a furnace bright,
+     Column, tower, and dome, and spire,
+     Shine like obelisks of fire,
+     Pointing with inconstant motion
+     From the altar of dark ocean
+     To the sapphire-tinted skies;
+     As the flames of sacrifice
+     From the marble shrines did rise
+     As to pierce the dome of gold
+     Where Apollo spoke of old.
+
+       Sun-girt City! thou hast been
+     Ocean's child, and then his queen;
+     Now is come a darker day,
+     And thou soon must be his prey,
+     If the power that raised thee here
+     Hallow so thy watery bier.
+     A less drear ruin then than now
+     With thy conquest-branded brow
+     Stooping to the slave of slaves
+     From thy throne among the waves,
+     Wilt thou be,--when the sea-mew
+     Flies, as once before it flew,
+     O'er thine isles depopulate,
+     And all is in its ancient state,
+     Save where many a palace-gate
+     With green sea-flowers overgrown
+     Like a rock of ocean's own,
+     Topples o'er the abandon'd sea
+     As the tides change sullenly.
+     The fisher on his watery way
+     Wandering at the close of day,
+     Will spread his sail and seize his oar
+     Till he pass the gloomy shore,
+     Lest thy dead should, from their sleep
+     Bursting o'er the starlight deep,
+     Lead a rapid masque of death
+     O'er the waters of his path.
+
+       Noon descends around me now:
+     'Tis the noon of autumn's glow,
+     When a soft and purple mist
+     Like a vaporous amethyst,
+     Or an air-dissolvéd star
+     Mingling light and fragrance, far
+     From the curved horizon's bound
+     To the point of heaven's profound,
+     Fills the overflowing sky:
+     And the plains that silent lie
+     Underneath; the leaves unsodden
+     Where the infant frost has trodden
+     With his morning-wingéd feet
+     Whose bright print is gleaming yet;
+     And the red and golden vines
+     Piercing with their trellised lines
+     The rough, dark-skirted wilderness;
+     The dun and bladed grass no less,
+     Pointing from this hoary tower
+     In the windless air; the flower
+     Glimmering at my feet; the line
+     Of the olive-sandall'd Apennine
+     In the south dimly islanded;
+     And the Alps, whose snows are spread
+     High between the clouds and sun;
+     And of living things each one;
+     And my spirit, which so long
+     Darken'd this swift stream of song,--
+     Interpenetrated lie
+     By the glory of the sky;
+     Be it love, light, harmony,
+     Odour, or the soul of all
+     Which from Heaven like dew doth fall,
+     Or the mind which feeds this verse
+     Peopling the lone universe.
+
+     Noon descends, and after noon
+     Autumn's evening meets me soon,
+     Leading the infantine moon
+     And that one star, which to her
+     Almost seems to minister
+     Half the crimson light she brings
+     From the sunset's radiant springs:
+     And the soft dreams of the morn
+     (Which like wingéd winds had borne
+     To that silent isle, which lies
+     'Mid remember'd agonies,
+     The frail bark of this lone being),
+     Pass, to other sufferers fleeing,
+     And its ancient pilot, Pain,
+     Sits beside the helm again.
+
+     Other flowering isles must be
+     In the sea of life and agony:
+     Other spirits float and flee
+     O'er that gulf: ev'n now, perhaps,
+     On some rock the wild wave wraps,
+     With folding wings they waiting sit
+     For my bark, to pilot it
+     To some calm and blooming cove,
+     Where for me, and those I love,
+     May a windless bower be built,
+     Far from passion, pain, and guilt,
+     In a dell 'mid lawny hills
+     Which the wild sea-murmur fills,
+     And soft sunshine, and the sound
+     Of old forests echoing round,
+     And the light and smell divine
+     Of all flowers that breathe and shine.
+     --We may live so happy there,
+     That the spirits of the air,
+     Envying us, may even entice
+     To our healing paradise
+     The polluting multitude;
+     But their rage would be subdued
+     By that clime divine and calm,
+     And the winds whose wings rain balm
+     On the uplifted soul, and leaves
+     Under which the bright sea heaves;
+     While each breathless interval
+     In their whisperings musical
+     The inspired soul supplies
+     With its own deep melodies;
+     And the Love which heals all strife
+     Circling, like the breath of life,
+     All things in that sweet abode
+     With its own mild brotherhood.
+     They, not it, would change; and soon
+     Every sprite beneath the moon
+     Would repent its envy vain,
+     And the Earth grow young again!
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     275. ODE TO THE WEST WIND.
+
+     O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
+     Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
+     Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
+     Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
+     Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou
+     Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
+     The wingéd seeds, where they lie cold and low,
+     Each like a corpse within its grave, until
+     Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow
+     Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
+     (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
+     With living hues and odours plain and hill:
+     Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
+     Destroyer and preserver; Hear, O hear!
+
+       Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,
+     Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed
+     Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,
+     Angels of rain and lightning; there are spread
+     On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
+     Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
+     Of some fierce Maenad, ev'n from the dim verge
+     Of the horizon to the zenith's height--
+     The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
+     Of the dying year, to which this closing night
+     Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
+     Vaulted with all thy congregated might
+     Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
+     Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: O hear!
+
+       Thou who didst waken from his summer-dreams
+     The blue Mediterranean, where he lay
+     Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams,
+     Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,
+     And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
+     Quivering within the wave's intenser day,
+     All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
+     So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
+     For whose path the Atlantic's level powers
+     Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
+     The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
+     The sapless foliage of the ocean, know
+     Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear
+     And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!
+
+       If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
+     If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
+     A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share
+     The impulse of thy strength, only less free
+     Than Thou, O uncontrollable! If even
+     I were as in my boyhood, and could be
+     The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,
+     As then, when to outstrip the skyey speed
+     Scarce seem'd a vision, I would ne'er have striven
+     As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
+     O lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
+     I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
+     A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd
+     One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.
+
+       Make me thy lyre, ev'n as the forest is:
+     What if my leaves are falling like its own!
+     The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
+     Will take from both a deep autumnal tone,
+     Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
+     My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!
+     Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
+     Like wither'd leaves to quicken a new birth!
+     And, by the incantation of this verse,
+     Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth
+     Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
+     Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth
+     The trumpet of a prophecy! O, Wind,
+     If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     276. NATURE AND THE POET.
+
+     _Suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle in a Storm, painted by
+     Sir George Beaumont._
+
+     I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile!
+     Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee:
+     I saw thee every day; and all the while
+     Thy form was sleeping on a glassy sea.
+
+     So pure the sky, so quiet was the air!
+     So like, so very like, was day to day!
+     Whene'er I look'd, thy image still was there;
+     It trembled, but it never pass'd away.
+
+     How perfect was the calm! It seem'd no sleep,
+     No mood, which season takes away, or brings:
+     I could have fancied that the mighty Deep
+     Was even the gentlest of all gentle things.
+
+     Ah! then if mine had been the painter's hand
+     To express what then I saw; and add the gleam,
+     The light that never was on sea or land,
+     The consecration, and the Poet's dream,--
+
+     I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile,
+     Amid a world how different from this!
+     Beside a sea that could not cease to smile;
+     On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss.
+
+     A picture had it been of lasting ease,
+     Elysian quiet, without toil or strife;
+     No motion but the moving tide, a breeze,
+     Or merely silent Nature's breathing life.
+
+     Such, in the fond illusion of my heart,
+     Such picture would I at that time have made;
+     And seen the soul of truth in every part,
+     A steadfast peace that might not be betray'd.
+
+     So once it would have been,--'tis so no more
+     I have submitted to a new control:
+     A power is gone, which nothing can restore;
+     A deep distress hath humanised my soul.
+
+     Not for a moment could I now behold
+     A smiling sea, and be what I have been:
+     The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old;
+     This, which I know, I speak with mind serene.
+
+     Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the friend
+     If he had lived, of him whom I deplore,
+     This work of thine I blame not, but commend;
+     This sea in anger, and that dismal shore.
+
+     O 'tis a passionate work!--yet wise and well,
+     Well chosen is the spirit that is here;
+     That hulk which labours in the deadly swell,
+     This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear!
+
+     And this huge Castle, standing here sublime,
+     I love to see the look with which it braves,
+     --Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time--
+     The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.
+
+     Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone,
+     Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind!
+     Such happiness, wherever it be known,
+     Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind.
+
+     But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer,
+     And frequent sights of what is to be borne!
+     Such sights, or worse, as are before me here:
+     Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     277. THE POET'S DREAM.
+
+        On a Poet's lips I slept
+        Dreaming like a love-adept
+        In the sound his breathing kept;
+        Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses,
+        But feeds on the aerial kisses
+        Of shapes that haunt Thought's wildernesses.
+        He will watch from dawn to gloom
+        The lake-reflected sun illume
+        The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom,
+          Nor heed nor see, what things they be--
+        But from these create he can
+        Forms more real than living Man,
+          Nurslings of immortality!
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     278.
+
+     The World is too much with us; late and soon,
+     Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
+     Little we see in Nature that is ours;
+     We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
+
+     This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
+     The winds that will be howling at all hours
+     And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers,
+     For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
+
+     It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
+     A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn,--
+     So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
+
+     Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
+     Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
+     Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     279. WITHIN KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE.
+
+     Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense,
+     With ill-match'd aims the Architect who plann'd
+     (Albeit labouring for a scanty band
+     Of white-robed Scholars only) this immense
+
+     And glorious work of fine intelligence!
+     --Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore
+     Of nicely-calculated less or more:--
+     So deem'd the man who fashion'd for the sense
+
+     These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof
+     Self-poised, and scoop'd into ten thousand cells
+     Where light and shade repose, where music dwells
+
+     Lingering and wandering on as loth to die--
+     Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof
+     That they were born for immortality.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     280. YOUTH AND AGE.
+
+     Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying,
+     Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee--
+     Both were mine! Life went a-maying
+     With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,
+                 When I was young!
+
+     When I was young?--Ah, woeful when!
+     Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then!
+     This breathing house not built with hands,
+     This body that does me grievous wrong,
+     O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands
+     How lightly then it flash'd along:
+     Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,
+     On winding lakes and rivers wide,
+     That ask no aid of sail or oar,
+     That fear no spite of wind or tide!
+     Nought cared this body for wind or weather
+     When Youth and I lived in't together.
+     Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;
+     Friendship is a sheltering tree;
+     O! the joys, that came down shower-like,
+     Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,
+                 Ere I was old!
+
+     Ere I was old? Ah woeful Ere,
+     Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!
+     O Youth! for years so many and sweet
+     'Tis known that Thou and I were one,
+     I'll think it but a fond conceit--
+     It cannot be, that Thou art gone!
+     Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd:--
+     And thou wert aye a masker bold!
+     What strange disguise hast now put on
+     To make believe that thou art gone?
+     I see these locks in silvery slips,
+     This drooping gait, this alter'd size:
+     But Springtide blossoms on thy lips,
+     And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!
+     Life is but Thought: so think I will
+     That Youth and I are housemates still.
+
+     Dew-drops are the gems of morning,
+     But the tears of mournful eve!
+     Where no hope is, life's a warning
+     That only serves to make us grieve
+
+                 When we are old:
+     --That only serves to make us grieve
+     With oft and tedious taking-leave,
+     Like some poor nigh-related guest
+     That may not rudely be dismist,
+     Yet hath out-stay'd his welcome while,
+     And tells the jest without a smile.
+
+     S. T. COLERIDGE.
+
+
+
+
+     281. THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS.
+
+     We walk'd along, while bright and red
+     Uprose the morning sun;
+     And Matthew stopp'd, he looked, and said,
+     "The will of God be done!"
+
+     A village schoolmaster was he,
+     With hair of glittering gray;
+     As blithe a man as you could see
+     On a spring holiday.
+
+     And on that morning, through the grass,
+     And by the steaming rills
+     We travel'd merrily, to pass
+     A day among the hills.
+
+     "Our work," said I, "was well begun;
+     Then, from thy breast what thought,
+     Beneath so beautiful a sun,
+     So sad a sigh has brought?"
+
+     A second time did Matthew stop;
+     And fixing still his eye
+     Upon the eastern mountain-top,
+     To me he made reply:
+
+     "Yon cloud with that long purple cleft
+     Brings fresh into my mind
+     A day like this, which I have left
+     Full thirty years behind.
+
+     "And just above yon slope of corn
+     Such colours, and no other,
+     Were in the sky, that April morn
+     Of this the very brother.
+
+     "With rod and line I sued the sport
+     Which that sweet season gave,
+     And, to the church-yard come, stopp'd short
+     Beside my daughter's grave.
+
+     "Nine summers had she scarcely seen,
+     The pride of all the vale;
+     And then she sang:--she would have been
+     A very nightingale.
+
+     "Six feet in earth my Emma lay;
+     And yet I loved her more--
+     For so it seem'd,--than till that day
+     I e'er had loved before.
+
+     "And, turning from her grave, I met,
+     Beside the church-yard yew,
+     A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet
+     With points of morning dew.
+
+     "A basket on her head she bare;
+     Her brow was smooth and white:
+     To see a child so very fair,
+     It was a pure delight!
+
+     "No fountain from its rocky cave
+     E'er tripped with foot so free;
+     She seem'd as happy as a wave
+     That dances on the sea.
+
+     "There came from me a sigh of pain
+     Which I could ill confine;
+     I looked at her, and looked again
+     And did not wish her mine!"
+
+     --Matthew is in his grave, yet now,
+     Methinks I see him stand
+     As at that moment, with a bough
+     Of wilding in his hand.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     282. THE FOUNTAIN.
+
+               _A Conversation._
+
+     We talk'd with open heart, and tongue
+     Affectionate and true,
+     A pair of friends, though I was young,
+     And Matthew seventy-two.
+
+     We lay beneath a spreading oak,
+     Beside a mossy seat;
+     And from the turf a fountain broke
+     And gurgled at our feet.
+
+     "Now, Matthew!" said I "let us match
+     This water's pleasant tune
+     With some old border song, or catch
+     That suits a summer's noon.
+
+     "Or of the church-clock and the chimes
+     Sing here beneath the shade
+     That half-mad thing of witty rhymes
+     Which you last April made!"
+
+     In silence Matthew lay, and eyed
+     The spring beneath the tree;
+     And thus the dear old man replied,
+     The gray-hair'd man of glee:
+
+     "No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears,
+     How merrily it goes!
+     'Twill murmur on a thousand years
+     And flow as now it flows.
+
+     "And here, on this delightful day
+     I cannot choose but think
+     How oft, a vigorous man, I lay
+     Beside this fountain's brink.
+
+     "My eyes are dim with childish tears,
+     My heart is idly stirr'd,
+     For the same sound is in my ears
+     Which in those days I heard.
+
+     "Thus fares it still in our decay:
+     And yet the wiser mind
+     Mourns less for what Age takes away,
+     Than what it leaves behind.
+
+     "The blackbird amid leafy trees--
+     The lark above the hill,
+     Let loose their carols when they please,
+     Are quiet when they will.
+
+     "With Nature never do they wage
+     A foolish strife; they see
+     A happy youth, and their old age
+     Is beautiful and free:
+
+     "But we are press'd by heavy laws;
+     And often, glad no more,
+     We wear a face of joy, because
+     We have been glad of yore.
+
+     "If there be one who need bemoan
+     His kindred laid in earth,
+     The household hearts that were his own,--
+     It is the man of mirth.
+
+     "My days, my friend, are almost gone,
+     My life has been approved,
+     And many love me; but by none
+     Am I enough beloved."
+
+     "Now both himself and me he wrongs,
+     The man who thus complains!
+     I live and sing my idle songs
+     Upon these happy plains:
+
+     "And Matthew, for thy children dead
+     I'll be a son to thee!"
+     At this he grasp'd my hand and said,
+     "Alas! that cannot be."
+
+     We rose up from the fountain-side;
+     And down the smooth descent
+     Of the green sheep-track did we glide
+     And through the wood we went;
+
+     And, ere we came to Leonard's Rock,
+     He sang those witty rhymes
+     About the crazy old church-clock,
+     And the bewilder'd chimes.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     283. THE RIVER OF LIFE.
+
+     The more we live, more brief appear
+       Our life's succeeding stages:
+     A day to childhood seems a year,
+       And years like passing ages.
+
+     The gladsome current of our youth
+       Ere passion yet disorders,
+     Steals lingering like a river smooth
+       Along its grassy borders.
+
+     But as the careworn cheek grows wan,
+       And sorrow's shafts fly thicker,
+     Ye Stars, that measure life to man,
+       Why seem your courses quicker?
+
+     When joys have lost their bloom and breath
+       And life itself is vapid,
+     Why, as we reach the Falls of Death,
+       Feel we its tide more rapid?
+
+     It may be strange--yet who would change
+       Time's course to lower speeding,
+     When one by one our friends have gone
+       And left our bosoms bleeding?
+
+     Heaven gives our years of fading strength
+       Indemnifying fleetness;
+     And those of youth, a seeming length,
+       Proportion'd to their sweetness.
+
+     T. CAMPBELL.
+
+
+
+
+     284. THE HUMAN SEASONS.
+
+     Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;
+     There are four seasons in the mind of Man:
+     He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
+     Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
+
+     He has his summer, when luxuriously
+     Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves
+     To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
+     Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves
+
+     His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
+     He furleth close; contented so to look
+     On mists in idleness--to let fair things
+     Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook:--
+
+     He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
+     Or else he would forego his mortal nature.
+
+     J. KEATS.
+
+
+
+
+     285. A LAMENT.
+
+     O World! O Life! O Time!
+     On whose last steps I climb,
+       Trembling at that where I had stood before;
+     When will return the glory of your prime?
+       No more--O never more!
+
+     Out of the day and night
+     A joy has taken flight:
+       Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar
+     Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight
+       No more--O never more!
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     286.
+
+     My heart leaps up when I behold
+       A rainbow in the sky:
+     So was it when my life began,
+     So is it now I am a man;
+     So be it when I shall grow old
+        Or let me die!
+     The Child is father of the Man:
+     I could wish my days to be
+     Bound each to each by natural piety.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     287. ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF
+     EARLY CHILDHOOD.
+
+     There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
+     The earth, and every common sight
+                 To me did seem
+             Apparell'd in celestial light,
+     The glory and the freshness of a dream.
+     It is not now as it hath been of yore;--
+             Turn wheresoe'er I may,
+                 By night or day,
+     The things which I have seen I now can see no more!
+
+             The rainbow comes and goes,
+             And lovely is the rose;
+             The moon doth with delight
+        Look round her when the heavens are bare;
+             Waters on a starry night
+             Are beautiful and fair;
+        The sunshine is a glorious birth;
+        But yet I know, where'er I go,
+     That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth.
+
+     Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
+        And while the young lambs bound
+             As to the tabor's sound,
+     To me alone there came a thought of grief:
+     A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
+             And I again am strong.
+     The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,--
+     No more shall grief of mine the season wrong:
+     I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,
+     The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
+             And all the earth is gay;
+                 Land and sea
+        Give themselves up to jollity,
+             And with the heart of May
+        Doth every beast keep holiday;--
+                 Thou child of joy,
+     Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy
+           Shepherd boy!
+
+     Ye blesséd creatures, I have heard the call
+        Ye to each other make; I see
+     The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
+        My heart is at your festival,
+        My head hath its coronal,
+     The fulness of your bliss, I feel--I feel it all.
+             O evil day! if I were sullen
+             While Earth herself is adorning
+                 This sweet May morning,
+             And the children are pulling
+                 On every side
+             In a thousand valleys far and wide
+             Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,
+     And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm:--
+             I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!
+             --But there's a tree, of many, one,
+     A single field which I have look'd upon,
+     Both of them speak of something that is gone:
+                 The pansy at my feet
+                 Doth the same tale repeat:
+     Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
+     Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
+
+     Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;
+     The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
+             Hath had elsewhere its setting
+                 And cometh from afar;
+             Not in entire forgetfulness
+             And not in utter nakedness
+     But trailing clouds of glory do we come
+                 From God, who is our home:
+     Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
+     Shades of the prison-house begin to close
+                 Upon the growing boy,
+     But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
+                 He sees it in his joy,
+     The youth, who daily farther from the east
+         Must travel, still is Nature's priest,
+             And by the vision splendid
+             Is on his way attended;
+     At length the man perceives it die away,
+     And fade into the light of common day.
+
+     Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;
+     Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
+     And, even with something of a mother's mind,
+                 And no unworthy aim,
+             The homely nurse doth all she can
+     To make her foster-child, her inmate, Man,
+                 Forget the glories he hath known
+     And that imperial palace whence he came.
+
+     Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,
+     A six years' darling of a pigmy size!
+     See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,
+     Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,
+     With light upon him from his father's eyes!
+     See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
+     Some fragment from his dream of human life,
+     Shaped by himself with newly-learnéd art;
+             A wedding or a festival,
+             A mourning or a funeral;
+                 And this hath now his heart,
+             And unto this he frames his song:
+                 Then will he fit his tongue
+     To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
+             But it will not be long
+             Ere this be thrown aside,
+             And with new joy and pride
+     The little actor cons another part;
+     Filling from time to time his "humorous stage"
+     With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,
+     That life brings with her in her equipage;
+             As if his whole vocation
+             Were endless imitation.
+
+     Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
+             Thy soul's immensity;
+     Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep
+     Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind,
+     That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,
+     Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,--
+                 Mighty prophet! Seer blest!
+                 On whom those truths do rest
+     Which we are toiling all our lives to find;
+     In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;
+     Thou, over whom thy immortality
+     Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave,
+     A presence which is not to be put by;
+     Thou little child, yet glorious in the might
+     Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,
+     Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
+     The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
+     Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
+     Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,
+     And custom lie upon thee with a weight
+     Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!
+
+             O joy! that in our embers
+             Is something that doth live,
+             That nature yet remembers
+             What was so fugitive!
+     The thought of our past years in me doth breed
+     Perpetual benediction: not indeed
+     For that which is most worthy to be blest,
+     Delight and liberty, the simple creed
+     Of childhood, whether busy or at rest,
+     With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:
+             --Not for these I raise
+             The song of thanks and praise;
+        But for those obstinate questionings
+        Of sense and outward things,
+        Fallings from us, vanishings,
+        Blank misgivings of a creature
+     Moving about in worlds not realised,
+     High instincts, before which our mortal nature
+     Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised:
+        But for those first affections,
+        Those shadowy recollections,
+             Which, be they what they may,
+     Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,
+     Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;
+        Uphold us--cherish--and have power to make
+     Our noisy years seem moments in the being
+     Of the eternal silence: truths that wake,
+                 To perish never;
+     Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour
+                 Nor man nor boy
+     Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
+     Can utterly abolish or destroy!
+        Hence, in a season of calm weather
+             Though inland far we be,
+     Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
+                 Which brought us hither;
+             Can in a moment travel thither--
+     And see the children sport upon the shore,
+     And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.
+
+     Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
+             And let the young lambs bound
+             As to the tabor's sound!
+        We, in thought, will join your throng
+             Ye that pipe and ye that play,
+             Ye that through your hearts to-day
+             Feel the gladness of the May!
+     What though the radiance which was once so bright
+     Be now for ever taken from my sight,
+        Though nothing can bring back the hour
+     Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
+             We will grieve not, rather find
+             Strength in what remains behind,
+             In the primal sympathy
+             Which having been must ever be,
+             In the soothing thoughts that spring
+             Out of human suffering,
+             In the faith that looks through death,
+     In years that bring the philosophic mind.
+
+     And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
+     Forebode not any severing of our loves!
+     Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
+     I only have relinquish'd one delight
+     To live beneath your more habitual sway;
+     I love the brooks which down their channels fret
+     Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they;
+     The innocent brightness of a new-born day
+                 Is lovely yet;
+     The clouds that gather round the setting sun
+     Do take a sober colouring from an eye
+     That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
+     Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
+     Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
+     Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
+     To me the meanest flower that blows can give
+     Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     288.
+
+        Music, when soft voices die,
+        Vibrates in the memory--
+        Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
+        Live within the sense they quicken.
+
+        Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
+        Are heap'd for the beloved's bed;
+        And so thy thoughts, when Thou art gone,
+        Love itself shall slumber on.
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+
+PALGRAVE'S NOTES.
+
+
+Poem 2.
+_Rouse Memnon's mother_: Awaken the Dawn from the dark Earth and the
+clouds where she is resting. Aurora in the old mythology is mother of
+Memnon (the East), and wife of Tithonus (the appearances of Earth and
+Sky during the last hours of Night). She leaves him every morning in
+renewed youth, to prepare the way for Phoebus (the Sun), whilst Tithonus
+remains in perpetual old age and grayness.
+
+_by Peneus' streams_: Phoebus loved the Nymph Daphne whom he met by the
+river Peneus in the vale of Tempe. This legend expressed the attachment
+of the Laurel (Daphne) to the Sun, under whose heat the tree both fades
+and flourishes. It has been thought worth while to explain these
+allusions, because they illustrate the character of the Grecian
+Mythology, which arose in the Personification of natural phenomena, and
+was totally free from those debasing and ludicrous ideas with which,
+through Roman and later misunderstanding or perversion, it has been
+associated.
+
+_Amphion's lyre_: He was said to have built the walls of Thebes to the
+sound of his music.
+
+_Night like a drunkard reels_: Compare Romeo and Juliet, Act II. Scene
+3: "The gray-eyed morn smiles," etc.--It should be added that three
+lines, which appeared hopelessly misprinted, have been omitted in this
+Poem.
+
+
+Poem 4.
+
+_Time's chest_: in which he is figuratively supposed to lay up past
+treasures. So in Troilus, Act III. Scene 3, "Time hath a wallet at his
+back," etc.
+
+
+Poem 5.
+
+A fine example of the high-wrought and conventional Elizabethan
+Pastoralism, which it would be ludicrous to criticise on the ground of
+the unshepherdlike or unreal character of some images suggested. Stanza
+6 was probably inserted by Izaak Walton.
+
+Poem 9.
+This Poem, with 25 and 94, is taken from Davison's "Rhapsody," first
+published in 1602. One stanza has been here omitted, in accordance with
+the principle noticed in the Preface. Similar omissions occur in 45, 87,
+100, 128, 160, 165, 227, 235. The more serious abbreviation by which it
+has been attempted to bring Crashaw's "Wishes" and Shelley's "Euganean
+Hills" within the limits of lyrical unity, is commended with much
+diffidence to the judgment of readers acquainted with the original
+pieces.
+
+_Presence_ in line 12 is here conjecturally printed for _present_. A
+very few similar corrections of (it is presumed) misprints have been
+made:--as _thy_ for _my_, 22, line 9: _men_ for _me_, 41, line 3: _viol_
+for _idol_, 252, line 43, and _one_ for _our_, line 90: _locks_ for
+_looks_, 271, line 5: _dome_ for _doom_, 275, line 25:--with two or
+three more less important.
+
+
+Poem 15.
+
+This charming little poem, truly "old and plain, and dallying with the
+innocence of love" like that spoken of in Twelfth Night, is taken with
+5, 17, 20, 34, and 40, from the most characteristic collection of
+Elizabeth's reign, "England's Helicon," first published in 1600.
+
+
+Poem 16.
+
+Readers who have visited Italy will be reminded of more than one picture
+by this gorgeous Vision of Beauty, equally sublime and pure in its
+Paradisaical naturalness. Lodge wrote it on a voyage to "the Islands of
+Terceras and the Canaries"; and he seems to have caught, in those
+southern seas, no small portion of the qualities which marked the almost
+contemporary Art of Venice,--the glory and the glow of Veronese, or
+Titian, or Tintoret, when he most resembles Titian, and all but
+surpasses him.
+
+_The clear_: is the crystalline or outermost heaven of the old
+cosmography. For _resembling_ other copies give _refining_: the correct
+reading is perhaps _revealing_.
+
+_For a fair there's fairer none_: If you desire a Beauty, there is none
+more beautiful than Rosaline.
+
+
+Poem 18.
+
+_that fair thou owest_: that beauty thou ownest.
+
+
+Poem 23.
+
+_the star Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken_:
+apparently, Whose stellar influence is uncalculated, although his
+angular altitude from the plane of the astrolabe or artificial horizon
+used by astrologers has been determined.
+
+
+Poem 27.
+
+_keel_: skim.
+
+
+Poem 29.
+
+_expense_: waste.
+
+
+Poem 30.
+
+_Nativity once in the main of light_: when a star has risen and entered
+on the full stream of light;--another of the astrological phrases no
+longer familiar.
+
+_Crooked eclipses_: as coming athwart the Sun's apparent course.
+
+Wordsworth, thinking probably of the "Venus" and the "Lucrece," said
+finely of Shakespeare "Shakespeare _could_ not have written an Epic; he
+would have died of plethora of thought." This prodigality of nature is
+exemplified equally in his Sonnets. The copious selection here given
+(which from the wealth of the material, required greater consideration
+than any other portion of the Editor's task) contains many that will not
+be fully felt and understood without some earnestness of thought on the
+reader's part. But he is not likely to regret the labour.
+
+
+Poem 31.
+
+_upon misprision growing_: either, granted in error, or, on the growth
+of contempt.
+
+
+Poem 32.
+
+With the tone of this Sonnet compare Hamlet's "Give me that man That is
+not passion's slave," etc. Shakespeare's writings show the deepest
+sensitiveness to passion:--hence the attraction he felt in the
+contrasting effects of apathy.
+
+
+Poem 33.
+
+_grame_: sorrow. It was long before English Poetry returned to the
+charming simplicity of this and a few other poems by Wyat.
+
+
+Poem 34.
+
+Pandion in the ancient fable was father to Philomela.
+
+
+Poem 38.
+
+_ramage_: confused noise.
+
+
+Poem 39.
+
+_censures_: judges.
+
+
+Poem 40.
+
+By its style this beautiful example of old simplicity and feeling may be
+referred to the early years of Elizabeth. _Late forgot_: lately.
+
+
+Poem 41.
+
+_haggards_: the least tameable hawks.
+
+
+Poem 44.
+
+_cypres_ or cyprus,--used by the old writers for _crape_: whether from
+the French _crespe_ or from the Island whence it was imported. Its
+accidental similarity in spelling to _cypress_ has, here and in Milton's
+Penseroso, probably confused readers.
+
+
+Poems 46, 47.
+
+"I never saw anything like this funeral dirge," says Charles Lamb,
+"except the ditty which reminds Ferdinand of his drowned father in the
+Tempest. As that is of the water, watery; so this is of the earth,
+earthy. Both have that intenseness of feeling, which seems to resolve
+itself into the element which it contemplates."
+
+
+Poem 51.
+
+_crystal_: fairness.
+
+
+Poem 53.
+
+This "Spousal Verse" was written in honour of the Ladies Elizabeth and
+Katherine Somerset. Although beautiful, it is inferior to the
+"Epithalamion" on Spenser's own marriage,--omitted with great reluctance
+as not in harmony with modern manners.
+
+_feateously_: elegantly.
+
+_shend_: put out.
+
+_a noble peer_: Robert Devereux, second Lord Essex, then at the height
+of his brief triumph after taking Cadiz: hence the allusion following to
+the Pillars of Hercules, placed near Gades by ancient legend.
+
+_Eliza_: Elizabeth; _twins of Jove_: the stars Castor and Pollux;
+_baldric_: belt, the zodiac.
+
+
+Poem 57.
+
+A fine example of a peculiar class of Poetry;--that written by
+thoughtful men who practised this Art but little. Wotton's, 72, is
+another. Jeremy Taylor, Bishop Berkeley, Dr. Johnson, Lord Macaulay,
+have left similar specimens.
+
+
+Poem 62.
+
+_whist_: hushed; _Pan_: used here for the Lord of all; _Lars and
+Lemures_: household Gods and spirits of relations dead; _Flamens_: Roman
+priests; _That twice-batter'd god_: Dagon.
+
+_Osiris_, the Egyptian god of Agriculture (here, perhaps by confusion
+with Apis, figured as a Bull), was torn to pieces by Typho and embalmed
+after death in a sacred chest. This myth, reproduced in Syria and Greece
+in the legends of Thammuz, Adonis, and perhaps Absyrtus, represents the
+annual death of the Sun or the Year under the influences of the winter
+darkness. Horus, the son of Osiris, as the New Year, in his turn
+overcomes Typho.--It suited the genius of Milton's time to regard this
+primaeval poetry and philosophy of the seasons, which has a further
+reference to the contest of Good and Evil in Creation, as a malignant
+idolatry. Shelley's Chorus in _Hellas_, "Worlds on worlds," treats the
+subject in a larger and sweeter spirit.
+
+_unshower'd grass_: as watered by the Nile only.
+
+
+Poem 64.
+
+_The Late Massacre_: the Vaudois persecution, carried on in 1655 by the
+Duke of Savoy. This "collect in verse," as it has been justly named, is
+the most mighty Sonnet in any language known to the Editor. Readers
+should observe that, unlike our sonnets of the sixteenth century, it is
+constructed , on the original Italian or Provençal model,--unquestionably
+far superior to the imperfect form employed by Shakespeare and Drummond.
+
+
+Poem 65.
+
+Cromwell returned from Ireland in 1650. Hence the prophecies, not
+strictly fulfilled, of his deference to the Parliament, in stanzas
+21-24.
+
+This Ode, beyond doubt one of the finest in our language, and more in
+Milton's style than has been reached by any other poet, is occasionally
+obscure from imitation of the condensed Latin syntax. The meaning of st.
+5 is "rivalry or hostility are the same to a lofty spirit, and
+limitation more hateful than opposition." The allusion in st. 11 is to
+the old physical doctrines of the non-existence of a vacuum and the
+impenetrability of matter:--in st. 17 to the omen traditionally
+connected with the foundation of the Capitol at Rome. The ancient belief
+that certain years in life complete natural periods and are hence
+peculiarly exposed to death, is introduced in stanza 26 by the word
+_climacteric_.
+
+
+Poem 66.
+
+_Lycidas_. The person lamented is Milton's college friend Edward King,
+drowned in 1637 whilst crossing from Chester to Ireland.
+
+Strict Pastoral Poetry was first written or perfected by the Dorian
+Greeks settled in Sicily: but the conventional use of it, exhibited more
+magnificently in _Lycidas_ than in any other pastoral, is apparently of
+Roman origin. Milton, employing the noble freedom of a great artist, has
+here united ancient mythology, with what may be called the modern
+mythology of Camus and Saint Peter,--to direct Christian images.--The
+metrical structure of this glorious poem is partly derived from Italian
+models.
+
+_Sisters of the sacred well_: the Muses, said to frequent the fountain
+Helicon on Mount Parnassus.
+
+_Mona_: Anglesea, called by the Welsh Inis Dowil or the Dark Island,
+from its dense forests.
+
+_Deva_: the Dee: a river which probably derived its magical character
+from Celtic traditions: it was long the boundary of Briton and
+Saxon.--These places are introduced, as being near the scene of the
+shipwreck.
+
+_Orpheus_ was torn to pieces by Thracian women; _Amaryllis_ and _Neaera_
+names used here for the love idols of poets: as _Damoetas_ previously
+for a shepherd.
+
+_the blind Fury_: Atropos, fabled to cut the thread of life.
+
+_Arethuse_ and _Mincius_: Sicilian and Italian waters here alluded to as
+synonymous with the pastoral poetry of Theocritus and Virgil.
+
+_oat_: pipe, used here like Collins' _oaten stop_, No. 146, for _Song_.
+
+_Hippotades_: Aeolus, god of the Winds. _Panope_ a Nereid. The names of
+local deities in the Hellenic mythology express generally some feature
+in the natural landscape, which the Greeks studied and analysed with
+their usual unequalled insight and feeling. Panope represents the
+boundlessness of the ocean-horizon when seen from a height, as compared
+with a limited horizon of the land in hilly countries such as Greece or
+Asia Minor.
+
+_Camus_: the Cam; put for King's University.
+
+_The sanguine flower_: the Hyacinth of the ancients; probably our Iris.
+
+_The pilot_: Saint Peter, figuratively introduced as the head of the
+Church on earth, to foretell "the ruin of our corrupted clergy, then in
+their heighth" under Laud's primacy.
+
+_the wolf_: Popery.
+
+_Alpheus_: a stream in Southern Greece, supposed to flow underseas to
+meet the Arethuse.
+
+_Swart star_: the Dogstar, called swarthy because its heliacal rising in
+ancient times occurred soon after mid-summer.
+
+_moist vows_: either tearful prayers, or prayers for one at sea.
+
+_Bellerus_: a giant, apparently created here by Milton to personify
+Bellerium, the ancient title of the Land's End.
+
+_The great Vision_:--The story was that the Archangel Michael had
+appeared on the rock by Marazion in Mount's Bay which bears his name.
+Milton calls on him to turn his eyes from the south homeward, and to
+pity Lycidas, if his body has drifted into the troubled waters of the
+Land's End. Finisterre being the land due south of Marazion, two places
+in that district (then by our trade with Corunna probably less
+unfamiliar to English ears), are named,--_Namancos_ now Mujio in
+Galicia, _Bayona_ north of the Minho, or, perhaps a fortified rock (one
+of the _Cies_ Islands) not unlike St. Michael's Mount, at the entrance
+of Vigo Bay.
+
+_ore_: rays of golden light. _Doric lay_: Sicilian, pastoral.
+
+
+Poem 70.
+
+_The assault_: was an attack on London expected in 1642, when the troops
+of Charles I. reached Brentford. "Written on his door" was in the
+original title of this sonnet. Milton was then living in Aldersgate
+Street.
+
+_Emathian Conqueror_: When Thebes was destroyed (B.C. 335) and the
+citizens massacred by thousands, Alexander ordered the house of Pindar
+to be spared. He was as incapable of appreciating the Poet as Lewis XIV.
+of appreciating Racine: but even the narrow and barbarian mind of
+Alexander could understand the advantage of a showy act of homage to
+Poetry.
+
+_the repeated air \Of sad Electra's poet_: Amongst Plutarch's vague
+stories, he says that when the Spartan confederacy in 404 B.C. took
+Athens, a proposal to demolish it was rejected through the effect
+produced on the commanders by hearing part of a chorus from the Electra
+of Euripides sung at a feast. There is however no apparent congruity
+between the lines quoted (167, 8 Ed. Dindorf) and the result ascribed to
+them.
+
+
+Poem 73.
+
+This high-toned and lovely Madrigal is quite in the style, and worthy
+of, the "pure Simonides."
+
+
+Poem 75.
+
+Vaughan's beautiful though quaint verses should be compared with
+Wordsworth's great Ode, No. 287.
+
+
+Poem 76.
+
+_Favonius_: the spring wind.
+
+
+Poem 77.
+
+_Themis_: the goddess of justice. Skinner was grandson by his mother to
+Sir E. Coke;--hence, as pointed out by Mr. Keightley, Milton's allusion
+to the _bench_.
+
+_what the Swede intends, and what the French_: Sweden was then at war
+with Poland, and France with the Spanish Netherlands.
+
+
+Poem 79.
+
+_Sydneian showers_: either in allusion to the conversations in the
+"Arcadia," or to Sidney himself as a model of "gentleness" in spirit and
+demeanour.
+
+
+Poem 84.
+
+_Elizabeth of Bohemia_: Daughter to James I., and ancestor to Sophia of
+Hanover. These lines are a fine specimen of gallant and courtly
+compliment.
+
+
+Poem 85.
+
+Lady M. Ley was daughter to Sir J. Ley, afterwards Earl of Marlborough,
+who died March, 1628-9, coincidently with the dissolution of the third
+Parliament of Charles's reign. Hence Milton poetically compares his
+death to that of the Orator Isocrates of Athens, after Philip's victory
+in 328 B.C.
+
+
+Poems 92, 93.
+
+These are quite a Painter's poems.
+
+
+Poem 99.
+
+_From Prison_: to which his active support of Charles I. twice brought
+the high-spirited writer.
+
+
+Poem 105.
+
+Inserted in Book II. as written in the character of a Soldier of Fortune
+in the Seventeenth Century.
+
+
+Poem 106.
+
+_Waly waly_: an exclamation of sorrow, the root and the pronunciation of
+which are preserved in the word _caterwaul_. _Brae_: hillside; _burn_:
+brook; _busk_: adorn. _Saint Anton's Well_: at the foot of Arthur's Seat
+by Edinburgh. _Cramasie_: crimson.
+
+
+Poem 107.
+
+_burd_: maiden.
+
+
+Poem 108.
+
+_corbies_: crows; _fail_: turf; _hause_: neck; _theek_: thatch.
+
+If not in their origin, in their present form this and the two preceding
+poems appear due to the Seventeenth Century, and have therefore been
+placed in Book II.
+
+
+Poem 111.
+
+The remark quoted in the note to No. 47 applies equally to these truly
+wonderful verses, which, like "Lycidas," may be regarded as a test of
+any reader's insight into the most poetical aspects of Poetry. The
+general differences between them are vast: but in imaginative intensity
+Marvell and Shelley are closely related. This poem is printed as a
+translation in Marvell's works: but the original Latin is obviously his
+own. The most striking verses in it, here quoted as the book is rare,
+answer more or less to stanzas 2 and 6:
+
+Alma Quies, teneo te! et te, germana Quietis, Simplicitas! vos ergo diu
+per templa, per urbes Quaesivi, regum perque alta palatia, frustra: Sed
+vos hortorum per opaca silentia, longe Celarunt plantae virides, et
+concolor umbra.
+
+
+Poems 112&113.
+
+_L'Allegro_ and _Il Penseroso_. It is a striking proof of Milton's
+astonishing power, that these, the earliest pure Descriptive Lyrics in
+our language, should still remain the best in a style which so many
+great poets have since attempted. The Bright and the Thoughtful aspects
+of Nature are their subjects: but each is preceded by a mythological
+introduction in a mixed Classical and Italian manner. The meaning of the
+first is that Gaiety is the child of Nature; of the second, that
+Pensiveness is the daughter of Sorrow and Genius.
+
+112: Perverse ingenuity has conjectured that for _Cerberus_ we should
+read _Erebus_, who in the Mythology is brother at once and husband of
+Night. But the issue of this union is not Sadness, but Day and
+Aether:--completing the circle of primary creation, as the parents are
+both children of Chaos, the first-begotten of all things. (Hesiod.)
+
+_the mountain nymph_: compare Wordsworth's Sonnet, No. 210.
+
+_The clouds in thousand liveries dight_: is in _apposition_ to the
+preceding, by a grammatical license not uncommon with Milton.
+
+_tells his tale_: counts his flock; _Cynosure_: the Pole Star; _Corydon,
+Thyrsis_, etc.: Shepherd names from the old Idylls; _Jonson's learned
+sock_: the gaiety of our age would find little pleasure in his elaborate
+comedies; _Lydian airs_: a light and festive style of ancient music.
+
+113: _bestead_: avail.
+
+_starr'd Ethiop queen_: Cassiopeia, the legendary Queen of Ethiopia, and
+thence translated amongst the constellations.
+
+_Cynthia_: the Moon: her chariot is drawn by dragons in ancient
+representations.
+
+_Hermes_: called Trismegistus, a mystical writer of the Neo-Platonist
+school; _Thebes_, etc.: subjects of Athenian Tragedy; _Buskin'd_:
+tragic; _Musaeus_: a poet in Mythology.
+
+_him that left half told_: Chaucer, in his incomplete "Squire's Tale."
+
+_great bards_: Ariosto, Tasso, and Spenser, are here intended.
+
+_frounced_: curled; _The Attic Boy_: Cephalus.
+
+
+Poem 114.
+
+Emigrants supposed to be driven towards America by the government of
+Charles I.
+
+_But apples_, etc.: A fine example of Marvell's imaginative hyperbole.
+
+
+Poem 115.
+
+_concent_: harmony.
+
+
+Poem 123.
+
+_The Bard_.: This Ode is founded on a fable that Edward I., after
+conquering Wales, put the native Poets to death. After lamenting his
+comrades (st. 2, 3) the Bard prophesies the fate of Edward II. and the
+conquests of Edward III. (4); his death and that of the Black Prince
+(5): of Richard II, with the wars of York and Lancaster, the murder of
+Henry VI. (the _meek usurper_), and of Edward V. and his brother (6). He
+turns to the glory and prosperity following the accession of the Tudors
+(7), through Elizabeth's reign (8): and concludes with a vision of the
+poetry of Shakespeare and Milton.
+
+_Glo'ster_: Gilbert de Clare, son-in-law to Edward; _Mortimer_: one of
+the Lords Marchers of Wales.
+
+_Arvon_: the shores of Carnarvonshire opposite Anglesey.
+
+_She-wolf_: Isabel of France, adulterous Queen of Edward II.; _Towers of
+Julius_: the Tower of London, built in part, according to tradition, by
+Julius Caesar.
+
+_bristled boar_: the badge of Richard III.
+
+_Half of thy heart_: Queen Eleanor died soon after the conquest of
+Wales.
+
+_Arthur_: Henry VII. named his eldest son thus, in deference to British
+feeling and legend.
+
+
+Poem 125.
+
+The Highlanders called the battle of Culloden, Drumossie.
+
+
+Poem 126.
+
+_lilting_: singing blithely; _loaning_: broad lane; _bughts_: pens;
+_scorning_: rallying; _dowie_: dreary; _daffin'_ and _gabbin'_: joking
+and chatting; _leglin_: milkpail; _shearing_: reaping; _bandsters_:
+sheaf-binders; _lyart_: grizzled; _runkled_: wrinkled; _fleeching_:
+coaxing; _gloaming_: twilight; _bogle_: ghost; _dool_: sorrow.
+
+
+Poem 128.
+
+The Editor has found no authoritative text of this poem, in his judgment
+superior to any other of its class in melody and pathos. Part is
+probably not later than the seventeenth century: in other stanzas a more
+modern hand, much resembling Scott's, is traceable. Logan's poem (127)
+exhibits a knowledge rather of the old legend than of the old verses.
+
+_Hecht_: promised, the obsolete _hight_; _mavis_: thrush; _ilka_: every;
+_lav'rock_: lark; _haughs_: valley-meadows; _twined_: parted from;
+_marrow_: mate; _syne_ then.
+
+
+Poem 129.
+
+The _Royal George_, of 108 guns, whilst undergoing a partial careening
+in Portsmouth Harbour, was overset about 10 A.M. Aug. 29, 1782. The
+total loss was believed to be near 1000 souls.
+
+
+Poem 131.
+
+A little masterpiece in a very difficult style: Catullus himself could
+hardly have bettered it. In grace, tenderness, simplicity, and humour it
+is worthy of the Ancients; and even more so, from the completeness and
+unity of the picture presented.
+
+
+Poem 136.
+
+Perhaps no writer who has given such strong proofs of the poetic nature
+has left less satisfactory poetry than Thomson. Yet he touched little
+which he did not beautify: and this song, with "Rule Britannia" and a
+few others, must make us regret that he did not more seriously apply
+himself to lyrical writing.
+
+
+Poem 140.
+
+_Aeolian lyre_: the Greeks ascribed the origin of their Lyrical Poetry
+to the colonies of Aeolis in Asia Minor.
+
+_Thracia's hills_ supposed a favourite resort of Mars.
+
+_Feather'd king_ the Eagle of Jupiter, admirably described by Pindar in
+a passage here imitated by Gray.
+
+_Idalia_: in Cyprus, where _Cytherea_ (Venus) was especially worshipped.
+
+_Hyperion_: the Sun. St. 6-8 allude to the Poets of the Islands and
+Mainland of Greece, to those of Rome and of England.
+
+_Theban Eagle_: Pindar.
+
+
+Poem 141.
+
+_chaste-eyed Queen_: Diana.
+
+
+Poem 142.
+
+_Attic warbler_: the nightingale.
+
+
+Poem 144.
+
+_sleekit_: sleek; _bickering brattle_: flittering flight; _laith_: loth;
+_pattle_: ploughstaff; _whyles_: at times; _a daimen icker_: a corn-ear
+now and then; _thrave_: shock; _lave_: rest; _foggage_: aftergrass;
+_snell_: biting; _but hald_: without dwelling-place; _thole_: bear;
+_cranreuch_: hoarfrost; _thy lane_: alone; _a-gley_: off the right
+line, awry.
+
+
+Poem 147.
+
+Perhaps the noblest stanzas in our language.
+
+
+Poem 148.
+
+_stoure_: dust-storm; _braw_: smart.
+
+
+Poem 149.
+
+_scaith_: hurt; _tent_: guard; _steer_: molest.
+
+
+Poem 151.
+
+_drumlie_: muddy; _birk_: birch.
+
+
+Poem 152.
+
+_greet_: cry; _daurna_: dare not.--There can hardly exist a poem more
+truly tragic in the highest sense than this: nor, except Sappho, has any
+Poetess known to the Editor equalled it in excellence.
+
+
+Poem 153.
+
+_fou_: merry with drink; _coost_: carried; _unco skeigh_: very proud;
+_gart_: forced; _abeigh_: aside; _Ailsa craig_: a rock in the Firth of
+Clyde; _grat his een bleert_: cried till his eyes were bleared;
+_lowpin_: leaping; _linn_: waterfall; _sair_: sore; _smoor'd_:
+smothered; _crouse and canty_: blythe and gay.
+
+
+Poem 154.
+
+Burns justly named this "one of the most beautiful songs in the Scots or
+any other language." One verse, interpolated by Beattie, is here
+omitted:--it contains two good lines, but is quite out of harmony with
+the original poem.
+
+_Bigonet_: little cap, probably altered from _beguinette_; _thraw_:
+twist; _caller_: fresh.
+
+
+Poem 155.
+
+_airts_: quarters; _row_: roll; _shaw_: small wood in a hollow, spinney;
+_knowes_: knolls.
+
+
+Poem 156.
+
+_jo_: sweetheart; _brent_: smooth; _pow_: head.
+
+
+Poem 157.
+
+_leal_: faithful; _fain_: happy.
+
+
+Poem 158.
+
+Henry VI. founded Eton.
+
+
+Poem 161.
+
+The Editor knows no Sonnet more remarkable than this, which, with 162,
+records Cowper's gratitude to the Lady whose affectionate care for many
+years gave what sweetness he could enjoy to a life radically wretched.
+Petrarch's sonnets have a more ethereal grace and a more perfect finish;
+Shakespeare's more passion; Milton's stand supreme in stateliness,
+Wordsworth's in depth and delicacy. But Cowper's unites with an
+exquisiteness in the turn of thought which the ancients would have
+called Irony, an intensity of pathetic tenderness peculiar to his loving
+and ingenuous nature. There is much mannerism, much that is unimportant
+or of now exhausted interest in his poems: but where he is great, it is
+with that elementary greatness which rests on the most universal human
+feelings. Cowper is our highest master in simple pathos.
+
+
+Poem 163.
+
+_fancied green_: cherished garden.
+
+
+Poem 164.
+
+Nothing except his surname appears recoverable with regard to the author
+of this truly noble poem: It should be noted as exhibiting a rare
+excellence,--the climax of simple sublimity.
+
+It is a lesson of high instructiveness to examine the essential
+qualities which give first-rate poetical rank to lyrics such as
+"To-morrow" or "Sally in our Alley," when compared with poems written
+(if the phrase may be allowed) in keys so different as the subtle
+sweetness of Shelley, the grandeur of Gray and Milton, or the delightful
+Pastoralism of the Elizabethan verse. Intelligent readers will gain
+hence a clear understanding of the vast imaginative, range of
+Poetry;--through what wide oscillations the mind and the taste of a
+nation may pass;--how many are the roads which Truth and Nature open to
+Excellence.
+
+
+Poem 166.
+
+_stout Cortez_: History requires here Balbóa: (A.T.) It may be noticed,
+that to find in Chapman's Homer the "pure serene" of the original, the
+reader must bring with him the imagination of the youthful poet;--he
+must be "a Greek himself," as Shelley finely said of Keats.
+
+
+Poem 169.
+
+The most tender and true of Byron's smaller poems.
+
+
+Poem 170.
+
+This poem, with 236, exemplifies the peculiar skill with which Scott
+employs proper names: nor is there a surer sign of high poetical genius.
+
+
+Poem 191.
+
+The Editor in this and in other instances has risked the addition (or
+the change) of a Title, that the aim of the verses following may be
+grasped more clearly and immediately.
+
+
+Poem 198.
+
+_Nature's Eremite_: refers to the fable of the Wandering Jew.--This
+beautiful sonnet was the last word of a poet deserving the title
+"marvellous boy" in a much higher sense than Chatterton. If the
+fulfilment may ever safely be prophesied from the promise, England
+appears to have lost in Keats one whose gifts in Poetry have rarely been
+surpassed. Shakespeare, Milton, and Wordsworth, had their lives been
+closed at twenty-five, would (so far as we know) have left poems of less
+excellence and hope than the youth who, from the petty school and the
+London surgery, passed at once to a place with them of "high collateral
+glory."
+
+
+Poem 201.
+
+It is impossible not to regret that Moore has written so little in this
+sweet and genuinely national style.
+
+
+Poem 202.
+
+A masterly example of Byron's command of strong thought and close
+reasoning in verse:--as the next is equally characteristic of Shelley's
+wayward intensity, and 204 of the dramatic power, the vital
+identification of the poet with other times and characters, in which
+Scott is second only to Shakespeare.
+
+
+Poem 209.
+
+Bonnivard, a Genevese, was imprisoned by the Duke of Savoy in Chillon on
+the lake of Geneva for his courageous defence of his country against the
+tyranny with which Piedmont threatened it during the first half of the
+seventeenth century. This noble Sonnet is worthy to stand near Milton's
+on the Vaudois massacre.
+
+
+Poem 210.
+
+Switzerland was usurped by the French under Napoleon in 1800: Venice in
+1797 (211).
+
+
+Poem 215.
+
+This battle was fought Dec. 2, 1800, between the Austrians under
+Archduke John and the French under Moreau, in a forest near Munich.
+_Hohen Linden_ means _High Limetrees_.
+
+
+Poem 218.
+
+After the capture of Madrid by Napoleon, Sir J. Moore retreated before
+Soult and Ney to Corunna, and was killed whilst covering the embarcation
+of his troops. His tomb, built by Ney, bears this inscription--"John
+Moore, leader of the English armies, slain in battle, 1809."
+
+
+Poem 229.
+
+The Mermaid was the club-house of Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, and other
+choice spirits of that age.
+
+
+Poem 230.
+
+_Maisie_: Mary. Scott has given us nothing more complete and lovely than
+this little song, which unites simplicity and dramatic power to a
+wild-wood music of the rarest quality. No moral is drawn, far less any
+conscious analysis of feeling attempted:--the pathetic meaning is left
+to be suggested by the mere presentiment of the situation. Inexperienced
+critics have often named this, which may be called the Homeric manner,
+superficial, from its apparent simple facility: but first-rate
+excellence in it (as shown here, in 196, 156, and 129) is in truth one
+of the least common triumphs of Poetry.--This style should be compared
+with what is not less perfect in its way, the searching out of inner
+feeling, the expression of hidden meanings, the revelation of the heart
+of Nature and of the Soul within the Soul,--the analytical method, in
+short,--most completely represented by Wordsworth and by Shelley.
+
+
+Poem 234.
+
+_correi_: covert on a hillside; _Cumber_: trouble.
+
+
+Poem 235.
+
+Two intermediate stanzas have been here omitted. They are very
+ingenious, but, of all poetical qualities, ingenuity is least in
+accordance with pathos.
+
+
+Poem 243.
+
+This poem has an exaltation and a glory, joined with an exquisiteness of
+expression, which place it in the highest rank amongst the many
+masterpieces of its illustrious Author.
+
+
+Poem 252.
+
+_interlunar swoon_: interval of the Moon's invisibility.
+
+
+Poem 256.
+
+_Calpe_: Gibraltar; _Lofoden_: the Maelstrom whirlpool off the N.-W.
+coast of Norway.
+
+
+Poem 257.
+
+This lovely poem refers here and there to a ballad by Hamilton on the
+subject better treated in 127 and 128.
+
+
+Poem 268.
+
+_Arcturi_: seemingly used for _northern stars_.
+
+_And wild roses_, etc. Our language has no line modulated with more
+subtle sweetness. A good poet _might_ have written _And roses
+wild_:--yet this slight change would disenchant the verse of its peculiar
+beauty.
+
+
+Poem 270.
+
+_Ceres' daughter_: Proserpine; _God of Torment_: Pluto.
+
+
+Poem 271.
+
+This impassioned address expresses Shelley's most rapt imaginations, and
+is the direct modern representative of the feeling which led the Greeks
+to the worship of Nature.
+
+
+Poem 274.
+
+The leading idea of this beautiful description of a day's landscape in
+Italy is expressed with an obscurity not unfrequent with its author. It
+appears to be,--On the voyage of life are many moments of pleasure,
+given by the sight of Nature, who has power to heal even the worldliness
+and the uncharity of man.
+
+_Amphitrite_ was daughter to Ocean.
+
+_Sun-girt City_: It is difficult not to believe that the correct reading
+is _Seagirt_. Many of Shelley's poems appear to have been printed in
+England during his residence abroad: others were printed from his
+manuscripts after his death. Hence probably the text of no English Poet
+after 1660 contains so many errors. See the Note on No. 9.
+
+
+Poem 275.
+
+_Maenad_: a frenzied Nymph, attendant on Dionysus in the Greek
+mythology.
+
+_The sea-blooms_, etc.: Plants under water sympathise with the seasons
+of the laud, and hence with the winds which affect them.
+
+
+Poem 276.
+
+Written soon after the death, by shipwreck, of Wordsworth's brother
+John. This Poem should be compared with Shelley's following it. Each is
+the most complete expression of the innermost spirit of his art given by
+these great Poets:--of that Idea which, as in the case of the true
+Painter (to quote the words of Reynolds), "subsists only in the mind:
+The sight never beheld it, nor has the hand expressed it; it is an idea
+residing in the breast of the artist, which he is always labouring to
+impart, and which he dies at last without imparting."
+
+
+Poem 278.
+
+Proteus represented the everlasting changes united with ever-recurrent
+sameness, of the Sea.
+
+
+Poem 279.
+
+_the Royal Saint_: Henry VI.
+
+
+
+
+   INDEX OF WRITERS.
+
+
+   WITH DATES OF BIRTH AND DEATH.
+
+
+   ALEXANDER, William (1580-1640) 22
+
+   BACON, Francis (1561-1626) 57
+   BARBAULD, Anna Laetitia (1743-1825) 165
+   BARNEFIELD, Richard (16th Century) 34
+   BEAUMONT, Francis (1586-1616) 67
+   BURNS, Robert (1759-1796) 125, 132, 139, 144, 148, 149, 150, 151, 153,
+   155, 156
+   BYRON, George Gordon Noel (1788-1824) 169, 171, 173 190, 202; 209, 222,
+   232
+
+   CAMPBELL, Thomas (1777-1844) 181, 183, 187, 197, 206, 207, 215, 256,
+   262, 267, 283
+   CAREW, Thomas (1589-1639) 87
+   CAREY, Henry (-- -1743) 131
+   CIBBER, Colley (1671-1757) 119
+   COLERIDGE, Hartley (1796-1849) 175
+   COLERIDGE, Samuel Taylor (1772-1834) 168, 280
+   COLLINS, William (1720-1756) 124, 141, 146
+   COLLINS, --- (18th Century) 164
+   CONSTABLE, Henry (156-?-1604?) 15
+   COWLEY, Abraham (1618-1667) 102
+   COWPER, William (1731-1800) 129, 134, 143, 160, 161, 162
+   CRASHAW, Richard (1615?-1652) 79
+   CUNNINGHAM, Allan (1784-1842) 205
+
+   DANIEL, Samuel (1562-1619) 35
+   DEKKER, Thomas (-- -1638?) 54
+   DRAYTON, Michael (1563-1631) 37
+   DRUMMOND, William (1585-1649) 2, 38, 43, 55, 58, 59, 61
+   DRYDEN, John (1631-1700) 63, 116
+
+   ELLIOTT, Jane (18th Century) 126
+
+   FLETCHER, John (1576-1625) 104
+
+   GAY, John (1688-1732) 130
+   GOLDSMITH, Oliver (1728-1774) 138
+   GRAHAM, --- (1735-1797) 133
+   GRAY, Thomas (1716-1771) 117, 120, 123, 140, 142, 147, 158, 159
+
+   HERBERT, George (1593-1632) 74
+   HERRICK, Robert (1591-1674?) 82, 88, 92, 93, 96, 109, 110
+   HEYWOOD, Thomas (-- -1649?) 52
+   HOOD, Thomas (1798-1845) 224, 231, 235
+
+   JONSON, Ben (1574-1637) 73, 78, 90
+
+   KEATS, John (1795-1821) 166, 167, 191, 193, 198, 229, 244, 255, 270, 284
+
+   LAMB, Charles (1775-1835) 220, 233, 237
+   LINDSAY, Anne (1750-1825) 152
+   LODGE, Thomas (1556-1625) 16
+   LOGAN, John (1748-1788) 127
+   LOVELACE, Richard (1618-1658) 83, 99, 100
+   LYLYE, John (1554-1600) 51
+
+   MARLOWE, Christopher (1562-1593) 5
+   MARVELL, Andrew (1620-1678) 65, 111, 114
+   MICKLE, William Julius (1734-1788) 154
+   MILTON, John (1608-1674) 62, 64, 66, 70, 71, 76, 77, 85, 112, 113, 115
+   MOORE, Thomas (1780-1852) 185, 201, 217, 221, 225
+
+   NAIRN, Carolina (1766-1845) 157
+   NASH, Thomas (1567-1601?) 1
+
+   PHILIPS, Ambrose (1671-1749) 121
+   POPE, Alexander (1688-1744) 118
+   PRIOR, Matthew (1664-1721) 137
+
+   ROGERS, Samuel (1762-1855) 135, 145
+
+   SCOTT, Walter (1771-1832) 105, 170, 182, 186, 192, 194, 196, 204, 230,
+   234, 236, 239, 263
+   SEDLEY, Charles (1639-1701) 81, 98
+   SEWELL, George (-- -1726) 163
+   SHAKESPEARE, William (1564-1616) 3, 4, 6, 7, 8, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 18,
+   19, 20, 23, 24, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 36, 39, 42, 44, 45, 46, 48, 49
+   50, 56, 60
+   SHELLEY, Percy Bysshe (1792-1822) 172, 176, 184, 188, 195, 203, 226,
+   227, 241, 246, 252, 259, 260, 264, 265, 268, 271, 274, 275, 277, 285,
+   288
+   SHIRLEY, James (1596-1666) 68, 69
+   SIDNEY, Philip (1554-1586) 24
+   SOUTHEY, Robert (1774-1843) 216, 228
+   SPENSER, Edmund (1553-1598/9) 53
+   SUCKLING, John (1608/9-1641) 101
+   SYLVESTER, Joshua (1563-1618) 25
+   THOMSON, James (1700-1748) 122, 136
+
+   VAUGHAN, Henry (1621-1695) 75
+   VERE, Edward (1534-1604) 41
+
+   WALLER, Edmund (1605-1687) 89, 95
+   WEBSTER, John (-- -1638?) 47
+   WITHER, George (1588-1667) 103
+   WOLFE, Charles (1791-1823) 218
+   WORDSWORTH, William (1770-1850) 174, 177, 178, 179, 180, 189, 200, 208,
+   210, 211, 212, 213, 214, 219, 223, 238, 240, 242, 243, 245, 247, 248,
+   249, 250, 251, 253, 254, 257, 258, 261, 266, 269, 272, 273, 276, 278,
+   279, 281, 282, 286, 287
+   WOTTON, Henry (1568-1639) 72, 84
+   WYAT, Thomas (1503-1542) 21, 33
+
+   UNKNOWN: 9, 17, 40, 80, 86, 91, 94, 97, 106, 107, 108, 128
+
+
+
+
+
+   INDEX OF FIRST LINES.
+
+   Absence, hear thou my protestation
+   A Chieftain to the Highlands bound
+   A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by
+   Ah, Chloris! could I now but sit
+   Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh
+   All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd
+   All thoughts, all passions, all delights
+   And are ye sure the news is true?
+   And is this Yarrow?--This the Stream
+   And thou art dead, as young and fair
+   And wilt thou leave me thus?
+   Ariel to Miranda:--Take
+   Art thou pale for weariness
+   Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?
+   As it fell upon a day
+   As I was walking all alane
+   A slumber did my spirit seal
+   As slow our ship her foamy track
+   A sweet disorder in the dress
+   At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears
+    At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly
+   Avenge, O Lord! Thy slaughter'd Saints, whose bones
+   Awake, Aeolian lyre, awake
+   Awake, awake, my Lyre!
+   A weary lot is thine, fair maid
+   A wet sheet and a flowing sea
+   A widow bird sate mourning for her Love
+
+
+   Bards of Passion and of Mirth
+   Beauty sat bathing by a spring
+   Behold her, single in the field
+   Being your slave, what should I do but tend
+   Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed
+   Best and brightest, come away
+   Bid me to live, and I will live
+   Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy
+   Blow, blow, thou winter wind
+   Bright Star! would I were steadfast as thou art
+
+
+   Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren
+   Calm was the day, and through the trembling air
+   Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in Arms
+   Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night
+   Come away, come away, death
+   Come live with me and be my Love
+   Crabbed Age and Youth
+   Cupid and my Campaspe play'd
+   Cyriack, whose grandsire, on the royal bench
+
+
+   Daughter of Jove, relentless power
+   Daughter to that good earl, once President
+   Degenerate Douglas! O the unworthy lord!
+   Diaphenia like the daffadowndilly
+   Doth then the world go thus, doth all thus move?
+   Down in yon garden sweet and gay
+   Drink to me only with thine eyes
+   Duncan Gray cam here to woo
+
+
+   Earl March look'd on his dying child
+   Earth has not anything to show more fair
+   Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind!
+   Ethereal Minstrel! Pilgrim of the sky!
+   Ever let the Fancy roam
+
+
+   Fair Daffodils, we weep to see
+   Fair pledges of a fruitful tree
+   Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing
+   Fear no more the heat o' the sun
+   For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove
+   Forget not yet the tried intent
+   Four Seasons fill the measure of the year
+   From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony
+   From Stirling Castle we had seen
+   Full fathom five thy father lies
+
+
+   Gather ye rose-buds while ye may
+   Gem of the crimson-colour'd Even
+   Go fetch to me a pint o' wine
+   Go, lovely Rose!
+
+
+   Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
+   Happy the man, whose wish and care
+   Happy those early days, when I
+   He is gone on the mountain
+   He that loves a rosy cheek
+   Hence, all you vain delights
+   Hence, loathéd Melancholy
+   Hence, vain deluding Joys
+   How delicious is the winning
+   How happy is he born and taught
+   How like a winter hath my absence been
+   How sleep the Brave, who sink to rest
+   How sweet the answer Echo makes
+   How vainly men themselves amaze
+
+
+   I am monarch of all I survey
+   I arise from dreams of thee
+   I dream'd that as I wander'd by the way
+   If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song
+   If doughty deeds my lady please
+   I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden
+   If Thou survive my well-contented day
+   If to be absent were to be
+   If women could be fair, and yet not fond
+   I have had playmates, I have had companions
+   I heard a thousand blended notes
+   I met a traveller from an antique land
+   I'm wearing awa', Jean
+   In a drear-nighted December
+   In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining
+   In the sweet shire of Cardigan
+   I remember, I remember
+   I saw where in the shroud did lurk
+   It is a beauteous evening, calm and free
+   It is not Beauty I demand
+   It is not growing like a tree
+   I travell'd among unknown men
+   It was a lover and his lass
+   It was a summer evening
+   I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking
+   I wander'd lonely as a cloud
+   I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile!
+   I wish I were where Helen lies
+
+
+   John Anderson, my jo, John
+
+
+   Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son
+   Let me not to the marriage of true minds
+   Life! I know not what thou art
+   Life of Life! thy lips enkindle
+   Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore
+   Like to the clear in highest sphere
+   Love not me for comely grace
+   Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours
+
+
+   Many a green isle needs must be
+   Mary! I want a lyre with other strings
+   Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour
+   Mine be a cot beside the hill
+   Mortality, behold and fear
+   Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes
+   Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold
+   Music, when soft voices die
+   My days among the Dead are past
+   My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
+   My heart leaps up when I behold
+   My Love in her attire doth show her wit
+   My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow
+   My thoughts hold mortal strife
+   My true-love hath my heart, and I have his
+
+
+   No longer mourn for me when I am dead
+   Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note
+   Not, Celia, that I juster am
+   Now the golden Morn aloft
+   Now the last day of many days
+
+
+   O blithe new-comer! I have heard
+   O Brignall banks are wild and fair
+   Of all the girls that are so smart
+   Of a' the airts the wind can blaw
+   Of Nelson and the North
+   O Friend! I know not which way I must look
+   Of this fair volume which we World do name
+   Oft in the stilly night
+   O if thou knew'st how thou thyself dost harm
+   Oh, lovers' eyes are sharp to see
+   Oh, snatch'd away in beauty's bloom!
+   O listen, listen, ladies gay!
+   O Mary, at thy window be
+   O me! what eyes hath love put in my head
+   O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
+   O my Luve's like a red, red rose
+   On a day, alack the day!
+   On a Poet's lips I slept
+   Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee
+   One more Unfortunate
+   One word is too often profaned
+   O never say that I was false of heart
+   On Linden, when the sun was low
+   O saw ye bonnie Lesley
+   O say what is that thing call'd Light
+   O talk not to me of a name great in story
+   Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd
+   Over the mountains
+   O waly waly up the bank
+   O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms
+   O Wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being
+   O World! O Life! O Time!
+
+
+   Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day
+   Phoebus, arise!
+   Pibroch of Donuil Dhu
+   Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth
+   Proud Maisie is in the wood
+
+
+   Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair
+
+
+   Rarely, rarely, comest thou
+   Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!
+
+
+   Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness
+   Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
+   Shall I, wasting in despair
+   She dwelt among the untrodden ways
+   She is not fair to outward view
+   She walks in beauty, like the night
+   She was a phantom of delight
+   Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea
+   Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part
+   Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile
+   Souls of Poets dead and gone
+   Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king
+   Star that bringest home the bee
+   Stern Daughter of the voice of God!
+   Surprised by joy--impatient as the wind
+   Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes
+   Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower
+   Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade
+   Swiftly walk over the western wave
+
+
+   Take, O take those lips away
+   Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense
+   Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind
+   Tell me where is Fancy bred
+   That time of year thou may'st in me behold
+   That which her slender waist confined
+   The curfew tolls the knell of parting day
+   The forward youth that would appear
+   The fountains mingle with the river
+   The glories of our blood and state
+   The last and greatest Herald of Heaven's King
+   The lovely lass o' Inverness
+   The merchant, to secure his treasure
+   The more we live, more brief appear
+   The poplars are fell'd! farewell to the shade
+   The sun is warm, the sky is clear
+   The sun upon the lake is low
+   The twentieth year is well-nigh past
+   The World is too much with us; late and soon
+   The World's a bubble, and the Life of Man
+   There be none of Beauty's daughters
+   There is a flower, the lesser Celandine
+   There is a garden in her face
+   There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away
+   There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream
+   They that have power to hurt, and will do none
+   This is the month, and this the happy morn
+   This life, which seems so fair
+   Three years she grew in sun and shower
+   Thy braes were bonnie, Yarrow stream
+   Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright
+   Timely blossom, Infant fair
+   Tired with all these, for restful death I cry
+   Toll for the brave
+   To me, fair Friend, you never can be old
+   'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won
+   'Twas on a lofty vase's side
+   Two Voices are there, one is of the Sea
+
+
+   Under the greenwood tree
+
+
+   Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying
+   Victorious men of earth, no more
+
+
+   Waken, lords and ladies gay
+   Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie
+   Were I as base as is the lowly plain
+   We talk'd with open heart, and tongue
+   We walk'd along, while bright and red
+   We watch'd her breathing thro' the night
+   Whenas in silks my Julia goes
+   When Britain first at Heaven's command
+   When first the fiery-mantled Sun
+   When God at first made Man
+   When he who adores thee has left but the name
+   When icicles hang by the wall
+   When I consider how my light is spent
+   When I have borne in memory what has tamed
+   When I have fears that I may cease to be
+   When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced
+   When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes
+   When in the chronicle of wasted time
+   When lovely woman stoops to folly
+   When Love with unconfined wings
+   When maidens such as Hester die
+   When Music, heavenly maid, was young
+   When Ruth was left half desolate
+   When the lamp is shatter'd
+   When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame
+   When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
+   When we two parted
+   Where art thou, my beloved Son
+   Where shall the lover rest
+   Where the remote Bermudas ride
+   While that the sun with his beams hot
+   Whoe'er she be
+   Why art thou silent? Is thy love a plant
+   Why, Damon, with the forward day
+   Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
+   Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?
+   With little here to do or see
+
+
+   Ye banks and braes and streams around
+   Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon
+   Ye distant spires, ye antique towers
+   Ye Mariners of England
+   Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!
+   Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more
+   You meaner beauties of the night
+
+
+
+
+
+   Corrections to Collins edition:
+
+   Poem 143--"W. COUPER" to "W. COWPER"
+   Poem 274--"like a green see" to "like a green sea"
+   Poem 280--"woful Ere" to "woeful Ere"
+   Palgrave's Notes--Poem 62: "mythe" to "myth"
+   Palgrave's Notes--Poem 85: "Parliamant" to "Parliament"
+   Palgrave's Notes--Poem 140: "Acolian lyre" to "Aeolian lyre"
+   Palgrave's Notes--Poem 140: "were Cytheria" to "where Cytheria"
+   Palgrave's Notes--Poem 275: "Geeek" to "Greek"
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Golden Treasury, by Various
+
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+    The Golden Treasury
+</title>
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+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Golden Treasury, by Various
+
+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: The Golden Treasury
+       Of the Best Songs and Lyrical Poems in the English Language
+
+Author: Various
+
+Release Date: September 9, 2006 [EBook #19221]
+Last Updated: March 5, 2013
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GOLDEN TREASURY ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by James Tenison
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+<br />
+<br />
+
+<h1>
+    THE GOLDEN TREASURY
+</h1>
+<h2>
+Of the best Songs and Lyrical Pieces<br />
+
+In the English Language
+</h2>
+<h1>
+Selected by Francis Turner Palgrave
+</h1>
+<h2>
+Illustrated by  A. Pearse
+</h2>
+<h4>
+London and Glasgow
+Collins' Clear-Type Press
+</h4>
+
+
+
+
+<br />
+<br />
+<hr>
+<br />
+<br />
+
+
+
+<h2>Contents</h2>
+<center>
+<table summary="">
+<tr><td>
+
+
+
+<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0001">
+DEDICATION
+</a></p>
+<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_PREF">
+PREFACE.
+</a></p>
+<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0003">
+THE GOLDEN TREASURY.
+</a></p>
+<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0004">
+FIRST BOOK.
+</a></p>
+<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_SUMM">
+SUMMARY.
+</a></p>
+<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0006">
+SECOND BOOK.
+</a></p>
+<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_SUMM2">
+SUMMARY.
+</a></p>
+<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0008">
+THIRD BOOK.
+</a></p>
+<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_SUMM3">
+SUMMARY.
+</a></p>
+<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0010">
+FOURTH BOOK.
+</a></p>
+<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_SUMM4">
+SUMMARY.
+</a></p>
+<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0012">
+PALGRAVE'S NOTES.
+</a></p>
+
+
+</td></tr>
+</table>
+</center>
+
+
+<a name="2H_4_0001"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>
+
+<h2>
+    DEDICATION
+</h2>
+<h3>
+    To
+</h3>
+<h2>
+ALFRED TENNYSON
+</h2>
+<h3>
+POET LAUREATE.
+</h3>
+<p>
+This book in its progress has recalled often to my memory a man with
+whose friendship we were once honoured, to whom no region of English
+literature was unfamiliar, and who, whilst rich in all the noble gifts
+of nature, was most eminently distinguished by the noblest and the
+rarest,&mdash;just judgment and high-hearted patriotism. It would have been
+hence a peculiar pleasure and pride to dedicate what I have endeavoured
+to make a true national Anthology of three centuries to Henry Hallam.
+But he is beyond the reach of any human tokens of love and reverence;
+and I desire therefore to place before it a name united with his by
+associations which, whilst Poetry retains her hold on the minds of
+Englishmen, are not likely to be forgotten.
+</p>
+<p>
+Your encouragement, given while traversing the wild scenery of Treryn
+Dinas, led me to begin the work; and it has been completed under your
+advice and assistance. For the favour now asked I have thus a second
+reason: and to this I may add, the homage which is your right as Poet,
+and the gratitude due to a Friend, whose regard I rate at no common
+value.
+</p>
+<p>
+Permit me then to inscribe to yourself a book which, I hope, may be
+found by many a lifelong fountain of innocent and exalted pleasure; a
+source of animation to friends when they meet; and able to sweeten
+solitude itself with best society,&mdash;with the companionship of the wise
+and the good, with the beauty which the eye cannot see, and the music
+only heard in silence. If this Collection proves a store-house of
+delight to Labour and to Poverty,&mdash;if it teaches those indifferent to
+the Poets to love them, and those who love them to love them more, the
+aim and the desire entertained in framing it will be fully accomplished.
+</p>
+<p>
+F.T.P.
+May, 1861.
+</p>
+<a name="2H_PREF"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>
+
+<h2>
+    PREFACE.
+</h2>
+<p>
+This little Collection differs, it is believed, from others in the
+attempt made to include in it all the best original Lyrical pieces and
+Songs in our language, by writers not living,&mdash;and none beside the best.
+Many familiar verses will hence be met with; many also which should be
+familiar:&mdash;the Editor will regard as his fittest readers those who love
+Poetry so well, that he can offer them nothing not already known and
+valued. For those who take up the book in a serious and scholarly
+spirit, the following remarks on the plan and the execution are added.
+</p>
+<p>
+The Editor is acquainted with no strict and exhaustive definition of
+Lyrical Poetry; but he has found the task of practical decision increase
+in clearness and in facility as he advanced with the work, whilst
+keeping in view a few simple principles. Lyrical has been here held
+essentially to imply that each Poem shall turn on some single thought,
+feeling, or situation. In accordance with this, narrative, descriptive,
+and didactic poems,&mdash;unless accompanied by rapidity of movement,
+brevity, and the colouring of human passion,&mdash;have been excluded.
+Humorous poetry, except in the very unfrequent instances where a truly
+poetical tone pervades the whole, with what is strictly personal,
+occasional, and religious, has been considered foreign to the idea of
+the book. Blank verse and the ten-syllable couplet, with all pieces
+markedly dramatic, have been rejected as alien from what is commonly
+understood by Song, and rarely conforming to Lyrical conditions in
+treatment. But it is not anticipated, nor is it possible, that all
+readers shall think the line accurately drawn. Some poems, as Gray's
+<i>Elegy</i>, the <i>Allegro</i> and <i>Penseroso</i>, Wordsworth's <i>Ruth</i> or
+Campbell's <i>Lord Ullin</i>, might be claimed with perhaps equal justice for
+a narrative or descriptive selection: whilst with reference especially
+to Ballads and Sonnets, the Editor can only state that he has taken his
+utmost pains to decide without caprice or partiality.
+</p>
+<p>
+This also is all he can plead in regard to a point even more liable to
+question;&mdash;what degree of merit should give rank among the Best. That a
+Poem shall be worthy of the writer's genius,&mdash;that it shall reach a
+perfection commensurate with its aim,&mdash;that we should require finish in
+proportion to brevity,&mdash;that passion, colour, and originality cannot
+atone for serious imperfections in clearness, unity, or truth,&mdash;that a
+few good lines do not make a good poem,&mdash;that popular estimate is
+serviceable as a guidepost more than as a compass,&mdash;above all, that
+Excellence should be looked for rather in the Whole than in the
+Parts,&mdash;such and other such canons have been always steadily regarded.
+He may however add that the pieces chosen, and a far larger number
+rejected, have been carefully and repeatedly considered; and that he has
+been aided throughout by two friends of independent and exercised
+judgment, besides the distinguished person addressed in the Dedication.
+It is hoped that by this procedure the volume has been freed from that
+one-sidedness which must beset individual decisions:&mdash;but for the final
+choice the Editor is alone responsible.
+</p>
+<p>
+Chalmers' vast collection, with the whole works of all accessible poets
+not contained in it, and the best Anthologies of different periods, have
+been twice systematically read through: and it is hence improbable that
+any omissions which may be regretted are due to oversight. The poems are
+printed entire, except in a very few instances (specified in the notes)
+where a stanza has been omitted. The omissions have been risked only
+when the piece could be thus brought to a closer lyrical unity: and, as
+essentially opposed to this unity, extracts, obviously such, are
+excluded. In regard to the text, the purpose of the book has appeared to
+justify the choice of the most poetical version, wherever more than one
+exists: and much labour has been given to present each poem, in
+disposition, spelling, and punctuation, to the greatest advantage.
+</p>
+<p>
+In the arrangement, the most poetically effective order has been
+attempted. The English mind has passed through phases of thought and
+cultivation so various and so opposed during these three centuries of
+Poetry, that a rapid passage between Old and New, like rapid alteration
+of the eye's focus in looking at the landscape, will always be wearisome
+and hurtful to the sense of Beauty. The poems have been therefore
+distributed into Books corresponding, I. to the ninety years closing
+about 1616, II. thence to 1700, III. to 1800, IV. to the half century
+just ended. Or, looking at the Poets who more or less give each portion
+its distinctive character, they might be called the Books of
+Shakespeare, Milton, Gray, and Wordsworth. The volume, in this respect,
+so far as the limitations of its range allow, accurately reflects the
+natural growth and evolution of our Poetry. A rigidly chronological
+sequence, however, rather fits a collection aiming at instruction than
+at pleasure, and the Wisdom which comes through Pleasure:&mdash;within each
+book the pieces have therefore been arranged in gradations of feeling or
+subject. The development of the symphonies of Mozart and Beethoven has
+been here thought of as a model, and nothing placed without careful
+consideration. And it is hoped that the contents of this Anthology will
+thus be found to present a certain unity, "as episodes," in the noble
+language of Shelley, "to that great Poem which all poets, like the
+co-operating thoughts of one great mind, have built up since the
+beginning of the world."
+</p>
+<p>
+As he closes his long survey, the Editor trusts he may add without
+egotism, that he has found the vague general verdict of popular Fame
+more just than those have thought, who, with too severe a criticism,
+would confine judgments on Poetry to "the selected few of many
+generations." Not many appear to have gained reputation without some
+gift or performance that, in due degree, deserved it: and if no verses
+by certain writers who show less strength than sweetness, or more
+thought than mastery in expression, are printed in this volume, it
+should not be imagined that they have been excluded without much
+hesitation and regret,&mdash;far less that they have been slighted.
+Throughout this vast and pathetic array of Singers now silent, few have
+been honoured with the name Poet, and have not possessed a skill in
+words, a sympathy with beauty, a tenderness of feeling, or seriousness
+in reflection, which render their works, although never perhaps
+attaining that loftier and finer excellence here required,&mdash;better worth
+reading than much of what fills the scanty hours that most men spare for
+self-improvement, or for pleasure in any of its more elevated and
+permanent forms.
+</p>
+<p>
+And if this be true of even mediocre poetry, for how much more are we
+indebted to the best! Like the fabled fountain of the Azores, but with a
+more various power, the magic of this Art can confer on each period of
+life its appropriate blessing: on early years Experience, on maturity
+Calm, on age Youthfulness. Poetry gives treasures "more golden than
+gold," leading us in higher and healthier ways than those of the world,
+and interpreting to us the lessons of Nature. But she speaks best for
+herself. Her true accents, if the plan has been executed with success,
+may be heard throughout the following pages:-wherever the Poets of
+England are honoured, wherever the dominant language of the world is
+spoken, it is hoped that they will find fit audience.
+</p>
+<center>
+F. T. PALGRAVE.
+</center>
+<a name="2H_4_0003"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>
+
+<h1>
+    THE GOLDEN TREASURY.
+</h1>
+<a name="2H_4_0004"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>
+
+<h2>
+    FIRST BOOK.
+</h2>
+<a name="2H_SUMM"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>
+
+<h2>
+    SUMMARY.
+</h2>
+<p>
+The Elizabethan Poetry, as it is rather vaguely termed, forms the
+substance of this Book, which contains pieces from Wyat under Henry
+VIII. to Shakespeare midway through the reign of James I., and Drummond
+who carried on the early manner to a still later period. There is here a
+wide range of style;&mdash;from simplicity expressed in a language hardly yet
+broken in to verse,&mdash;through the pastoral fancies and Italian conceits
+of the strictly Elizabethan time,&mdash;to the passionate reality of
+Shakespeare: yet a general uniformity of tone prevails. Few readers can
+fail to observe the natural sweetness of the verse, the single-hearted
+straightforwardness of the thoughts:&mdash;nor less, the limitation of
+subject to the many phases of one passion, which then characterised our
+lyrical poetry,&mdash;unless when, as with Drummond and Shakespeare, the
+"purple light of Love" is tempered by a spirit of sterner reflection.
+</p>
+<p>
+It should be observed that this and the following Summaries apply in the
+main to the Collection here presented, in which (besides its restriction
+to Lyrical Poetry) a strictly representative or historical Anthology has
+not been aimed at. Great Excellence, in human art as in human character,
+has from the beginning of things been even more uniform than Mediocrity,
+by virtue of the closeness of its approach to Nature:&mdash;and so far as the
+standard of Excellence kept in view has been attained in this volume, a
+comparative absence of extreme or temporary phases in style, a
+similarity of tone and manner, will be found throughout:&mdash;something
+neither modern nor ancient but true in all ages, and like the works of
+Creation perfect as on the first day.
+</p>
+<pre>
+
+
+     1. SPRING.
+
+     Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king;
+     Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
+     Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,
+     Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
+
+     The palm and may make country houses gay,
+     Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
+     And we hear aye birds tune their merry lay,
+       Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
+
+     The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
+     Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
+     In every street these tunes our ears do greet,
+       Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
+          Spring, the sweet Spring!
+
+     T. NASH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     2. SUMMONS TO LOVE.
+
+     Phoebus, arise!
+     And paint the sable skies
+     With azure, white, and red:
+     Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed
+     That she may thy career with roses spread:
+     The nightingales thy coming eachwhere sing:
+     Make an eternal spring!
+     Give life to this dark world which lieth dead;
+     Spread forth thy golden hair
+     In larger locks than thou wast wont before,
+     And emperor-like decore
+     With diadem of pearl thy temples fair:
+     Chase hence the ugly night
+     Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light.
+
+     &mdash;This is that happy morn,
+     That day, long wishéd day
+     Of all my life so dark,
+     (If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn
+     And fates not hope betray),
+     Which, purely white, deserves
+     An everlasting diamond should it mark.
+     This is the morn should bring unto this grove
+     My Love, to hear and recompense my love.
+     Fair King, who all preserves,
+     But show thy blushing beams,
+     And thou two sweeter eyes
+     Shalt see than those which by Penéus' streams
+     Did once thy heart surprize.
+     Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise:
+     If that ye winds would hear
+     A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre,
+     Your furious chiding stay;
+     Let Zephyr only breathe
+     And with her tresses play.
+     &mdash;The winds all silent are,
+     And Phoebus in his chair
+     Ensaffroning sea and air
+     Makes vanish every star:
+     Night like a drunkard reels
+     Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels:
+     The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue,
+     The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue;
+     Here is the pleasant place&mdash;
+     And nothing wanting is, save She, alas.
+
+     WILLIAM DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     3. TIME AND LOVE.
+
+     When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced
+     The rich proud cost of out-worn buried age;
+     When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed,
+     And brass eternal slave to mortal rage.
+
+     When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
+     Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
+     And the firm soil win of the watery main,
+     Increasing store with loss, and loss with store.
+
+     When I have seen such interchange of state,
+     Or state itself confounded to decay,
+     Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate&mdash;
+     That Time will come and take my Love away.
+
+     &mdash;This thought is as a death, which cannot choose
+     But weep to have that which it fears to lose.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     4.
+
+     Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
+     But sad mortality o'ersways their power,
+     How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
+     Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
+
+     O how shall summer's honey breath hold out,
+     Against the wreckful siege of battering days,
+     When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
+     Nor gates of steel so strong but time decays?
+
+     O fearful meditation, where, alack!
+     Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?
+     Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back,
+     Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
+
+     O! none, unless this miracle have might,
+     That in black ink my love may still shine bright.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     5. THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.
+
+     Come live with me and be my Love,
+     And we will all the pleasures prove
+     That hills and valleys, dale and field,
+     And all the craggy mountains yield.
+
+     There will we sit upon the rocks
+     And see the shepherds feed their flocks
+     By shallow rivers, to whose falls
+     Melodious birds sing madrigals.
+
+     There will I make thee beds of roses
+     And a thousand fragrant posies,
+     A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
+     Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.
+
+     A gown made of the finest wool,
+     Which from our pretty lambs we pull,
+     Fair-lined slippers for the cold,
+     With buckles of the purest gold.
+
+     A belt of straw and ivy-buds
+     With coral clasps and amber studs:
+     And if these pleasures may thee move,
+     Come live with me and be my Love.
+
+     Thy silver dishes for thy meat
+     As precious as the gods do eat,
+     Shall on an ivory table be
+     Prepared each day for thee and me.
+
+     The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
+     For thy delight each May-morning:
+     If these delights thy mind may move,
+     Then live with me and be my Love.
+
+     C. MARLOWE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     6. A MADRIGAL.
+
+       Crabbed Age and Youth
+       Cannot live together:
+       Youth is full of pleasance,
+       Age is full of care;
+       Youth like summer morn,
+       Age like winter weather;
+       Youth like summer brave,
+       Age like winter bare:
+       Youth is full of sport,
+       Age's breath is short,
+       Youth is nimble, Age is lame:
+       Youth is hot and bold,
+       Age is weak and cold;
+       Youth is wild, and Age is tame:&mdash;
+       Age, I do abhor thee,
+       Youth, I do adore thee;
+       O! my Love, my Love is young!
+       Age, I do defy thee&mdash;
+       O, sweet shepherd, hie thee,
+       For methinks thou stay'st too long.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     7.
+
+       Under the greenwood tree
+       Who loves to lie with me,
+       And tune his merry note
+       Unto the sweet bird's throat&mdash;
+     Come hither, come hither, come hither!
+          Here shall we see
+          No enemy
+     But winter and rough weather.
+
+       Who doth ambition shun
+       And loves to live i' the sun,
+       Seeking the food he eats
+       And pleased with what he gets&mdash;
+     Come hither, come hither, come hither!
+          Here shall he see
+          No enemy
+     But winter and rough weather.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     8.
+
+     It was a lover and his lass
+       With a hey, and a ho, and a hey-nonino!
+     That o'er the green cornfield did pass,
+     In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,
+     When birds do sing hey ding a ding:
+       Sweet lovers love the Spring.
+     Between the acres of the rye
+     These pretty country folks would lie:
+     This carol they began that hour,
+     How that life was but a flower:
+     And therefore take the present time
+       With a hey, and a ho, and a hey-nonino!
+     For love is crownéd with the prime
+     In spring time, the only pretty ring time,
+     When birds do sing, hey ding a ding;
+       Sweet lovers love the Spring.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     9. PRESENT IN ABSENCE.
+
+     Absence, hear thou my protestation
+          Against thy strength,
+          Distance, and length:
+     Do what thou canst for alteration:
+       For hearts of truest mettle
+     Absence doth join, and Time doth settle.
+
+     Who loves a mistress of such quality,
+          He soon hath found
+          Affection's ground
+     Beyond time, place, and all mortality.
+       To hearts that cannot vary
+     Absence is Presence, Time doth tarry.
+
+     By absence this good means I gain,
+          That I can catch her,
+          Where none can watch her,
+     In some close corner of my brain:
+       There I embrace and kiss her,
+     And so I both enjoy and miss her.
+
+     ANON.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     10. ABSENCE.
+
+     Being your slave what should I do but tend
+     Upon the hours and times of your desire?
+     I have no precious time at all to spend,
+     Nor services to do, till you require:
+
+     Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour
+     Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
+     Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
+     When you have bid your servant once adieu:
+
+     Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
+     Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
+     But like a sad slave, stay and think of nought
+     Save where you are, how happy you make those;&mdash;
+
+     So true a fool is love, that in your will,
+     Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     11.
+
+     How like a winter hath my absence been
+     From Thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
+     What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen,
+     What old December's bareness everywhere!
+
+     And yet this time removed was summer's time:
+     The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
+     Bearing the wanton burden of the prime
+     Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:
+
+     Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me
+     But hope of orphans, and unfather'd fruit;
+     For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
+     And, thou away, the very birds are mute;
+
+     Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer,
+     That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     12. A CONSOLATION.
+
+     When in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes
+     I all alone beweep my outcast state,
+     And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
+     And look upon myself, and curse my fate;
+
+     Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
+     Featured like him, like him with friends possest,
+     Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
+     With what I most enjoy contented least;
+
+     Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising,
+     Haply I think on Thee&mdash;and then my state,
+     Like to the lark at break of day arising
+     From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
+
+     For thy sweet love remember'd, such wealth brings
+     That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     13. THE UNCHANGEABLE.
+
+     O never say that I was false of heart,
+     Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify:
+     As easy might I from my self depart
+     As from my soul which in thy breast doth lie;
+
+     That is my home of love, if I have ranged,
+     Like him that travels, I return again,
+     Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,
+     So that myself bring water for my stain.
+
+     Never believe, though in my nature reign'd
+     All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
+     That it could so preposterously be stain'd
+     To leave for nothing all thy sum of good:
+
+     For nothing this wide universe I call,
+     Save thou, my rose, in it thou art my all.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     14.
+
+     To me, fair Friend, you never can be old,
+     For as you were when first your eye I eyed
+     Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold
+     Have from the forests shook three summers' pride;
+
+     Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd,
+     In process of the seasons have I seen,
+     Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,
+     Since first I saw you fresh which yet are green.
+
+     Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial hand,
+     Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived;
+     So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
+     Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived:
+
+     For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred,&mdash;
+     Ere you were born, was beauty's summer dead.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     15. DIAPHENIA.
+
+        Diaphenia like the daffadowndilly,
+        White as the sun, fair as the lily,
+      Heigh ho, how do I love thee!
+        I do love thee as my lambs
+        Are belovéd of their dams;
+     How blest were I if thou would'st prove me.
+
+        Diaphenia like the spreading roses,
+        That in thy sweets all sweets encloses,
+      Fair sweet, how do I love thee!
+        I do love thee as each flower
+        Loves the sun's life-giving power;
+     For dead, thy breath to life might move me.
+
+        Diaphenia like to all things blesséd
+        When all thy praises are expresséd,
+      Dear joy, how do I love thee!
+        As the birds do love the spring,
+        Or the bees their careful king:
+     Then in requite, sweet virgin, love me!
+
+     H. CONSTABLE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     16. ROSALINE.
+
+     Like to the clear in highest sphere
+     Where all imperial glory shines,
+     Of selfsame colour is her hair
+     Whether unfolded, or in twines:
+      Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
+     Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
+     Resembling heaven by every wink;
+     The Gods do fear whenas they glow,
+     And I do tremble when I think
+      Heigh ho, would she were mine!
+
+     Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
+     That beautifies Aurora's face,
+     Or like the silver crimson shroud
+     That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace;
+      Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
+     Her lips are like two budded roses
+     Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,
+     Within which bounds she balm encloses
+     Apt to entice a deity:
+      Heigh ho, would she were mine!
+
+     Her neck like to a stately tower
+     Where Love himself imprison'd lies,
+     To watch for glances every hour
+     From her divine and sacred eyes:
+      Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
+     Her paps are centres of delight,
+     Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,
+     Where Nature moulds the dew of light
+     To feed perfection with the same:
+      Heigh ho, would she were mine!
+
+     With orient pearl, with ruby red,
+     With marble white, with sapphire blue,
+     Her body every way is fed,
+     Yet soft in touch and sweet in view:
+      Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
+     Nature herself her shape admires;
+     The Gods are wounded in her sight;
+     And Love forsakes his heavenly fires
+     And at her eyes his brand doth light:
+      Heigh ho, would she were mine!
+
+     Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan
+     The absence of fair Rosaline,
+     Since for a fair there's fairer none,
+     Nor for her virtues so divine:
+      Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
+     Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!
+
+     T. LODGE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     17. COLIN.
+
+     Beauty sat bathing by a spring
+      Where fairest shades did hide her;
+     The winds blew calm, the birds did sing,
+      The cool streams ran beside her.
+
+     My wanton thoughts enticed mine eye
+      To see what was forbidden:
+     But better memory said, fie!
+      So vain desire was chidden:&mdash;
+          Hey nonny nonny O!
+          Hey nonny nonny!
+
+     Into a slumber then I fell,
+     When fond imagination
+     Seeméd to see, but could not tell
+     Her feature or her fashion.
+     But ev'n as babes in dreams do smile,
+     And sometimes fall a-weeping,
+     So I awaked as wise this while
+     As when I fell a-sleeping:&mdash;
+          Hey nonny nonny O!
+          Hey nonny nonny!
+
+     THE SHEPHERD TONIE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     18. TO HIS LOVE.
+
+     Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
+     Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
+     Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
+     And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
+
+     Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
+     And often is his gold complexion dimm'd,
+     And every fair from fair sometime declines,
+     By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd.
+
+     But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
+     Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
+     Nor shall death brag thou wanderest in his shade,
+     When in eternal lines to time thou growest.
+
+     So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
+     So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     19. TO HIS LOVE.
+
+     When in the chronicle of wasted time
+     I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
+     And beauty making beautiful old rhyme
+     In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights;
+
+     Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best
+     Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
+     I see their antique pen would have exprest
+     Ev'n such a beauty as you master now.
+
+     So all their praises are but prophecies
+     Of this our time, all, you prefiguring;
+     And for they look'd but with divining eyes,
+     They had not skill enough your worth to sing:
+
+     For we, which now behold these present days,
+     Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     20. LOVE'S PERJURIES.
+
+     On a day, alack the day!
+     Love, whose month is ever May,
+     Spied a blossom passing fair
+     Playing in the wanton air:
+     Through the velvet leaves the wind
+     All unseen 'gan passage find;
+     That the lover, sick to death,
+     Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
+     Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;
+     Air, would I might triumph so!
+     But, alack, my hand is sworn
+     Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:
+     Vow, alack, for youth unmeet;
+     Youth so apt to pluck a sweet.
+     Do not call it sin in me
+     That I am forsworn for thee:
+     Thou for whom e'en Jove would swear
+     Juno but an Ethiope were,
+     And deny himself for Jove,
+     Turning mortal for thy love.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     21. A SUPPLICATION.
+
+     Forget not yet the tried intent
+     Of such a truth as I have meant;
+     My great travail so gladly spent,
+                       Forget not yet!
+
+     Forget not yet when first began
+     The weary life ye know, since whan
+     The suit, the service, none tell can;
+                       Forget not yet!
+
+     Forget not yet the great assays,
+     The cruel wrong, the scornful ways,
+     The painful patience in delays,
+                       Forget not yet!
+
+     Forget not! O, forget not this,
+     How long ago hath been, and is
+     The mind that never meant amiss&mdash;
+                       Forget not yet!
+
+     Forget not then thine own approved
+     The which so long hath thee so loved,
+     Whose steadfast faith yet never moved&mdash;
+                       Forget not this!
+
+     SIR T. WYAT.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     22. TO AURORA.
+
+     O if thou knew'st how thou thyself does harm,
+     And dost prejudge thy bliss, and spoil thy rest;
+     Then thou would'st melt the ice out of thy breast
+     And thy relenting heart would kindly warm.
+
+     O if thy pride did not our joys controul,
+     What world of loving wonders should'st thou see!
+     For if I saw thee once transform'd in me,
+     Then in thy bosom I would pour my soul;
+
+     Then all my thoughts should in thy visage shine,
+     And if that aught mischanced thou should'st not moan
+     Nor bear the burthen of thy griefs alone;
+     No, I would have my share in what were thine:
+
+     And whilst we thus should make our sorrows one,
+     This happy harmony would make them none.
+
+     W. ALEXANDER, EARL OF STERLINE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     23. TRUE LOVE.
+
+     Let me not to the marriage of true minds
+     Admit impediments. Love is not love
+     Which alters when it alteration finds,
+     Or bends with the remover to remove:&mdash;
+
+     O no! it is an ever-fixéd mark
+     That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
+     It is the star to every wandering bark
+     Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
+
+     Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
+     Within his bending sickle's compass come;
+     Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
+     But bears it out ev'n to the edge of doom:&mdash;
+
+     If this be error and upon me proved,
+     I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     24. A DITTY.
+
+     My true love hath my heart, and I have his,
+     By just exchange one to the other given:
+     I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss,
+     There never was a better bargain driven:
+      My true love hath my heart, and I have his.
+
+     His heart in me keeps him and me in one,
+     My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:
+     He loves my heart, for once it was his own,
+     I cherish his because in me it bides:
+      My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.
+
+     SIR P. SIDNEY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     25. LOVE'S OMNIPRESENCE.
+
+     Were I as base as is the lowly plain,
+     And you, my Love, as high as heaven above,
+     Yet should the thoughts of me your humble swain
+     Ascend to heaven, in honour of my Love.
+
+     Were I as high as heaven above the plain,
+     And you, my Love, as humble and as low
+     As are the deepest bottoms of the main,
+     Whereso'er you were, with you my love should go.
+
+     Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies,
+     My love should shine on you like to the sun,
+     And look upon you with ten thousand eyes
+     Till heaven wax'd blind, and till the world were done.
+
+     Whereso'er I am, below, or else above you,
+     Whereso'er you are, my heart shall truly love you.
+
+     J. SYLVESTER.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     26. CARPE DIEM.
+
+     O Mistress mine, where are you roaming?
+     O, stay and hear! your true-love's coming
+        That can sing both high and low;
+     Trip no further, pretty sweeting,
+     Journeys end in lovers' meeting&mdash;
+        Every wise man's son doth know.
+
+     What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
+     Present mirth hath present laughter;
+        What's to come is still unsure:
+     In delay there lies no plenty,&mdash;
+     Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty,
+        Youth's a stuff will not endure.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     27. WINTER.
+
+     When icicles hang by the wall
+      And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
+     And Tom bears logs into the hall,
+      And milk comes frozen home in pail;
+     When blood is nipt, and ways be foul,
+     Then nightly sings the staring owl
+                 Tuwhoo!
+     Tuwhit! Tuwhoo! A merry note!
+     While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
+
+     When all around the wind doth blow,
+      And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
+     And birds sit brooding in the snow,
+      And Marian's nose looks red and raw:
+     When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl&mdash;
+     Then nightly sings the staring owl
+                 Tuwhoo!
+     Tuwhit! Tuwhoo! A merry note!
+     While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     28.
+
+     That time of year thou may'st in me behold
+     When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang
+     Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
+     Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
+
+     In me thou seest the twilight of such day
+     As after sunset fadeth in the west,
+     Which by and by black night doth take away,
+     Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
+
+     In me thou seest the glowing of such fire,
+     That on the ashes of his youth doth lie
+     As the deathbed whereon it must expire,
+     Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.
+
+     &mdash;This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
+     To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     29. REMEMBRANCE.
+
+     When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
+     I summon up remembrance of things past,
+     I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
+     And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste
+
+     Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
+     For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
+     And weep afresh love's long-since-cancell'd woe,
+     And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight.
+
+     Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
+     And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
+     The sad account of fore-bemoanéd moan,
+     Which I new pay as if not paid before:
+
+     &mdash;But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
+     All losses are restored, and sorrows end.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     30. REVOLUTIONS.
+
+     Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore
+     So do our minutes hasten to their end;
+     Each changing place with that which goes before,
+     In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
+
+     Nativity once in the main of light
+     Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
+     Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
+     And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound.
+
+     Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
+     And delves the parallels in beauty's brow;
+     Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
+     And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow.
+
+     And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand
+     Praising Thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     31.
+
+     Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
+     And like enough thou know'st thy estimate:
+     The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing,
+     My bonds in thee are all determinate.
+
+     For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?
+     And for that riches where is my deserving?
+     The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
+     And so my patent back again is swerving.
+
+     Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing,
+     Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking;
+     So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
+     Comes home again, on better judgement making.
+
+     Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter;
+     In sleep, a king; but waking, no such matter.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     32. THE LIFE WITHOUT PASSION.
+
+     They that have power to hurt, and will do none,
+     That do not do the thing they most do show,
+     Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
+     Unmovéd, cold, and to temptation slow,&mdash;
+
+     They rightly do inherit Heaven's graces,
+     And husband nature's riches from expense;
+     They are the lords and owners of their faces,
+     Others, but stewards of their excellence.
+
+     The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,
+     Though to itself it only live and die;
+     But if that flower with base infection meet,
+     The basest weed outbraves his dignity:
+
+     For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
+     Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     33. THE LOVER'S APPEAL.
+
+       And wilt thou leave me thus?
+       Say nay! say nay! for shame,
+       To save thee from the blame
+       Of all my grief and grame.
+       And wilt thou leave me thus?
+       Say nay! say nay!
+
+       And wilt thou leave me thus,
+       That hath loved thee so long
+       In wealth and woe among:
+       And is thy heart so strong
+       As for to leave me thus?
+       Say nay! say nay!
+
+       And wilt thou leave me thus,
+       That hath given thee my heart
+       Never for to depart
+       Neither for pain nor smart:
+       And wilt thou leave me thus?
+       Say nay! say nay!
+
+       And wilt thou leave me thus,
+       And have no more pity
+       Of him that loveth thee?
+       Alas! thy cruelty!
+       And wilt thou leave me thus?
+       Say nay! say nay!
+
+     SIR T. WYAT.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     34. THE NIGHTINGALE.
+
+     As it fell upon a day
+     In the merry month of May,
+     Sitting in a pleasant shade
+     Which a grove of myrtles made,
+     Beasts did leap and birds did sing,
+     Trees did grow and plants did spring,
+     Every thing did banish moan
+     Save the Nightingale alone.
+     She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
+     Lean'd her breast against a thorn,
+     And there sung the dolefullest ditty,
+     That to hear it was great pity.
+     Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry;
+     Tereu, tereu, by and by:
+     That to hear her so complain
+     Scarce I could from tears refrain;
+     For her griefs so lively shown
+     Made me think upon mine own.
+     &mdash;Ah! thought I, thou mourn'st in vain,
+     None takes pity on thy pain:
+     Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee,
+     Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee;
+     King Pandion, he is dead,
+     All thy friends are lapp'd in lead:
+     All thy fellow birds do sing
+     Careless of thy sorrowing:
+     Even so, poor bird, like thee,
+     None alive will pity me.
+
+     R. BARNEFIELD.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     35.
+
+     Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night,
+     Brother to Death, in silent darkness born,
+     Relieve my anguish, and restore the light;
+     With dark forgetting of my care return.
+
+     And let the day be time enough to mourn
+     The shipwreck of my ill adventured youth:
+     Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn,
+     Without the torment of the night's untruth.
+
+     Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires,
+     To model forth the passions of the morrow;
+     Never let rising Sun approve you liars
+     To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow:
+
+     Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain,
+     And never wake to feel the day's disdain.
+
+     S. DANIEL.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     36. MADRIGAL.
+
+        Take O take those lips away
+        That so sweetly were forsworn,
+        And those eyes, the break of day,
+        Lights that do mislead the morn:
+        But my kisses bring again,
+                  Bring again&mdash;
+        Seals of love, but seal'd in vain,
+                  Seal'd in vain!
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     37. LOVE'S FAREWELL.
+
+     Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part,&mdash;
+     Nay, I have done, you get no more of me;
+     And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart,
+     That thus so cleanly I myself can free;
+
+     Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,
+     And when we meet at any time again,
+     Be it not seen in either of our brows
+     That we one jot of former love retain.
+
+     Now at the last gasp of love's latest breath,
+     When his pulse failing, passion speechless lies,
+     When faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
+     And innocence is closing up his eyes,
+
+     &mdash;Now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over,
+     From death to life thou might'st him yet recover!
+
+     M. DRAYTON.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     38. TO HIS LUTE.
+
+     My lute, be as thou wert when thou did'st grow
+     With thy green mother in some shady grove,
+     When immelodious winds but made thee move,
+     And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.
+
+     Since that dear Voice which did thy sounds approve,
+     Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,
+     Is reft from Earth to tune those spheres above,
+     What art thou but a harbinger of woe?
+
+     Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,
+     But orphan's wailings to the fainting ear;
+     Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear;
+     For which be silent as in woods before:
+
+     Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,
+     Like widow'd turtle still her loss complain.
+
+     W. DRUMMOND.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     39. BLIND LOVE.
+
+     O me! what eyes hath love put in my head
+     Which have no correspondence with true sight:
+     Or if they have, where is my judgment fled
+     That censures falsely what they see aright?
+
+     If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,
+     What means the world to say it is not so?
+     If it be not, then love doth well denote,
+     Love's eye is not so true as all men's: No,
+
+     How can it? O how can love's eye be true,
+     That is so vex'd with watching and with tears?
+     No marvel then though I mistake my view:
+     The sun itself sees not till heaven clears.
+
+     O cunning Love! with tears thou keep'st me blind,
+     Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find!
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     40. THE UNFAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS.
+
+     While that the sun with his beams hot
+     Scorchéd the fruits in vale and mountain,
+     Philon the shepherd, late forgot,
+     Sitting beside a crystal fountain,
+       In shadow of a green oak tree
+       Upon his pipe this song play'd he:
+     Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love,
+     Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love;
+     Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
+
+     So long as I was in your sight
+     I was your heart, your soul, and treasure;
+     And evermore you sobb'd and sigh'd
+     Burning in flames beyond all measure:
+       &mdash;Three days endured your love to me,
+       And it was lost in other three!
+     Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love,
+     Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love;
+     Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
+
+     Another Shepherd you did see
+     To whom your heart was soon enchainéd;
+     Full soon your love was leapt from me,
+     Full soon my place he had obtainéd.
+       Soon came a third, your love to win,
+       And we were out and he was in.
+     Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love,
+     Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love;
+     Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
+
+     Sure you have made me passing glad
+     That you your mind so soon removéd,
+     Before that I the leisure had
+     To choose you for my best belovéd:
+       For all your love was past and done
+       Two days before it was begun:&mdash;
+     Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love,
+     Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love;
+     Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
+
+     ANON.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     41. A RENUNCIATION.
+
+     If women could be fair, and yet not fond,
+     Or that their love were firm, not fickle still,
+     I would not marvel that they make men bond
+     By service long to purchase their good will;
+     But when I see how frail those creatures are,
+     I muse that men forget themselves so far.
+
+     To mark the choice they make, and how they change,
+     How oft from Phoebus they do flee to Pan;
+     Unsettled still, like haggards wild they range,
+     These gentle birds that fly from man to man;
+     Who would not scorn and shake them from the fist,
+     And let them fly, fair fools, which way they list?
+
+     Yet for disport we fawn and flatter both,
+     To pass the time when nothing else can please,
+     And train them to our lure with subtle oath,
+     Till, weary of their wiles, ourselves we ease;
+     And then we say when we their fancy try,
+     To play with fools, O what a fool was I!
+
+     E. VERE, EARL OF OXFORD.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     42.
+
+          Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
+          Thou art not so unkind
+          As man's ingratitude;
+          Thy tooth is not so keen,
+          Because thou art not seen,
+          Although thy breath be rude.
+     Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:
+     Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
+          Then, heigh ho! the holly!
+          This life is most jolly.
+
+          Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
+          That dost not bite so nigh
+          As benefits forgot:
+          Though thou the waters warp,
+          Thy sting is not so sharp
+          As friend remember'd not.
+     Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:
+     Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
+          Then heigh ho, the holly!
+          This life is most jolly.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     43. MADRIGAL.
+
+          My thoughts hold mortal strife;
+          I do detest my life,
+          And with lamenting cries
+          Peace to my soul to bring
+     Oft call that prince which here doth monarchise:
+     &mdash;But he, grim grinning King,
+     Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprise,
+     Late having deck'd with beauty's rose his tomb,
+     Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come.
+
+     W. DRUMMOND.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     44. DIRGE OF LOVE.
+
+       Come away, come away, Death,
+     And in sad cypres let me be laid;
+       Fly away, fly away, breath;
+     I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
+     My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
+          O prepare it!
+     My part of death no one so true
+          Did share it.
+
+       Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
+     On my black coffin let there be strown;
+       Not a friend, not a friend greet
+     My poor corpse, where my bones shall thrown:
+     A thousand thousand sighs to save,
+          Lay me, O where
+     Sad true lover never find my grave,
+          To weep there.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     45. FIDELE.
+
+     Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
+        Nor the furious winter's rages:
+     Thou thy worldly task hast done,
+        Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages:
+     Golden lads and girls all must,
+     As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
+
+     Fear no more the frown o' the great,
+        Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
+     Care no more to clothe and eat;
+        To thee the reed is as the oak:
+     The sceptre, learning, physic, must
+     All follow this, and come to dust.
+
+     Fear no more the lightning flash
+        Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
+     Fear not slander, censure rash;
+        Thou hast finish'd joy and moan:
+     All lovers young, all lovers must
+     Consign to thee, and come to dust.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     46. A SEA DIRGE.
+
+     Full fathom five thy father lies:
+        Of his bones are coral made;
+     Those are pearls that were his eyes:
+        Nothing of him that doth fade,
+     But doth suffer a sea-change
+     Into something rich and strange;
+     Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
+     Hark! now I hear them,&mdash;
+        Ding, dong, Bell.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     47. A LAND DIRGE.
+
+     Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren,
+     Since o'er shady groves they hover
+     And with leaves and flowers do cover
+     The friendless bodies of unburied men.
+     Call unto his funeral dole
+     The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole
+     To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm
+     And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm;
+     But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men,
+     For with his nails he'll dig them up again.
+
+     J. WEBSTER.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     48. POST MORTEM.
+
+     If Thou survive my well-contented day
+     When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,
+     And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
+     These poor rude lines of thy deceaséd lover:
+
+     Compare them with the bettering of the time,
+     And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,
+     Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme
+     Exceeded by the height of happier men.
+
+     O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought&mdash;
+     "Had my friend's muse grown with this growing age,
+     A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
+     To march in ranks of better equipage:
+
+     But since he died, and poets better prove,
+     Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love."
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     49. THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH.
+
+     No longer mourn for me when I am dead
+     Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
+     Give warning to the world, that I am fled
+     From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell;
+
+     Nay, if you read this line, remember not
+     The hand that writ it; for I love you so,
+     That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot
+     If thinking on me then should make you woe.
+
+     O if, I say, you look upon this verse
+     When I perhaps compounded am with clay
+     Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,
+     But let your love even with my life decay;
+
+     Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
+     And mock you with me after I am gone.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     50. MADRIGAL.
+
+     Tell me where is Fancy bred,
+     Or in the heart or in the head?
+     How begot, how nourishéd?
+          Reply, reply.
+     It is engender'd in the eyes,
+     With gazing fed; and Fancy dies
+     In the cradle where it lies:
+     Let us all ring fancy's knell;
+     I'll begin it,&mdash;Ding, dong, bell.
+               &mdash;Ding, dong, bell.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     51. CUPID AND CAMPASPE.
+
+     Cupid and my Campaspe play'd
+     At cards for kisses; Cupid paid:
+     He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
+     His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;
+     Loses them too; then down he throws
+     The coral of his lip, the rose
+     Growing on's cheek (but none knows how);
+     With these, the crystal of his brow,
+     And then the dimple on his chin;
+     All these did my Campaspe win:
+     At last he set her both his eyes&mdash;
+     She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
+        O Love! has she done this to thee?
+        What shall, alas! become of me?
+
+     J. LYLYE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     52.
+
+     Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day,
+      With night we banish sorrow;
+     Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft
+      To give my Love good-morrow!
+     Wings from the wind to please her mind,
+      Notes from the lark I'll borrow;
+     Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale sing,
+      To give my Love good-morrow;
+        To give my Love good-morrow
+        Notes from them both I'll borrow.
+
+     Wake from thy nest, Robin-redbreast!
+      Sing, birds, in every furrow;
+     And from each hill, let music shrill
+      Give my fair Love good-morrow!
+     Blackbird and thrush in every bush,
+      Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow!
+     You pretty elves, amongst yourselves
+      Sing my fair Love good-morrow;
+        To give my Love good-morrow
+        Sing birds, in every furrow!
+
+     T. HEYWOOD.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     53. PROTHALAMION.
+
+     Calm was the day, and through the trembling air
+     Sweet-breathing Zephyrus did softly play&mdash;
+     A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay
+     Hot Titan's beams, which then did glister fair;
+     When I, (whom sullen care,
+     Through discontent of my long fruitless stay
+     In princes' court, and expectation vain
+     Of idle hopes, which still do fly away
+     Like empty shadows, did afflict my brain)
+     Walk'd forth to ease my pain
+     Along the shore of silver-streaming Thames;
+     Whose rutty bank, the which his river hems,
+     Was painted all with variable flowers,
+     And all the meads adorn'd with dainty gems
+     Fit to deck maidens' bowers,
+     And crown their paramours
+     Against the bridal day, which is not long:
+       Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+     There in a meadow by the river's side,
+     A flock of nymphs I chancéd to espy,
+     All lovely daughters of the flood thereby,
+     With goodly greenish locks all loose untied
+     As each had been a bride;
+     And each one had a little wicker basket
+     Made of fine twigs, entrailéd curiously,
+     In which they gather'd flowers to fill their flasket,
+     And with fine fingers cropt full feateously
+     The tender stalks on high.
+     Of every sort which in that meadow grew
+     They gather'd some; the violet, pallid blue,
+     The little daisy that at evening closes,
+     The virgin lily and the primrose true:
+     With store of vermeil roses,
+     To deck their bridegrooms' posies
+     Against the bridal day, which was not long:
+       Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+     With that I saw two swans of goodly hue
+     Come softly swimming down along the lee;
+     Two fairer birds I yet did never see;
+     The snow which doth the top of Pindus strow,
+     Did never whiter show,
+     Nor Jove himself, when he a swan would be
+     For love of Leda, whiter did appear;
+     Yet Leda was (they say) as white as he,
+     Yet not so white as these, nor nothing near;
+     So purely white they were,
+     That even the gentle stream, the which them bare,
+     Seem'd foul to them, and bade his billows spare
+     To wet their silken feathers, lest they might
+     Soil their fair plumes with water not so fair,
+     And mar their beauties bright
+     That shone as Heaven's light
+     Against their bridal day, which was not long:
+       Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+     Eftsoons the nymphs, which now had flowers their fill,
+     Ran all in haste to see that silver brood
+     As they came floating on the crystal flood;
+     Whom when they saw, they stood amazéd still
+     Their wondering eyes to fill;
+     Them seem'd they never saw a sight so fair
+     Of fowls, so lovely, that they sure did deem
+     Them heavenly born, or to be that same pair
+     Which through the sky draw Venus' silver team;
+     For sure they did not seem
+     To be begot of any earthly seed,
+     But rather angels, or of angels' breed;
+     Yet were they bred of summer's heat, they say,
+     In sweetest season, when each flower and weed
+     The earth did fresh array;
+     So fresh they seem'd as day,
+     Even as their bridal day, which was not long:
+       Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+     Then forth they all out of their baskets drew
+     Great store of flowers, the honour of the field,
+     That to the sense did fragrant odours yield,
+     All which upon those goodly birds they threw
+     And all the waves did strew,
+     That like old Peneus' waters they did seem
+     When down along by pleasant Tempe's shore
+     Scatter'd with flowers, through Thessaly they stream,
+     That they appear, through lilies' plenteous store,
+     Like a bride's chamber-floor.
+     Two of those nymphs meanwhile two garlands bound
+     Of freshest flowers which in that mead they found,
+     The which presenting all in trim array,
+     Their snowy foreheads therewithal they crown'd
+     Whilst one did sing this lay
+     Prepar'd against that day,
+     Against their bridal day, which was not long:
+       Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+     "Ye gentle birds! the world's fair ornament,
+     And Heaven's glory, whom this happy hour
+     Doth lead unto your lovers' blissful bower,
+     Joy may you have, and gentle hearts content
+     Of your loves complement;
+     And let fair Venus, that is queen of love,
+     With her heart-quelling son upon you smile,
+     Whose smile, they say, hath virtue to remove
+     All love's dislike, and friendship's faulty guile
+     For ever to assoil.
+     Let endless peace your steadfast hearts accord,
+     And blesséd plenty wait upon your board;
+     And let your bed with pleasures chaste abound,
+     That fruitful issue may to you afford
+     Which may your foes confound,
+     And make your joys redound
+     Upon your bridal day, which is not long:
+       Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song."
+
+     So ended she; and all the rest around
+     To her redoubled that her undersong,
+     Which said their bridal day should not be long:
+     And gentle Echo from the neighbour ground
+     Their accents did resound.
+     So forth those joyous birds did pass along
+     Adown the lee that to them murmur'd low,
+     As he would speak but that he lack'd a tongue,
+     Yet did by signs his glad affection show,
+     Making his stream run slow.
+     And all the fowl which in his flood did dwell
+     'Gan flock about these twain, that did excel
+     The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shend
+     The lesser stars. So they, enrangéd well,
+     Did on those two attend,
+     And their best service lend
+     Against their wedding day, which was not long:
+       Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+     At length they all to merry London came,
+     To merry London, my most kindly nurse,
+     That to me gave this life's first native source,
+     Though from another place I take my name,
+     An house of ancient fame:
+     There when they came whereas those bricky towers
+     The which on Thames' broad agéd back do ride,
+     Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers,
+     There whilome wont the Templar-knights to bide,
+     Till they decay'd through pride:
+     Next whereunto there stands a stately place,
+     Where oft I gainéd gifts and goodly grace
+     Of that great lord, which therein wont to dwell,
+     Whose want too well now feels my friendless case;
+     But ah! here fits not well
+     Old woes, but joys to tell
+     Against the bridal day, which is not long:
+       Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+     Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer,
+     Great England's glory and the world's wide wonder,
+     Whose dreadful name late thro' all Spain did thunder,
+     And Hercules' two pillars standing near
+     Did make to quake and fear:
+     Fair branch of honour, flower of chivalry!
+     That fillest England with thy triumphs' fame
+     Joy have thou of thy noble victory,
+     And endless happiness of thine own name
+     That promiseth the same;
+     That through thy prowess and victorious arms,
+     Thy country may be freed from foreign harms,
+     And great Eliza's glorious name may ring
+     Through all the world, fill'd with thy wide alarms
+     Which some brave Muse may sing
+     To ages following,
+     Upon the bridal day, which is not long:
+       Sweet Thames! run softly till I end my song.
+
+     From those high towers this noble lord issúing,
+     Like radiant Hesper, when his golden hair
+     In th' ocean billows he hath bathéd fair,
+     Descended to the river's open viewing
+     With a great train ensuing.
+     Above the rest were goodly to be seen
+     Two gentle knights of lovely face and feature,
+     Beseeming well the bower of any queen,
+     With gifts of wit and ornaments of nature,
+     Fit for so goodly stature,
+     That like the twins of Jove they seem'd in sight
+     Which deck the baldric of the Heavens bright;
+     They two, forth pacing to the river's side,
+     Received those two fair brides, their love's delight;
+     Which, at th' appointed tide,
+     Each one did make his bride
+     Against their bridal day, which is not long:
+       Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+     E. SPENSER.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     54. THE HAPPY HEART.
+
+     Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?
+          O sweet content!
+     Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexéd?
+          O punishment!
+     Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexéd
+     To add to golden numbers, golden numbers?
+     O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
+     Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
+     Honest labour bears a lovely face;
+     Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!
+
+     Canst drink the waters of the crispéd spring?
+          O sweet content!
+     Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears?
+          O punishment!
+     Then he that patiently want's burden bears,
+     No burden bears, but is a king, a king!
+     O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
+     Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
+     Honest labour bears a lovely face;
+     Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!
+
+     T. DEKKER.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     55.
+
+     This Life, which seems so fair,
+     Is like a bubble blown up in the air
+     By sporting children's breath,
+     Who chase it everywhere
+     And strive who can most motion it bequeath.
+     And though it sometimes seem of its own might
+     Like to an eye of gold to be fix'd there,
+     And firm to hover in that empty height,
+     That only is because it is so light.
+     &mdash;But in that pomp it doth not long appear;
+     For when 'tis most admiréd, in a thought,
+     Because it erst was nought, it turns to nought.
+
+     W. DRUMMOND.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     56. SOUL AND BODY.
+
+     Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
+     Fool'd by those rebel powers that thee array,
+     Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth,
+     Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
+
+     Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
+     Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
+     Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
+     Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end?
+
+     Then, Soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,
+     And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
+     Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
+     Within be fed, without be rich no more:&mdash;
+
+     So shall thou feed on death, that feeds on men,
+     And death once dead, there's no more dying then.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     57. LIFE.
+
+     The World's a bubble, and the Life of Man
+            Less than a span:
+     In his conception wretched, from the womb
+            So to the tomb;
+     Curst from his cradle, and brought up to years
+            With cares and fears.
+     Who then to frail mortality shall trust,
+     But limns on water, or but writes in dust.
+
+     Yet whilst with sorrow here we live opprest,
+            What life is best?
+     Courts are but only superficial schools
+            To dandle fools:
+     The rural parts are turn'd into a den
+            Of savage men:
+     And where's a city from foul vice so free,
+     But may be term'd the worst of all the three?
+
+     Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed,
+            Or pains his head:
+     Those that live single, take it for a curse,
+            Or do things worse:
+     Some would have children: those that have them, moan
+            Or wish them gone:
+     What is it, then, to have, or have no wife,
+     But single thraldom, or a double strife?
+
+     Our own affections still at home to please
+            Is a disease:
+     To cross the seas to any foreign soil,
+            Peril and toil:
+     Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease,
+            We are worse in peace;&mdash;
+     What then remains, but that we still should cry
+     For being born, or, being born, to die
+
+     LORD BACON
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     58. THE LESSONS OF NATURE.
+
+     Of this fair volume which we World do name
+     If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care,
+     Of Him who it corrects, and did it frame,
+     We clear might read the art and wisdom rare:
+
+     Find out His power which wildest powers doth tame,
+     His providence extending everywhere,
+     His justice which proud rebels doth not spare,
+     In every page, no period of the same.
+
+     But silly we, like foolish children, rest
+     Well pleased with colour'd vellum, leaves of gold,
+     Fair dangling ribbands, leaving what is best,
+     On the great Writer's sense ne'er taking hold;
+
+     Or if by chance we stay our minds on aught,
+     It is some picture on the margin wrought.
+
+     W. DRUMMOND.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     59.
+
+     Doth then the world go thus, doth all thus move?
+     Is this the justice which on Earth we find?
+     Is this that firm decree which all doth bind?
+     Are these your influences, Powers above?
+
+     Those souls which vice's moody mists most blind,
+     Blind Fortune, blindly, most their friend doth prove;
+     And they who thee, poor idle Virtue! love,
+     Ply like a feather toss'd by storm and wind.
+
+     Ah! if a Providence doth sway this all,
+     Why should best minds groan under most distress?
+     Or why should pride humility make thrall,
+     And injuries the innocent oppress?
+
+     Heavens! hinder, stop this fate; or grant a time
+     When good may have, as well as bad, their prime!
+
+     W. DRUMMOND.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     60. THE WORLD'S WAY.
+
+     Tired with all these, for restful death I cry&mdash;
+     As, to behold desert a beggar born,
+     And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
+     And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
+
+     And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,
+     And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
+     And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
+     And strength by limping sway disabléd
+
+     And art made tongue-tied by authority,
+     And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill,
+     And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,
+     And captive Good attending captain Ill:&mdash;
+
+     &mdash;Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
+     Save that, to die, I leave my Love alone.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     61. SAINT JOHN BAPTIST.
+
+     The last and greatest Herald of Heaven's King
+     Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild,
+     Among that savage brood the woods forth bring,
+     Which he more harmless found than man, and mild.
+
+     His food was locusts, and what there doth spring
+     With honey that from virgin hives distill'd;
+     Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing
+     Made him appear, long since from earth exiled.
+
+     There burst he forth: All ye whose hopes rely
+     On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn,
+     Repent, repent, and from old errors turn!
+     &mdash;Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry?
+
+     Only the echoes, which he made relent,
+     Rung from their flinty caves, Repent! Repent!
+
+     W. DRUMMOND.
+</pre>
+<a name="2H_4_0006"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>
+
+<h2>
+    SECOND BOOK.
+</h2>
+<a name="2H_SUMM2"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>
+
+<h2>
+    SUMMARY.
+</h2>
+<p>
+This division, embracing the latter eighty years of the seventeenth
+century, contains the close of our Early poetical style and the
+commencement of the Modern. In Dryden we see the first master of the
+new: in Milton, whose genius dominates here as Shakespeare's in the
+former book,&mdash;the crown and consummation of the early period. Their
+splendid Odes are far in advance of any prior attempts, Spenser's
+excepted: they exhibit the wider and grander range which years and
+experience and the struggles of the time conferred on Poetry. Poetry now
+gave expression to political feeling, to religious thought, to a high
+philosophic statesmanship in writers such as Marvell, Herbert, and
+Wotton: whilst in Marvell and Milton, again, we find the first noble
+attempts at pure description of nature, destined in our own ages to be
+continued and equalled. Meanwhile the poetry of simple passion, although
+before 1660 often deformed by verbal fancies and conceits of thought,
+and afterward by levity and an artificial tone,&mdash;produced in Herrick and
+Waller some charming pieces of more finished art than the Elizabethan:
+until in the courtly compliments of Sedley it seems to exhaust itself,
+and lie almost dormant for the hundred years between the days of Wither
+and Suckling and the days of Burns and Cowper.&mdash;That the change from our
+early style to the modern brought with it at first a loss of nature and
+simplicity is undeniable: yet the far bolder and wider scope which
+Poetry took between 1620 and 1700, and the successful efforts then made
+to gain greater clearness in expression, in their results have been no
+slight compensation.
+</p>
+<pre>
+
+
+     62. ODE ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY.
+
+     This is the month, and this the happy morn
+     Wherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King
+     Of wedded maid and virgin mother born,
+     Our great redemption from above did bring;
+     For so the holy sages once did sing
+     That He our deadly forfeit should release,
+     And with His Father work us a perpetual peace.
+
+     That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable,
+     And that far-beaming blaze of Majesty
+     Wherewith He wont at Heaven's high council-table
+     To sit the midst of Trinal Unity,
+     He laid aside; and, here with us to be,
+     Forsook the courts of everlasting day,
+     And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.
+
+     Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein
+     Afford a present to the Infant God?
+     Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain
+     To welcome Him to this His new abode,
+     Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod,
+     Hath took no print of the approaching light,
+     And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?
+
+     See how from far, upon the eastern road,
+     The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet:
+     O run, prevent them with thy humble ode
+     And lay it lowly at his blessed feet;
+     Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet,
+     And join thy voice unto the angel quire
+     From out His secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire.
+
+                 THE HYMN.
+
+     It was the Winter wild
+     While the heaven-born Child
+     All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies
+     Nature in awe to Him
+     Had doff'd her gaudy trim,
+     With her great Master so to sympathise:
+     It was no season then for her
+     To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour.
+
+     Only with speeches fair
+     She woos the gentle air
+     To hide her guilty front with innocent snow;
+     And on her naked shame,
+     Pollute with sinful blame,
+     The saintly veil of maiden white to throw;
+     Confounded, that her Maker's eyes
+     Should look so near upon her foul deformities.
+
+     But He, her fears to cease,
+     Sent down the meek-eyed Peace,
+     She crown'd with olive green, came softly sliding
+     Down through the turning sphere
+     His ready harbinger,
+     With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing;
+     And waving wide her myrtle wand,
+     She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.
+
+     No war, or battle's sound
+     Was heard the world around:
+     The idle spear and shield were high up hung;
+     The hookéd Chariot stood
+     Unstain'd with hostile blood;
+     The trumpet spake not to the arméd throng;
+     And kings sat still with awful eye,
+     As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.
+
+     But peaceful was the night
+     Wherin the Prince of Light
+     His reign of peace upon the earth began:
+     The winds, with wonder whist,
+     Smoothly the waters kist
+     Whispering new joys to the mild oceán&mdash;
+     Who now hath quite forgot to rave,
+     While birds of calm sit brooding on the charméd wave.
+
+     The stars with deep amaze
+     Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze,
+     Bending one way their precious influence;
+     And will not take their flight
+     For all the morning light,
+     Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence;
+     But in their glimmering orbs did glow,
+     Until their Lord Himself bespake, and bid them go.
+
+     And though the shady gloom
+     Had given day her room,
+     The sun himself withheld his wonted speed,
+     And hid his head for shame,
+     As his inferior flame
+     The new-enlightn'd world no more should need:
+     He saw a greater Sun appear
+     Then his bright throne, or burning axletree, could bear.
+
+     The shepherds on the lawn
+     Or ere the point of dawn
+     Sate simply chatting in a rustic row;
+     Full little thought they then
+     That the mighty Pan
+     Was kindly come to live with them below;
+     Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep
+     Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.
+
+     When such music sweet
+     Their hearts and ears did greet
+     As never was by mortal finger strook&mdash;
+     Divinely-warbled voice
+     Answering the stringéd noise,
+     As all their souls in blissful rapture took:
+     The air, such pleasure loth to lose,
+     With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.
+
+     Nature that heard such sound
+     Beneath the hollow round
+     Of Cynthia's seat the airy region thrilling,
+     Now was almost won
+     To think her part was done,
+     And that her reign had here its last fulfilling;
+     She knew such harmony alone
+     Could hold all heaven and earth in happier union.
+
+     At last surrounds their sight
+     A globe of circular light
+     That with long beams the shamefaced night array'd;
+     The helméd Cherubim
+     And sworded Seraphim,
+     Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd,
+     Harping in loud and solemn quire
+     With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born Heir.
+
+     Such music (as 'tis said)
+     Before was never made
+     But when of old the sons of morning sung,
+     While the Creator great
+     His constellations set
+     And the well-balanced world on hinges hung;
+     And cast the dark foundations deep,
+     And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep.
+
+     Ring out, ye crystal spheres!
+     Once bless our human ears,
+     If ye have power to touch our senses so;
+     And let your silver chime
+     Move in melodious time;
+     And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow;
+     And with your ninefold harmony
+     Make up full concert to the angelic symphony.
+
+     For if such holy Song
+     Enwrap our fancy long,
+     Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold;
+     And speckled vanity
+     Will sicken soon and die,
+     And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould;
+     And Hell itself will pass away,
+     And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.
+
+     Yea, Truth and Justice then
+     Will down return to men,
+     Orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing,
+     Mercy will sit between
+     Throned in celestial sheen,
+     With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering;
+     And Heaven, as at some festival,
+     Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall.
+
+     But wisest Fate says No;
+     This must not yet be so;
+     The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy
+     That on the bitter cross
+     Must redeem our loss;
+     So both Himself and us to glorify:
+     Yet first to those ychain'd in sleep
+     The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep;
+
+     With such a horrid clang
+     As on mount Sinai rang
+     While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake:
+     The aged Earth agast
+     With terrour of that blast
+     Shall from the surface to the centre shake,
+     When at the worlds last sessión,
+     The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread His throne.
+
+     And then at last our bliss
+     Full and perfect is,
+     But now begins; for from this happy day
+     The old Dragon, under ground
+     In straiter limits bound,
+     Not half so far casts his usurpéd sway;
+     And, wroth to see his Kingdom fail,
+     Swinges the scaly horrour of his folded tail.
+
+     The oracles are dumb;
+     No voice or hideous hum
+     Runs through the archéd roof in words deceiving:
+     Apollo from his shrine
+     Can no more divine,
+     With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving:
+     No nightly trance or breathéd spell
+     Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
+
+     The lonely mountains o'er
+     And the resounding shore
+     A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament;
+     From haunted spring, and dale
+     Edged with poplar pale
+     The parting Genius is with sighing sent;
+     With flower-inwoven tresses torn
+     The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.
+
+     In consecrated earth
+     And on the holy hearth,
+     The Lars and Lemurés moan with midnight plaint;
+     In urns, and altars round
+     A drear and dying sound
+     Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint;
+     And the chill marble seems to sweat,
+     While each peculiar Power forgoes his wonted seat.
+
+     Peor and Baalim
+     Forsake their temples dim,
+     With that twice-batter'd god of Palestine
+     And moonéd Ashtaroth
+     Heaven's queen and mother both,
+     Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine;
+     The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn,
+     In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.
+
+     And sullen Moloch, fled,
+     Hath left in shadows dread
+     His burning idol all of blackest hue;
+     In vain with cymbals' ring
+     They call the grisly king,
+     In dismal dance about the furnace blue;
+     The brutish gods of Nile as fast
+     Isis and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.
+
+     Nor is Osiris seen
+     In Memphian grove, or green,
+     Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings loud:
+     Nor can he be at rest
+     Within his sacred chest;
+     Naught but profoundest hell can be his shroud;
+     In vain with timbrell'd anthems dark
+     The sable stoléd sorcerers bear his worshipt ark.
+
+     He feels from Juda's land
+     The dreaded infant's hand;
+     The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;
+     Nor all the gods beside
+     Longer dare abide,
+     Nor Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:
+     Our Babe, to shew his Godhead true,
+     Can in his swaddling bands control the damnéd crew.
+
+     So, when the sun in bed
+     Curtain'd with cloudy red
+     Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,
+     The flocking shadows pale
+     Troop to the infernal jail,
+     Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave;
+     And the yellow-skirted fays
+     Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.
+
+     But see, the Virgin blest
+     Hath laid her Babe to rest;
+     Time is, our tedious song should here have ending:
+     Heavens youngest-teeméd star,
+     Hath fixed her polish'd car,
+     Her sleeping Lord with hand-maid lamp attending:
+     And all about the courtly stable
+     Bright-harness'd angels sit in order serviceable.
+
+     J. MILTON.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     63. SONG FOR ST CECILIA'S DAY,
+
+                  1687.
+
+     From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony
+       This universal frame began:
+      When nature underneath a heap
+       Of jarring atoms lay
+      And could not heave her head,
+     The tuneful voice was heard from high
+       Arise, ye more than dead!
+     Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry
+     In order to their stations leap,
+       And Music's power obey.
+     From harmony, from heavenly harmony
+       This universal frame began:
+       From harmony to harmony
+     Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
+     The diapason closing full in Man.
+
+     What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
+       When Jubal struck the chorded shell
+      His listening brethren stood around,
+      And, wondering, on their faces fell
+      To worship that celestial sound.
+     Less than a God they thought there could not dwell
+       Within the hollow of that shell,
+       That spoke so sweetly and so well.
+     What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
+
+      The trumpet's loud clangor
+       Excites us to arms,
+      With shrill notes of anger,
+       And mortal alarms.
+      The double double double beat
+       Of the thundering drum
+       Cries "Hark! the foes come;
+     Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!"
+
+      The soft complaining flute
+      In dying notes discovers
+      The woes of hopeless lovers,
+     Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.
+
+      Sharp violins proclaim
+     Their jealous pangs and desperation,
+     Fury, frantic indignation,
+     Depth of pains, and height of passion
+      For the fair, disdainful dame.
+
+     But oh! what art can teach,
+     What human voice can reach
+      The sacred organ's praise?
+     Notes inspiring holy love,
+     Notes that wing their heavenly ways
+      To mend the choirs above.
+     Orpheus could lead the savage race,
+     And trees uprooted left their place
+      Sequacious of the lyre:
+     But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher:
+     When to her Organ vocal breath was given
+     An angel heard, and straight appear'd&mdash;
+      Mistaking Earth for Heaven!
+
+              <i>Grand Chorus</i>:
+
+     As from the power of sacred lays
+      The spheres began to move,
+     And sung the great Creator's praise
+      To all the blest above;
+     So when the last and dreadful hour
+     This crumbling pageant shall devour,
+     The trumpet shall be heard on high,
+     The dead shall live, the living die,
+     And Music shall untune the sky.
+
+     J. DRYDEN.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     64. ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEMONT.
+
+     Avenge, O Lord! Thy slaughter'd Saints, whose bones
+     Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold;
+     Even them who kept Thy truth so pure of old
+     When all our fathers worshipt stocks and stones.
+
+     Forget not: In Thy book record their groans
+     Who were Thy sheep, and in their ancient fold
+     Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that roll'd
+     Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans
+
+     The vales redoubled to the hills, and they
+     To Heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow
+     O'er all the Italian field, where still doth sway
+     The triple tyrant, that from these may grow
+     A hundred-fold, who, having learnt Thy way,
+     Early may fly the Babylonian woe.
+
+     J. MILTON.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     65. HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S RETURN FROM IRELAND.
+
+       The forward youth that would appear,
+       Must now forsake his Muses dear,
+          Nor in the shadows sing
+          His numbers languishing.
+
+       'Tis time to leave the books in dust,
+       And oil the unused armour's rust,
+          Removing from the wall
+          The corslet of the hall.
+
+       So restless Cromwell could not cease
+       In the inglorious arts of peace,
+          But through adventurous war
+          Urgéd his active star:
+
+       And like the three-fork'd lightning first
+       Breaking the clouds where it was nurst,
+          Did thorough his own side
+          His fiery way divide:
+
+       For 'tis all one to courage high
+       The emulous, or enemy;
+          And with such, to enclose
+          Is more than to oppose;
+
+       Then burning through the air he went
+       And palaces and temples rent;
+          And Caesar's head at last
+          Did through his laurels blast.
+
+       'Tis madness to resist or blame
+       The face of angry heaven's flame;
+          And if we would speak true,
+          Much to the Man is due
+
+       Who, from his private gardens, where
+       He lived reservéd and austere
+          (As if he his highest plot
+          To plant the bergamot)
+
+       Could by industrious valour climb
+       To ruin the great work of time,
+          And cast the Kingdoms old
+          Into another mould.
+
+       Though Justice against Fate complain,
+       And plead the ancient Rights in vain&mdash;
+          But those do hold or break
+          As men are strong or weak;
+
+       Nature, that hateth emptiness,
+       Allows of penetration less,
+          And therefore must make room
+          Where greater spirits come.
+
+       What field of all the civil war
+       Where his were not the deepest scar?
+          And Hampton shows what part
+          He had of wiser art,
+
+       Where, twining subtle fears with hope,
+       He wove a net of such a scope
+          That Charles himself might chase
+          To Carisbrook's narrow case;
+
+       That thence the Royal actor borne
+       The tragic scaffold might adorn:
+          While round the arméd bands
+          Did clap their bloody hands;
+
+       He nothing common did or mean
+       Upon that memorable scene,
+          But with his keener eye
+          The axe's edge did try;
+
+       Nor call'd the Gods, with vulgar spite,
+       To vindicate his helpless right;
+          But bow'd his comely head
+          Down, as upon a bed.
+
+       &mdash;This was that memorable hour
+       Which first assured the forcéd power:
+          So when they did design
+          The Capitol's first line,
+
+       A Bleeding Head, where they begun,
+       Did fright the architects to run;
+          And yet in that the State
+          Foresaw its happy fate!
+
+       And now the Irish are ashamed
+       To see themselves in one year tamed:
+          So much one man can do
+          That does both act and know.
+
+       They can affirm his praises best,
+       And have, though overcome, confest
+          How good he is, how just
+          And fit for highest trust;
+
+       Nor yet grown stiffer with command,
+       But still in the Republic's hand&mdash;
+          How fit he is to sway
+          That can so well obey!
+
+       He to the Commons' feet presents
+       A Kingdom for his first year's rents,
+          And (what he may) forbears
+          His fame, to make it theirs:
+
+       And has his sword and spoils ungirt
+       To lay them at the Public's skirt.
+          So when the falcon high
+          Falls heavy from the sky,
+
+       She, having kill'd, no more doth search
+       But on the next green bough to perch,
+          Where, when he first does lure,
+          The falconer has her sure.
+
+       &mdash;What may not then our Isle presume
+       While victory his crest does plume?
+          What may not others fear
+          If thus he crowns each year!
+
+       As Caesar he, ere long, to Gaul,
+       To Italy an Hannibal,
+          And to all states not free
+          Shall climacteric be.
+
+       The Pict no shelter now shall find
+       Within his parti-colour'd mind,
+          But, from this valour, sad
+          Shrink underneath the plaid&mdash;
+
+       Happy, if in the tufted brake
+       The English hunter him mistake,
+          Nor lay his hounds in near
+          The Caledonian deer.
+
+       But Thou, the War's and Fortune's son,
+       March indefatigably on;
+          And for the last effect
+          Still keep the sword erect:
+
+       Besides the force it has to fright
+       The spirits of the shady night,
+          The same arts that did gain
+          A power, must it maintain.
+
+     A. MARVELL.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     66. LYCIDAS
+
+     <i>Elegy on a Friend drowned in the Irish Channel.</i>
+
+     Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more
+     Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
+     I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
+     And with forced fingers rude
+     Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
+     Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear
+     Compels me to disturb your season due:
+     For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
+     Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:
+     Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew
+     Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
+     He must not float upon his watery bier
+     Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
+     Without the meed of some melodious tear.
+
+       Begin, then, Sisters of the sacred well
+     That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring;
+     Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string;
+     Hence with denial vain and coy excuse:
+     So may some gentle Muse
+     With lucky words favour my destined urn:
+     And as he passes, turn
+     And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.
+
+       For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,
+     Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill:
+     Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd
+     Under the opening eye-lids of the morn,
+     We drove a-field, and both together heard
+     What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,
+     Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
+     Oft till the star that rose at evening bright
+     Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel.
+     Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute;
+     Temper'd to the oaten flute,
+     Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel
+     From the glad sound would not be absent long;
+     And old Damoetas loved to hear our song.
+
+       But, O the heavy change, now thou art gone,
+     Now thou art gone and never must return!
+     Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves,
+     With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,
+     And all their echoes, mourn.
+     The willows and the hazel copses green
+     Shall now no more be seen
+     Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays:&mdash;
+     As killing as the canker to the rose,
+     Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,
+     Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear,
+     When first the white-thorn blows;
+     Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherds' ear.
+
+       Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep
+     Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas?
+     For neither were ye playing on the steep
+     Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,
+     Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,
+     Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream.
+     Ay me! I fondly dream&mdash;
+     Had ye been there&mdash;for what could that have done?
+     What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,
+     The Muse herself, for her enchanting son,
+     Whom universal nature did lament,
+     When by the rout that made the hideous roar
+     His gory visage down the stream was sent,
+     Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?
+
+       Alas! what boots it with incessant care
+     To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's trade
+     And strictly meditate the thankless Muse?
+     Were it not better done, as others use,
+     To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,
+     Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair?
+     Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise
+     (That last infirmity of noble mind)
+     To scorn delights and live laborious days;
+     But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
+     And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
+     Comes the blind Fury with the abhorréd shears
+     And slits the thin-spun life. "But not the praise,"
+     Phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears;
+     "Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
+     Nor in the glistering foil
+     Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies:
+     But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes
+     And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;
+     As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
+     Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed."
+
+       O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd flood
+     Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds!
+     That strain I heard was of a higher mood:
+     But now my oat proceeds,
+     And listens to the herald of the sea
+     That came in Neptune's plea;
+     He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds,
+     What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain?
+     And question'd every gust of rugged wings
+     That blows from off each beakéd promontory:
+     They knew not of his story;
+     And sage Hippotadés their answer brings,
+     That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd;
+     The air was calm, and on the level brine
+     Sleek Panopé with all her sisters play'd.
+     It was that fatal and perfidious bark
+     Built in the eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark,
+     That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.
+
+       Next, Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,
+     His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge
+     Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge
+     Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe:
+     "Ah! who hath reft," quoth he, "my dearest pledge!"
+     Last came, and last did go
+     The pilot of the Galilean Lake;
+     Two massy keys he bore of metals twain
+     (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain);
+     He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake:
+     "How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,
+     Enow of such, as for their bellies' sake
+     Creep and intrude and climb into the fold!
+     Of other care they little reckoning make
+     Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast,
+     And shove away the worthy bidden guest;
+     Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold
+     A sheep-hook, or have learn'd aught else the least
+     That to the faithful herdman's art belongs!
+     What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;
+     And, when they list, their lean and flashy songs
+     Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;
+     The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,
+     But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw
+     Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:
+     Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw
+     Daily devours apace, and nothing said:
+     &mdash;But that two-handed engine at the door
+     Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more."
+
+       Return, Alphéus; the dread voice is past
+     That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse,
+     And call the vales, and bid them hither cast
+     Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues.
+     Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use
+     Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks
+     On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks;
+     Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes
+     That on the green turf suck the honey'd showers
+     And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
+     Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
+     The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,
+     The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet,
+     The glowing violet,
+     The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,
+     With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
+     And every flower that sad embroidery wears:
+     Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,
+     And daffodillies fill their cups with tears
+     To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.
+     For so to interpose a little ease,
+     Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise;
+     Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas
+     Wash far away,&mdash;where'er thy bones are hurl'd;
+     Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides
+     Where thou perhaps, under the whelming tide
+     Visitest the bottom of the monstrous world;
+     Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,
+     Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,
+     Where the great Vision of the guarded mount
+     Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold,
+     &mdash;Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth:
+     &mdash;And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth!
+
+       Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more,
+     For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,
+     Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor;
+     So sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed,
+     And yet anon repairs his drooping head
+     And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore
+     Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:
+     So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high
+     Through the dear might of Him that walk'd the waves;
+     Where, other groves and other streams along,
+     With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,
+     And hears the unexpressive nuptial song
+     In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.
+     There entertain him all the saints above
+     In solemn troops, and sweet societies,
+     That sing, and singing, in their glory move,
+     And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
+     Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;
+     Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore,
+     In thy large recompense, and shalt be good
+     To all that wander in that perilous flood.
+
+       Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills,
+     While the still morn went out with sandals gray;
+     He touch'd the tender stops of various quills,
+     With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:
+     And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills,
+     And now was dropt into the western bay:
+     At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue:
+     To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.
+
+     J. MILTON.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     67. THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
+
+     Mortality, behold and fear
+     What a change of flesh is here!
+     Think how many royal bones
+     Sleep within these heaps of stones;
+     Here they lie, had realms and lands,
+     Who now want strength to stir their hands,
+     Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust
+     They preach, "In greatness is no trust."
+     Here's an acre sown indeed
+     With the richest royallest seed
+     That the earth did e'er suck in
+     Since the first man died for sin:
+     Here the bones of birth have cried
+     "Though gods they were, as men they died!"
+     Here are sands, ignoble things,
+     Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings
+     Here's a world of pomp and state
+     Buried in dust, once dead by fate.
+
+     F. BEAUMONT.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     68. THE LAST CONQUEROR.
+
+     Victorious men of earth, no more
+       Proclaim how wide your empires are;
+     Though you bind-in every shore
+       And your triumphs reach as far
+          As night and day,
+       Yet you, proud monarchs, must obey
+     And mingle with forgotten ashes, when
+     Death calls ye to the crowd of common men.
+
+     Devouring Famine, Plague, and War,
+       Each able to undo mankind,
+     Death's servile emissaries are;
+       Nor to these alone confined,
+          He hath at will
+       More quaint and subtle ways to kill;
+     A smile or kiss, as he will use the art,
+     Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart.
+
+     J. SHIRLEY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     69. DEATH THE LEVELLER.
+
+     The glories of our blood and state
+        Are shadows, not substantial things;
+     There is no armour against fate;
+        Death lays his icy hand on kings:
+          Sceptre and Crown
+          Must tumble down,
+     And in the dust be equal made
+     With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
+
+     Some men with swords may reap the field,
+        And plant fresh laurels where they kill:
+     But their strong nerves at last must yield;
+        They tame but one another still:
+          Early or late
+          They stoop to fate,
+     And must give up their murmuring breath
+     When they, pale captives, creep to death.
+
+     The garlands wither on your brow;
+        Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
+     Upon Death's purple altar now
+        See where the victor-victim bleeds:
+          Your heads must come
+          To the cold tomb;
+     Only the actions of the just
+     Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.
+
+     J. SHIRLEY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     70. WHEN THE ASSAULT WAS INTENDED TO THE CITY.
+
+     Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in arms,
+     Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize,
+     If deed of honour did thee ever please;
+     Guard them, and him within protect from harms.
+
+     He can requite thee; for he knows the charms
+     That call fame on such gentle acts as these.
+     And he can spread thy name o'er lands and seas,
+     Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms.
+
+     Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower:
+     The great Emathian conqueror bid spare
+     The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower
+     Went to the ground: and the repeated air
+     Of sad Electra's poet had the power
+     To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare.
+
+     J. MILTON.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     71. ON HIS BLINDNESS.
+
+     When I consider how my light is spent
+     Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
+     And that one talent which is death to hide
+     Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
+
+     To serve therewith my Maker, and present
+     My true account, lest He returning chide,&mdash;
+     Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?
+     I fondly ask:&mdash;But Patience, to prevent
+
+     That murmur, soon replies; God doth not need
+     Either man's work, or His own gifts: who best
+     Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His state
+
+     Is kingly; thousands at His bidding speed
+     And post o'er land and ocean without rest:&mdash;
+     They also serve who only stand and wait.
+
+     J. MILTON.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     72. CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE.
+
+     How happy is he born and taught
+     That serveth not another's will;
+     Whose armour is his honest thought
+     And simple truth his utmost skill!
+
+     Whose passions not his masters are,
+     Whose soul is still prepared for death,
+     Not tied unto the world by care
+     Of public fame, or private breath;
+
+     Who envies none that chance doth raise
+     Or vice; Who never understood
+     How deepest wounds are given by praise;
+     Nor rules of state, but rules of good:
+
+     Who hath his life from rumours freed,
+     Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
+     Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
+     Nor ruin make accusers great;
+
+     Who God doth late and early pray
+     More of His grace than gifts to lend;
+     And entertains the harmless day
+     With a well-chosen book or friend;
+
+     &mdash;This man is freed from servile bands
+     Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
+     Lord of himself, though not of lands,
+     And having nothing, yet hath all.
+
+     SIR H. WOTTON.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     73. THE NOBLE NATURE.
+
+        It is not growing like a tree
+        In bulk, doth make Man better be;
+     Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
+     To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:
+          A lily of a day
+          Is fairer far in May,
+        Although it fall and die that night&mdash;
+        It was the plant and flower of Light.
+     In small proportions we just beauties see;
+     And in short measures life may perfect be.
+
+     B. JONSON
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     74. THE GIFTS OF GOD.
+
+         When God at first made Man,
+     Having a glass of blessings standing by;
+     Let us (said he) pour on him all we can:
+     Let the world's riches, which disperséd lie,
+         Contract into a span.
+
+         So strength first made a way;
+     Then beauty flow'd, then wisdom, honour, pleasure:
+     When almost all was out, God made a stay,
+     Perceiving that alone, of all his treasure,
+         Rest in the bottom lay.
+
+         For if I should (said he)
+     Bestow this jewel also on my creature,
+     He would adore My gifts instead of Me,
+     And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature:
+         So both should losers be.
+
+         Yet let him keep the rest,
+     But keep them with repining restlessness:
+     Let him be rich and weary, that at least,
+     If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
+         May toss him to my breast.
+
+     G. HERBERT.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     75. THE RETREAT.
+
+     Happy those early days, when I
+     Shined in my Angel-infancy!
+     Before I understood this place
+     Appointed for my second race,
+     Or taught my soul to fancy aught
+     But a white, celestial thought;
+     When yet I had not walk'd above
+     A mile or two from my first Love,
+
+     And looking back, at that short space
+     Could see a glimpse of his bright face;
+     When on some gilded cloud or flower
+     My gazing soul would dwell an hour,
+     And in those weaker glories spy
+     Some shadows of eternity;
+     Before I taught my tongue to wound
+     My conscience with a sinful sound,
+     Or had the black art to dispense
+     A several sin to every sense,
+     But felt through all this fleshly dress
+     Bright shoots of everlastingness.
+
+     O how I long to travel back,
+     And tread again that ancient track!
+     That I might once more reach that plain,
+     Where first I left my glorious train;
+     From whence th' enlighten'd spirit sees
+     That shady City of Palm trees!
+     But ah! my soul with too much stay
+     Is drunk, and staggers in the way:&mdash;
+     Some men a forward motion love,
+     But I by backward steps would move;
+     And when this dust falls to the urn,
+     In that state I came, return.
+
+     H. VAUGHAN.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     76. TO MR. LAWRENCE.
+
+     Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son,
+     Now that the fields are dank and ways are mire,
+     Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire
+     Help waste a sullen day, what may be won
+
+     From the hard season gaining? Time will run
+     On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire
+     The frozen earth, and cloth in fresh attire
+     The lily and rose, that neither sow'd nor spun.
+
+     What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,
+     Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise
+     To hear the lute well touch'd, or artful voice
+
+     Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air?
+     He who of those delights can judge, and spare
+     To interpose them oft, is not unwise.
+
+     J. MILTON.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     77. TO CYRIACK SKINNER.
+
+     Cyriack, whose grandsire on the royal bench
+     Of British Themis, with no mean applause
+     Pronounced, and in his volumes taught, our laws,
+     Which others at their bar so often wrench;
+
+     To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench
+     In mirth, that after no repenting draws;
+     Let Euclid rest and Archimedes pause,
+     And what the Swede intends, and what the French.
+
+     To measure life learn thou betimes, and know
+     Toward solid good what leads the nearest way;
+     For other things mild Heaven a time ordains,
+
+     And disapproves that care, though wise in show,
+     That with superfluous burden loads the day,
+     And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.
+
+     J. MILTON.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     78. HYMN TO DIANA.
+
+     Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair,
+        Now the sun is laid to sleep,
+     Seated in thy silver chair
+        State in wonted manner keep:
+          Hesperus entreats thy light,
+          Goddess excellently bright.
+
+     Earth, let not thy envious shade
+        Dare itself to interpose;
+     Cynthia's shining orb was made
+        Heaven to clear when day did close;
+          Bless us then with wishéd sight,
+          Goddess excellently bright.
+
+     Lay thy bow of pearl apart
+        And thy crystal-shining quiver;
+     Give unto the flying hart
+        Space to breathe, how short soever;
+          Thou that mak'st a day of night,
+          Goddess excellently bright.
+
+     B. JONSON.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     79. WISHES FOR THE SUPPOSED MISTRESS.
+
+     Whoe'er she be,
+     That not impossible She
+     That shall command my heart and me;
+
+     Where'er she lie,
+     Lock'd up from mortal eye
+     In shady leaves of destiny:
+
+     Till that ripe birth
+     Of studied Fate stand forth,
+     And teach her fair steps to our earth;
+
+     Till that divine
+     Idea take a shrine
+     Of crystal flesh, through which to shine:
+
+     &mdash;Meet you her, my Wishes,
+     Bespeak her to my blisses,
+     And be ye call'd, my absent kisses.
+
+     I wish her beauty,
+     That owes not all its duty
+     To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie:
+
+     Something more than
+     Taffata or tissue can,
+     Or rampant feather, or rich fan.
+
+     A face that's best
+     By its own beauty drest,
+     And can alone command the rest:
+
+     A face made up
+     Out of no other shop
+     Than what Nature's white hand sets ope.
+
+     Sydneian showers
+     Of sweet discourse, whose powers
+     Can crown old Winter's head with flowers.
+
+     Whate'er delight
+     Can make day's forehead bright
+     Or give down to the wings of night.
+
+     Soft silken hours,
+     Open suns, shady bowers;
+     'Bove all, nothing within that lowers.
+
+     Days, that need borrow
+     No part of their good morrow
+     From a fore-spent night of sorrow:
+
+     Days, that in spite
+     Of darkness, by the light
+     Of a clear mind are day all night.
+
+     Life, that dares send
+     A challenge to his end,
+     And when it comes, say, "Welcome friend."
+
+     I wish her store
+     Of worth may leave her poor
+     Of wishes; and I wish&mdash;no more.
+
+     &mdash;Now, if Time knows
+     That Her, whose radiant brows
+     Weave them a garland of my vows;
+
+     Her that dares be
+     What these lines wish to see;
+     I seek no further, it is She.
+
+     'Tis She, and here
+     Lo! I unclothe and clear
+     My wishes' cloudy character.
+
+     Such worth as this is
+     Shall fix my flying wishes,
+     And determine them to kisses.
+
+     Let her full glory,
+     My fancies, fly before ye;
+     Be ye my fictions:&mdash;but her story.
+
+     R. CRASHAW.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     80. THE GREAT ADVENTURER.
+
+        Over the mountains
+        And over the waves,
+        Under the fountains
+        And under the graves;
+        Under floods that are deepest,
+        Which Neptune obey;
+        Over rocks that are steepest
+        Love will find out the way.
+
+        When there is no place
+        For the glow-worm to lie;
+        When there is no space
+        For receipt of a fly;
+        When the midge dares not venture
+        Lest herself fast she lay;
+        If Love come, he will enter
+        And will find out his way.
+
+        You may esteem him
+        A child for his might;
+        Or you may deem him
+        A coward from his flight;
+        But if she whom love doth honour
+        Be conceal'd from the day,
+        Set a thousand guards upon her,
+        Love will find out the way.
+
+        Some think to lose him
+        By having him confined;
+        And some do suppose him,
+        Poor thing, to be blind;
+        But if ne'er so close ye wall him,
+        Do the best that you may,
+        Blind love, if so ye call him,
+        Will find out his way.
+
+        You may train the eagle
+        To stoop to your fist;
+        Or you may inveigle
+        The phoenix of the east;
+        The lioness, ye may move her
+        To give o'er her prey;
+        But you'll ne'er stop a lover:
+        He will find out his way.
+
+     ANON.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     81. CHILD AND MAIDEN.
+
+     Ah, Chloris! could I now but sit
+       As unconcern'd as when
+     Your infant beauty could beget
+       No happiness or pain!
+     When I the dawn used to admire,
+       And praised the coming day,
+     I little thought the rising fire
+       Would take my rest away.
+
+     Your charms in harmless childhood lay
+       Like metals in a mine;
+     Age from no face takes more away
+       Than youth conceal'd in thine.
+     But as your charms insensibly
+       To their perfection prest,
+     So love as unperceived did fly,
+       And center'd in my breast.
+
+     My passion with your beauty grew,
+       While Cupid at my heart
+     Still as his mother favour'd you,
+       Threw a new flaming dart:
+     Each gloried in their wanton part;
+       To make a lover, he
+     Employ'd the utmost of his art&mdash;
+       To make a beauty, she.
+
+     SIR C. SEDLEY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     82. COUNSEL TO GIRLS.
+
+     Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,
+       Old Time is still a-flying:
+     And this same flower that smiles to-day,
+       To-morrow will be dying.
+
+     The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun,
+       The higher he's a-getting
+     The sooner will his race be run,
+       And nearer he's to setting.
+
+     That age is best which is the first,
+       When youth and blood are warmer,
+     But being spent, the worse, and worst
+       Times, still succeed the former.
+
+     Then be not coy, but use your time;
+       And while ye may, go marry:
+     For having lost but once your prime,
+       You may for ever tarry.
+
+     R. HERRICK.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     83. TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS.
+
+     Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind
+       That from the nunnery
+     Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,
+       To war and arms I fly.
+
+     True, a new mistress now I chase,
+       The first foe in the field;
+     And with a stronger faith embrace
+       A sword, a horse, a shield.
+
+     Yet this inconstancy is such
+       As you too shalt adore;
+     I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
+       Loved I not Honour more.
+
+     COLONEL LOVELACE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     84. ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA.
+
+     You meaner beauties of the night,
+       Which poorly satisfy our eyes
+     More by your number than your light,
+       You common people of the skies,
+     What are you, when the Moon shall rise?
+
+     Ye violets that first appear,
+       By your pure purple mantles known
+     Like the proud virgins of the year
+       As if the spring were all your own,&mdash;
+     What are you, when the Rose is blown?
+
+     You curious chanters of the wood
+       That warble forth dame Nature's lays,
+     Thinking your passions understood
+       By your weak accents; what's your praise
+     When Philomel her voice doth raise?
+
+     So, when my Mistress shall be seen
+       In sweetness of her looks and mind,
+     By virtue first, then choice, a Queen,
+       Tell me, if she were not design'd
+     Th' eclipse and glory of her kind?
+
+     SIR H. WOTTON.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     85. TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY.
+
+     Daughter to that good earl, once President
+     Of England's council and her treasury,
+     Who lived in both, unstain'd with gold or fee,
+     And left them both, more in himself content.
+
+     Till the sad breaking of that parliament
+     Broke him, as that dishonest victory
+     At Chaeronia, fatal to liberty,
+     Kill'd with report that old man eloquent;&mdash;
+
+     Though later born than to have known the days
+     Wherein your father flourish'd, yet by you,
+     Madam, methinks I see him living yet;
+
+     So well your words his noble virtues praise,
+     That all both judge you to relate them true,
+     And to possess them, honour'd Margaret.
+
+     J. MILTON.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     86. THE LOVELINESS OF LOVE.
+
+     It is not Beauty I demand,
+     A crystal brow, the moon's despair,
+     Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand,
+     Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair:
+
+     Tell me not of your starry eyes,
+     Your lips that seem on roses fed,
+     Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies,
+     Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed:&mdash;
+
+     A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks
+     Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours,
+     A breath that softer music speaks
+     Than summer winds a-wooing flowers,
+
+     These are but gauds: nay what are lips?
+     Coral beneath the ocean-stream,
+     Whose brink when your adventurer slips
+     Full oft he perisheth on them.
+
+     And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft
+     That wave hot youth to fields of blood?
+     Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft,
+     Do Greece or Ilium any good?
+
+     Eyes can with baleful ardour burn;
+     Poison can breathe, that erst perfumed;
+     There's many a white hand holds an urn
+     With lovers hearts to dust consumed.
+
+     For crystal brows there's nought within;
+     They are but empty cells for pride;
+     He who the Syren's hair would win
+     Is mostly strangled in the tide.
+
+     Give me, instead of Beauty's bust,
+     A tender heart, a loyal mind
+     Which with temptation I would trust,
+     Yet never link'd with error find,&mdash;
+
+     One in whose gentle bosom I
+     Could pour my secret heart of woes,
+     Like the care-burthen'd honey-fly
+     That hides his murmurs in the rose,&mdash;
+
+     My earthly Comforter! whose love
+     So indefeasible might be
+     That, when my spirit wonn'd above,
+     Hers could not stay, for sympathy.
+
+     ANON.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     87. THE TRUE BEAUTY.
+
+        He that loves a rosy cheek
+         Or a coral lip admires,
+        Or from star-like eyes doth seek
+         Fuel to maintain his fires;
+        As old Time makes these decay,
+        So his flames must waste away.
+
+        But a smooth and steadfast mind,
+         Gentle thoughts, and calm desires,
+        Hearts with equal love combined,
+         Kindle never-dying fires:&mdash;
+        Where these are not, I despise
+        Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes.
+
+     T. CAREW.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     88. TO DIANEME.
+
+     Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes
+     Which starlike sparkle in their skies;
+     Nor be you proud, that you can see
+     All hearts your captives; yours yet free:
+     Be you not proud of that rich hair
+     Which wantons with the lovesick air;
+     Whenas that ruby which you wear,
+     Sunk from the tip of your soft ear,
+     Will last to be a precious stone,
+     When all your world of beauty's gone.
+
+     R. HERRICK.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     89.
+
+       Go, lovely Rose!
+     Tell her, that wastes her time and me,
+       That now she knows,
+     When I resemble her to thee,
+     How sweet and fair she seems to be.
+
+       Tell her that's young,
+     And shuns to have her graces spied,
+       That hadst thou sprung
+     In deserts, where no men abide,
+     Thou must have uncommended died.
+
+       Small is the worth
+     Of beauty from the light retired:
+       Bid her come forth,
+     Suffer herself to be desired,
+     And not blush so to be admired.
+
+       Then die! that she
+     The common fate of all things rare
+       May read in thee:
+     How small a part of time they share
+     That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
+
+     E. WALLER.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     90. TO CELIA.
+
+     Drink to me only with thine eyes,
+       And I will pledge with mine;
+     Or leave a kiss but in the cup
+       And I'll not look for wine.
+     The thirst that from the soul doth rise
+       Doth ask a drink divine;
+     But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
+       I would not change for thine.
+
+     I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
+       Not so much honouring thee
+     As giving it a hope that there
+       It could not wither'd be;
+     But thou thereon didst only breathe
+       And sent'st it back to me;
+     Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
+       Not of itself but thee!
+
+     B. JONSON.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     91. CHERRY-RIPE.
+
+     There is a garden in her face
+       Where roses and white lilies blow;
+     A heavenly paradise is that place,
+       Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow;
+     There cherries grow that none may buy,
+     Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.
+
+     Those cherries fairly do enclose
+       Of orient pearl a double row,
+     Which when her lovely laughter shows,
+       They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow:
+     Yet them no peer nor prince can buy
+     Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.
+
+     Her eyes like angels watch them still;
+       Her brows like bended bows do stand,
+     Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill
+       All that approach with eye or hand
+     These sacred cherries to come nigh,
+     &mdash;Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry!
+
+     ANON.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     92. THE POETRY OF DRESS.
+
+     I.
+
+     A sweet disorder in the dress
+     Kindles in clothes a wantonness:&mdash;
+     A lawn about the shoulders thrown
+     Into a fine distractión,&mdash;
+     An erring lace, which here and there
+     Enthrals the crimson stomacher,&mdash;
+     A cuff neglectful, and thereby
+     Ribbands to flow confusedly,&mdash;
+     A winning wave, deserving note,
+     In the tempestuous petticoat,&mdash;
+     A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
+     I see a wild civility;&mdash;
+     Do more bewitch me, than when art
+     Is too precise in every part.
+
+     R. HERRICK.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     93.&mdash;II.
+
+     Whenas in silks my Julia goes
+     Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows
+     That liquefaction of her clothes.
+
+     Next, when I cast mine eyes and see
+     That brave vibration each way free;
+     O how that glittering taketh me!
+
+     R. HERRICK.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     94.&mdash;III.
+
+     My Love in her attire doth shew her wit,
+      It doth so well become her;
+     For every season she hath dressings fit,
+      For Winter, Spring, and Summer.
+      No beauty she doth miss
+      When all her robes are on
+      But Beauty's self she is
+      When all her robes are gone.
+
+     ANON.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     95. ON A GIRDLE.
+
+     That which her slender waist confined
+     Shall now my joyful temples bind:
+     No monarch but would give his crown
+     His arms might do what this has done.
+
+     It was my Heaven's extremest sphere,
+     The pale which held that lovely deer:
+     My joy, my grief, my hope, my love
+     Did all within this circle move.
+
+     A narrow compass! and yet there
+     Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair:
+     Give me but what this ribband bound,
+     Take all the rest the Sun goes round.
+
+     E. WALLER.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     96. TO ANTHEA WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANY THING.
+
+     Bid me to live, and I will live
+       Thy Protestant to be;
+     Or bid me love, and I will give
+       A loving heart to thee.
+
+     A heart as soft, a heart as kind,
+       A heart as sound and free
+     As in the whole world thou canst find,
+       That heart I'll give to thee.
+
+     Bid that heart stay, and it will stay,
+       To honour thy decree:
+     Or bid it languish quite away,
+       And 't shall do so for thee.
+
+     Bid me to weep, and I will weep,
+       While I have eyes to see:
+     And having none, yet I will keep
+       A heart to weep for thee.
+
+     Bid me despair, and I'll despair,
+       Under that cypress tree:
+     Or bid me die, and I will dare
+       E'en Death, to die for thee.
+
+     Thou art my life, my love, my heart,
+       The very eyes of me,
+     And hast command of every part,
+       To live and die for thee.
+
+     R. HERRICK.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     97.
+
+     Love not me for comely grace,
+     For my pleasing eye or face,
+     Nor for any outward part,
+     No, nor for a constant heart,&mdash;
+      For these may fail, or turn to ill,
+       So thou and I shall sever:
+     Keep, therefore, a true woman's eye,
+     And love me still, but know not why&mdash;
+      So hast thou the same reason still
+       To doat upon me ever!
+
+     ANON.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     98.
+
+     Not, Celia, that I juster am
+      Or better than the rest;
+     For I would change each hour, like them,
+      Were not my heart at rest.
+
+     But I am tied to very thee
+      By every thought I have;
+     Thy face I only care to see,
+      Thy heart I only crave.
+
+     All that in woman is adored
+      In thy dear self I find&mdash;
+     For the whole sex can but afford
+      The handsome and the kind.
+
+     Why then should I seek further store,
+      And still make love anew?
+     When change itself can give no more,
+      'Tis easy to be true.
+
+     SIR C. SEDLEY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     99. TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON.
+
+     When Love with unconfinéd wings
+      Hovers within my gates,
+     And my divine Althea brings
+      To whisper at the grates;
+     When I lie tangled in her hair
+      And fetter'd to her eye,
+     The birds that wanton in the air
+      Know no such liberty.
+
+     When flowing cups run swiftly round
+      With no allaying Thames,
+     Our careless heads with roses crown'd,
+      Our hearts with loyal flames;
+     When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
+      When healths and draughts go free&mdash;
+     Fishes that tipple in the deep
+      Know no such liberty.
+
+     When, linnet-like confinéd, I
+      With shriller throat shall sing
+     The sweetness, mercy, majesty,
+      And glories of my King;
+     When I shall voice aloud how good
+      He is, how great should be,
+     Enlargéd winds, that curl the flood,
+      Know no such liberty.
+
+     Stone walls do not a prison make,
+      Nor iron bars a cage;
+     Minds innocent and quiet take
+      That for an hermitage:
+     If I have freedom in my love
+      And in my soul am free,
+     Angels alone, that soar above,
+      Enjoy such liberty.
+
+     COLONEL LOVELACE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     100. TO LUCASTA, ON GOING BEYOND THE SEAS.
+
+       If to be absent were to be
+          Away from thee;
+        Or that when I am gone
+        You or I were alone;
+       Then, my Lucasta, might I crave
+     Pity from blustering wind, or swallowing wave.
+
+       Though seas and land betwixt us both,
+          Our faith and troth,
+          Like separated souls,
+        All time and space controls:
+       Above the highest sphere we meet
+     Unseen, unknown; and greet as Angels greet.
+
+       So then we do anticipate
+          Our after-fate,
+        And are alive i' the skies,
+        If thus our lips and eyes
+       Can speak like spirits unconfined
+     In Heaven, their earthy bodies left behind.
+
+     COLONEL LOVELACE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     101. ENCOURAGEMENTS TO A LOVER.
+
+     Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
+        Prythee, why so pale?
+     Will, if looking well can't move her,
+        Looking ill prevail?
+        Prythee, why so pale?
+
+     Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
+        Prythee, why so mute?
+     Will, when speaking well can't win her,
+        Saying nothing do't?
+        Prythee, why so mute?
+
+     Quit, quit for shame! This will not move,
+        This cannot take her;
+     If of herself she will not love,
+        Nothing can make her:
+        The D&mdash;&mdash;l take her!
+
+     SIR J. SUCKLING.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     102. A SUPPLICATION.
+
+         Awake, awake, my Lyre!
+     And tell thy silent master's humble tale
+         In sounds that may prevail;
+       Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire:
+         Though so exalted she
+         And I so lowly be
+     Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony.
+
+         Hark! how the strings awake:
+     And, though the moving hand approach not near,
+         Themselves with awful fear
+       A kind of numerous trembling make.
+         Now all thy forces try;
+         Now all thy charms apply;
+     Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye.
+
+         Weak Lyre! thy virtue sure
+     Is useless here, since thou art only found
+         To cure, but not to wound,
+       And she to wound, but not to cure.
+         Too weak too wilt thou prove
+         My passion to remove;
+     Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to love.
+
+         Sleep, sleep again my Lyre!
+     For thou canst never tell my humble tale
+         In sounds that will prevail,
+       Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire;
+         All thy vain mirth lay by,
+         Bid thy strings silent lie,
+     Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die.
+
+     A. COWLEY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     103. THE MANLY HEART.
+
+     Shall I, wasting in despair,
+     Die because a woman's fair?
+     Or my cheeks make pale with care
+     'Cause another's rosy are?
+     Be she fairer than the day,
+     Or the flowery meads in May&mdash;
+       If she be not so to me,
+       What care I how fair she be?
+
+     Shall my foolish heart be pined
+     'Cause I see a woman kind;
+     Or a well disposéd nature
+     Joinéd with a lovely feature?
+     Be she meeker, kinder, than
+     Turtle-dove or pelican,
+       If she be not so to me,
+       What care I how kind she be?
+
+     Shall a woman's virtues move
+     Me to perish for her love?
+     Or her merit's value known
+     Make me quite forget my own?
+     Be she with that goodness blest
+     Which may gain her name of Best;
+       If she be not such to me,
+       What care I how good she be?
+
+     'Cause her fortune seems too high,
+     Shall I play the fool and die?
+     Those that bear a noble mind
+     Where they want of riches find,
+     Think what with them they would do
+     Who without them dare to woo;
+       And unless that mind I see,
+       What care I how great she be?
+
+     Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
+     I will ne'er the more despair;
+     If she love me, this believe,
+     I will die ere she shall grieve;
+     If she slight me when I woo,
+     I can scorn and let her go;
+       For if she be not for me,
+       What care I for whom she be?
+
+     G. WITHER.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     104. MELANCHOLY.
+
+     Hence, all you vain delights,
+     As short as are the nights
+     Wherein you spend your folly
+     There's naught in this life sweet
+     If men were wise to see't,
+     But only melancholy,
+     O sweetest Melancholy!
+     Welcome, folded arms and fixéd eyes,
+     A sigh that piercing mortifies,
+     A look that's fasten'd to the ground,
+     A tongue chain'd up without a sound!
+     Fountain-heads and pathless groves,
+     Places which pale passion loves!
+     Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
+     Are warmly housed save bats and owls!
+       A midnight bell, a parting groan!
+       These are the sounds we feed upon;
+     Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley;
+     Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.
+
+     J. FLETCHER.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     105. TO A LOCK OF HAIR.
+
+     Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright
+     As in that well-remember'd night
+     When first thy mystic braid was wove,
+     And first my Agnes whisper'd love.
+
+       Since then how often hast thou prest
+     The torrid zone of this wild breast,
+     Whose wrath and hate have sworn to dwell
+     With the first sin that peopled hell;
+     A breast whose blood's a troubled ocean,
+     Each throb the earthquake's wild commotion!
+     O if such clime thou canst endure
+     Yet keep thy hue unstain'd and pure,
+     What conquest o'er each erring thought
+     Of that fierce realm had Agnes wrought!
+     I had not wander'd far and wide
+     With such an angel for my guide;
+     Nor heaven nor earth could then reprove me
+     If she had lived, and lived to love me.
+
+     Not then this world's wild joys had been
+     To me one savage hunting scene,
+     My sole delight the headlong race,
+     And frantic hurry of the chase;
+     To start, pursue, and bring to bay,
+     Rush in, drag down, and rend my prey,
+     Then&mdash;from the carcase turn away!
+     Mine ireful mood had sweetness tamed,
+     And soothed each wound which pride inflamed:&mdash;
+     Yes, God and man might now approve me
+     If thou hadst lived, and lived to love me!
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     106. THE FORSAKEN BRIDE.
+
+     O waly waly, up the bank,
+       And waly waly down the brae,
+     And waly waly yon burn-side
+       Where I and my Love wont to gae!
+     I leant my back unto an aik,
+       I thought it was a trusty tree;
+     But first it bow'd, and syne it brak,
+       Sae my true Love did lichtly me.
+
+     O waly waly, but love be bonny
+       A little time while it is new;
+     But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld,
+       And fades awa' like morning dew.
+     O wherefore should I busk my head?
+       Or wherefore should I kame my hair?
+     For my true Love has me forsook,
+       And says he'll never loe me mair.
+
+     Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed;
+       The sheets sall ne'er be prest by me:
+     Saint Anton's well sall be my drink,
+       Since my true Love has forsaken me.
+     Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw
+       And shake the green leaves aff the tree?
+     O gentle Death, when wilt thou come?
+       For of my life I am wearíe.
+
+     'Tis not the frost, that freezes fell,
+       Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie,
+     'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,
+       But my Love's heart grown cauld to me.
+     When we came in by Glasgow town
+       We were a comely sight to see;
+     My Love was clad in the black velvét,
+       And I mysell in cramasie.
+
+     But had I wist, before I kist,
+       That love had been sae ill to win,
+     I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd
+       And pinn'd it wi' a siller pin.
+     And O! if my young babe were born,
+       And set upon the nurse's knee,
+     And I mysell were dead and gane,
+       And the green grass growing over me!
+
+     ANON.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     107. FAIR HELEN.
+
+     I wish I were where Helen lies;
+     Night and day on me she cries;
+     O that I were where Helen lies
+        On fair Kirconnell lea.
+
+     Curst be the heart that thought the thought,
+     And curst the hand that fired the shot,
+     When in my arms burd Helen dropt,
+        And died to succour me!
+
+     O think na but my heart was sair,
+     When my Love dropt down and spak nae mair!
+     I laid her down wi' meikle care,
+        On fair Kirconnell lea.
+
+     As I went down the water side,
+     None but my foe to be my guide,
+     None but my foe to be my guide,
+        On fair Kirconnell lea;
+
+     I lighted down my sword to draw,
+     I hackéd him in pieces sma',
+     I hackéd him in pieces sma',
+        For her sake that died for me.
+
+     O Helen fair, beyond compare!
+     I'll make a garland of thy hair
+     Shall bind my heart for evermair
+        Until the day I die.
+
+     O that I were where Helen lies!
+     Night and day on me she cries;
+     Out of my bed she bids me rise,
+        Says, "Haste, and come to me!"
+
+     O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!
+     If I were with thee, I were blest,
+     Where thou lies low and takes thy rest
+        On fair Kirconnell lea.
+
+     I wish my grave were growing green,
+     A winding-sheet drawn ower my een,
+     And I in Helen's arms lying,
+        On fair Kirconnell lea.
+
+     I wish I were where Helen lies;
+     Night and day on me she cries;
+     And I am weary of the skies,
+        Since my Love died for me.
+
+     ANON.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     108. THE TWA CORBIES.
+
+     As I was walking all alane
+     I heard twa corbies making a mane;
+     The tane unto the t'other say,
+     "Where sall we gang and dine to-day?"
+
+     "&mdash;In behint yon auld fail dyke,
+     I wot there lies a new-slain Knight;
+     And naebody kens that he lies there,
+     But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.
+
+     "His hound is to the hunting gane,
+     His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,
+     His lady's ta'en another mate,
+     So we may mak our dinner sweet.
+
+     "Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,
+     And I'll pick out his bonny blue een:
+     Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair
+     We'll theek our nest when it grows bare.
+
+     "Mony a one for him makes mane,
+     But nane sall ken where he is gane;
+     O'er his white banes, when they are bare,
+     The wind sall blaw for evermair."
+
+     ANON.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     109. TO BLOSSOMS.
+
+     Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,
+        Why do ye fall so fast?
+        Your date is not so past,
+     But you may stay yet here awhile
+        To blush and gently smile,
+          And go at last.
+
+     What, were ye born to be
+        An hour or half's delight;
+        And so to bid good-night?
+     'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth,
+        Merely to show your worth,
+          And lose you quite.
+
+     But you are lovely leaves, where we
+        May read how soon things have
+        Their end, though ne'er so brave:
+     And after they have shown their pride
+        Like you, awhile, they glide
+          Into the grave.
+
+     R. HERRICK.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     110. TO DAFFODILS.
+
+     Fair Daffodils, we weep to see
+          You haste away so soon
+     As yet the early-rising Sun
+          Has not attain'd his noon.
+               Stay, stay,
+          Until the hasting day
+               Has run
+          But to the even-song;
+     And, having pray'd together, we
+          Will go with you along.
+
+     We have short time to stay, as you,
+          We have as short a Spring;
+     As quick a growth to meet decay
+          As you, or any thing.
+               We die
+          As your hours do, and dry
+               Away
+          Like to the summer's rain;
+     Or as the pearls of morning's dew
+          Ne'er to be found again.
+
+     R. HERRICK.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     111. THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN.
+
+     How vainly men themselves amaze
+     To win the palm, the oak, or bays,
+     And their incessant labours see
+     Crown'd from some single herb or tree,
+     Whose short and narrow-vergéd shade
+     Does prudently their toils upbraid;
+     While all the flowers and trees do close
+     To weave the garlands of Repose.
+
+     Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
+     And Innocence thy sister dear?
+     Mistaken long, I sought you then
+     In busy companies of men:
+     Your sacred plants, if here below,
+     Only among the plants will grow:
+     Society is all but rude
+     To this delicious solitude.
+
+     No white nor red was ever seen
+     So amorous as this lovely green.
+     Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,
+     Cut in these trees their mistress' name:
+     Little, alas! they know or heed
+     How far these beauties hers exceed!
+     Fair trees! where'er your barks I wound,
+     No name shall but your own be found.
+
+     When we have run our passions' heat,
+     Love hither makes his best retreat:
+     The gods, who mortal beauty chase,
+     Still in a tree did end their race:
+     Apollo hunted Daphne so
+     Only that she might laurel grow;
+     And Pan did after Syrinx speed
+     Not as a nymph, but for a reed.
+
+     What wondrous life in this I lead!
+     Ripe apples drop about my head;
+     The luscious clusters of the vine
+     Upon my mouth do crush their wine;
+     The nectarine and curious peach
+     Into my hands themselves do reach;
+     Stumbling on melons, as I pass,
+     Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.
+
+     Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less
+     Withdraws into its happiness;
+     The mind, that ocean where each kind
+     Does straight its own resemblance find;
+     Yet it creates, transcending these,
+     Far other worlds, and other seas;
+     Annihilating all that's made
+     To a green thought in a green shade.
+
+     Here at the fountain's sliding foot
+     Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root,
+     Casting the body's vest aside
+     My soul into the boughs does glide;
+     There, like a bird, it sits and sings,
+     Then whets and claps its silver wings,
+     And, till prepared for longer flight,
+     Waves in its plumes the various light.
+
+     Such was that happy Garden-state
+     While man there walk'd without a mate:
+     After a place so pure and sweet,
+     What other help could yet be meet!
+     But 'twas beyond a mortal's share
+     To wander solitary there:
+     Two paradises are in one,
+     To live in Paradise alone.
+
+     How well the skilful gardener drew
+     Of flowers and herbs this dial new!
+     Where, from above, the milder sun
+     Does through a fragrant zodiac run:
+     And, as it works, th' industrious bee
+     Computes its time as well as we.
+     How could such sweet and wholesome hours
+     Be reckon'd, but with herbs and flowers!
+
+     A. MARVELL.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     112. L'ALLEGRO.
+
+     Hence, loathéd Melancholy,
+       Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born
+     In Stygian cave forlorn
+       'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy!
+     Find out some uncouth cell
+       Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings
+     And the night-raven sings;
+       There, under ebon shades and low-browed rocks
+     As ragged as thy locks,
+       In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.
+
+         But come, thou Goddess fair and free,
+         In heaven yclept Euphrosyne,
+         And by men, heart-easing Mirth,
+         Whom lovely Venus at a birth
+         With two sister Graces more
+         To ivy-crownéd Bacchus bore:
+         Or whether (as some sager sing)
+         The frolic wind that breathes the spring
+         Zephyr, with Aurora playing,
+         As he met her once a-Maying&mdash;
+         There, on beds of violets blue
+         And fresh-blown roses wash'd in dew
+         Fill'd her with thee, a daughter fair,
+         So buxom, blithe, and debonair.
+           Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee
+         Jest, and youthful jollity,
+         Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,
+         Nods, and becks, and wreathéd smiles
+         Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,
+         And love to live in dimple sleek;
+         Sport that wrinkled Care derides,
+         And Laughter holding both his sides:&mdash;
+         Come, and trip it as you go
+         On the light fantastic toe;
+         And in thy right hand lead with thee
+         The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty;
+         And if I give thee honour due,
+         Mirth, admit me of thy crew,
+         To live with her, and live with thee,
+         In unreprovéd pleasures free;
+         To hear the lark begin his flight
+         And singing startle the dull night
+         From his watch-tower in the skies,
+         Till the dappled dawn doth rise:
+         Then to come, in spite of sorrow,
+         And at my window bid good-morrow,
+         Through the sweetbriar, or the vine,
+         Or the twisted eglantine:
+         While the cock with lively din,
+         Scatters the rear of darkness thin,
+         And to the stack, or the barn-door,
+         Stoutly struts his dames before:
+         Oft listening how the hounds and horn
+         Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn,
+         From the side of some hoar hill,
+         Through the high wood echoing shrill:
+         Sometime walking, not unseen,
+         By hedgerow elms, on hillocks green,
+         Right against the eastern gate
+         Where the great Sun begins his state
+         Robed in flames and amber light,
+         The clouds in thousand liveries dight;
+         While the ploughman, near at hand,
+         Whistles o'er the furrow'd land,
+         And the milkmaid singeth blithe,
+         And the mower whets his scythe,
+         And every shepherd tells his tale
+         Under the hawthorn in the dale.
+           Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures
+         Whilst the landscape round it measures;
+         Russet lawns, and fallows gray,
+         Where the nibbling flocks do stray;
+         Mountains, on whose barren breast
+         The labouring clouds do often rest;
+         Meadows trim with daisies pied;
+         Shallow brooks, and rivers wide;
+         Towers and battlements it sees
+         Bosom'd high in tufted trees,
+         Where perhaps some Beauty lies,
+         The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes.
+           Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes
+         From betwixt two aged oaks,
+         Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met
+         Are at their savoury dinner set
+         Of herbs, and other country messes,
+         Which the neat-handed Phyllis dresses;
+         And then in haste her bower she leaves
+         With Thestylis to bind the sheaves;
+         Or, if the earlier season lead,
+         To the tann'd haycock in the mead.
+           Sometimes with secure delight
+         The upland hamlets will invite,
+         When the merry bells ring round,
+         And the jocund rebecks sound
+         To many a youth and many a maid,
+         Dancing in the chequer'd shade;
+         And young and old come forth to play
+         On a sun-shine holy-day,
+         Till the live-long day-light fail:
+         Then to the spicy nut-brown ale,
+         With stories told of many a feat,
+         How faery Mab the junkets eat;
+         She was pinch'd and pull'd, she said;
+         And he, by friar's lantern led,
+         Tells how the drudging Goblin sweat
+         To earn his cream-bowl duly set,
+         When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,
+         His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the corn
+         That ten day-labourers could not end;
+         Then lies him down the lubber fiend,
+         And, stretch'd out all the chimney's length,
+         Basks at the fire his hairy strength;
+         And crop-full out of doors he flings,
+         Ere the first cock his matin rings.
+           Thus done the tales, to bed they creep,
+         By whispering winds soon lull'd asleep.
+           Tower'd cities please us then,
+         And the busy hum of men,
+         Where throngs of knights and barons bold,
+         In weeds of peace high triumphs hold,
+         With store of ladies, whose bright eyes
+         Rain influence, and judge the prize
+         Of wit or arms, while both contend
+         To win her grace whom all commend.
+         There let Hymen oft appear
+         In saffron robe, with taper clear,
+         And pomp, and feast, and revelry,
+         With mask, and antique pageantry;
+         Such sights as youthful poets dream
+         On summer eves by haunted stream.
+         Then to the well-trod stage anon,
+         If Jonson's learned sock be on,
+         Or sweetest Shakspeare, Fancy's child,
+         Warble his native wood-notes wild.
+           And ever against eating cares,
+         Lap me in soft Lydian airs
+         Married to immortal verse,
+         Such as the meeting soul may pierce
+         In notes, with many a winding bout
+         Of linkéd sweetness long drawn out,
+         With wanton heed and giddy cunning
+         The melting voice through mazes running,
+         Untwisting all the chains that tie
+         The hidden soul of harmony;
+         That Orpheus' self may heave his head
+         From golden slumber, on a bed
+         Of heap'd Elysian flowers, and hear
+         Such strains as would have won the ear
+         Of Pluto, to have quite set free
+         His half-regain'd Eurydice.
+           These delights if thou canst give,
+         Mirth, with thee I mean to live.
+
+     J. MILTON.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     113. IL PENSEROSO.
+
+     Hence, vain deluding Joys,
+       The brood of Folly without father bred!
+     How little you bestead
+       Or fill the fixéd mind with all your toys!
+     Dwell in some idle brain,
+       And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess
+     As thick and numberless
+       As the gay motes that people the sunbeams,
+     Or likest hovering dreams
+       The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train.
+
+           But hail, thou goddess sage and holy,
+         Hail, divinest Melancholy!
+         Whose saintly visage is too bright
+         To hit the sense of human sight,
+         And therefore to our weaker view
+         O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue;
+         Black, but such as in esteem
+         Prince Memnon's sister might beseem.
+         Or that starr'd Ethiop queen that strove
+         To set her beauty's praise above
+         The sea-nymphs, and their powers offended.
+         Yet thou art higher far descended:
+         Thee bright-hair'd Vesta, long of yore,
+         To solitary Saturn bore;
+         His daughter she; in Saturn's reign
+         Such mixture was not held a stain:
+         Oft in glimmering bowers and glades
+         He met her, and in secret shades
+         Of woody Ida's inmost grove,
+         Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove.
+           Come, pensive nun, devout and pure,
+         Sober, steadfast, and demure,
+         All in a robe of darkest grain
+         Flowing with majestic train,
+         And sable stole of cypres lawn
+         Over thy decent shoulders drawn:
+         Come, but keep thy wonted state,
+         With even step, and musing gait,
+         And looks commercing with the skies,
+         Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:
+         There, held in holy passion still,
+         Forget thyself to marble, till
+         With a sad leaden downward cast
+         Thou fix them on the earth as fast:
+         And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,
+         Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,
+         And hears the Muses in a ring
+         Aye round about Jove's altar sing:
+         And add to these retired Leisure
+         That in trim gardens takes his pleasure:&mdash;
+         But first, and chiefest, with thee bring
+         Him that yon soars on golden wing,
+         Guiding the fiery-wheeléd throne,
+         The cherub Contemplatión;
+         And the mute Silence hist along,
+         'Less Philomel will deign a song,
+         In her sweetest saddest plight,
+         Smoothing the rugged brow of Night,
+         While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke
+         Gently o'er the accustom'd oak.
+         &mdash;Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly,
+         Most musical, most melancholy!
+         Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among
+         I woo, to hear thy even-song;
+         And, missing thee, I walk unseen
+         On the dry smooth-shaven green,
+         To behold the wandering moon,
+         Riding near her highest noon,
+         Like one that had been led astray
+         Through the heaven's wide pathless way,
+         And oft, as if her head she bow'd,
+         Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
+           Oft, on a plat of rising ground
+         I hear the far-off curfeu sound,
+         Over some wide-water'd shore,
+         Swinging slow with sullen roar;
+         Or, if the air will not permit,
+         Some still removéd place will fit,
+         Where glowing embers through the room
+         Teach light to counterfeit a gloom;
+         Far from all resort of mirth,
+         Save the cricket on the hearth,
+         Or the bellman's drowsy charm
+         To bless the doors from nightly harm.
+           Or let my lamp at midnight hour
+         Be seen in some high lonely tower,
+         Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,
+         With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere
+         The spirit of Plato, to unfold
+         What worlds or what vast regions hold
+         The immortal mind that hath forsook
+         Her mansion in this fleshy nook:
+         And of those demons that are found
+         In fire, air, flood, or under ground,
+         Whose power hath a true consent
+         With planet, or with element.
+         Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy
+         In sceptr'd pall come sweeping by
+         Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line,
+         Or the tale of Troy divine;
+         Or what (though rare) of later age
+         Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage.
+           But, O sad Virgin, that thy power
+         Might raise Musaeus from his bower,
+         Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
+         Such notes as, warbled to the string,
+         Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek
+         And made Hell grant what Love did seek!
+         Or call up him that left half-told
+         The story of Cambuscan bold,
+         Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
+         And who had Canacé to wife
+         That own'd the virtuous ring and glass;
+         And of the wondrous horse of brass
+         On which the Tartar king did ride;
+         And if aught else great bards beside
+         In sage and solemn tunes have sung
+         Of tourneys, and of trophies hung,
+         Of forests, and enchantments drear,
+         Where more is meant than meets the ear.
+           Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career,
+         Till civil-suited Morn appear,
+         Not trick'd and frounced as she was wont
+         With the Attic Boy to hunt,
+         But kercheft in a comely cloud
+         While rocking winds are piping loud,
+         Or usher'd with a shower still,
+         When the gust hath blown his fill,
+         Ending on the rustling leaves
+         With minute drops from off the eaves.
+         And when the sun begins to fling
+         His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring
+         To archéd walks of twilight groves,
+         And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,
+         Of pine, or monumental oak,
+         Where the rude axe, with heavéd stroke,
+         Was never heard the nymphs to daunt
+         Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
+         There in close covert by some brook
+         Where no profaner eye may look,
+         Hide me from day's garish eye,
+         While the bee with honey'd thigh,
+         That at her flowery work doth sing,
+         And the waters murmuring,
+         With such consort as they keep
+         Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep.
+         And let some strange mysterious dream
+         Wave at his wings in aery stream
+         Of lively portraiture display'd,
+         Softly on my eyelids laid:
+         And, as I wake, sweet music breathe
+         Above, about, or underneath,
+         Sent by some spirit to mortals good,
+         Or the unseen Genius of the wood.
+           But let my due feet never fail
+         To walk the studious cloister's pale,
+         And love the high-embowéd roof,
+         With antique pillars massy proof,
+         And storied windows richly dight
+         Casting a dim religious light:
+         There let the pealing organ blow
+         To the full-voiced quire below
+         In service high and anthems clear,
+         As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
+         Dissolve me into ecstasies,
+         And bring all Heaven before mine eyes.
+           And may at last my weary age
+         Find out the peaceful hermitage,
+         The hairy gown and mossy cell,
+         Where I may sit and rightly spell
+         Of every star that heaven doth show,
+         And every herb that sips the dew;
+         Till old experience do attain
+         To something like prophetic strain.
+
+           These pleasures, Melancholy, give,
+         And I with thee will choose to live.
+
+     J. MILTON.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     114. SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA.
+
+     Where the remote Bermudas ride
+     In the ocean's bosom unespied,
+     From a small boat that row'd along
+     The listening woods received this song.
+
+       "What should we do but sing His praise
+     That led us through the watery maze
+     Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks,
+     That lift the deep upon their backs,
+     Unto an isle so long unknown,
+     And yet far kinder than our own?
+     He lands us on a grassy stage,
+     Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage:
+     He gave us this eternal spring
+     Which here enamels everything,
+     And sends the fowls to us in care
+     On daily visits through the air.
+     He hangs in shades the orange bright
+     Like golden lamps in a green night,
+     And does in the pomegranates close
+     Jewels more rich than Ormus shows:
+     He makes the figs our mouths to meet,
+     And throws the melons at our feet;
+     But apples plants of such a price,
+     No tree could ever bear them twice.
+     With cedars chosen by His hand
+     From Lebanon He stores the land;
+     And makes the hollow seas that roar
+     Proclaim the ambergris on shore.
+     He cast (of which we rather boast)
+     The Gospel's pearl upon our coast;
+     And in these rocks for us did frame
+     A temple where to sound His name.
+     O let our voice His praise exalt
+     Till it arrive at Heaven's vault,
+     Which then perhaps rebounding may
+     Echo beyond the Mexique bay!"
+     &mdash;Thus sung they in the English boat
+     A holy and a cheerful note:
+     And all the way, to guide their chime,
+     With falling oars they kept the time.
+
+     A. MARVELL.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     115. AT A SOLEMN MUSIC.
+
+     Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy,
+     Sphere-born harmonious Sisters, Voice, and Verse,
+     Wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employ
+     Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce,
+     And to our high-raised phantasy present
+     That undisturbéd Song of pure concent,
+     Ay sung before the sapphire-colour'd throne
+        To Him that sits thereon,
+     With saintly shout and solemn jubilee;
+     Where the bright Seraphim in burning row
+     Their loud uplifted angel-trumpets blow;
+     And the Cherubic host in thousand quires
+     Touch their immortal harps of golden wires,
+     With those just Spirits that wear victorious palms
+        Hymns devout and holy psalms
+        Singing everlastingly:
+     That we on earth, with undiscording voice
+     May rightly answer that melodious noise;
+     As once we did, till disproportion'd sin
+     Jarr'd against nature's chime, and with harsh din
+     Broke the fair music that all creatures made
+     To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway'd
+     In perfect diapason, whilst they stood
+     In first obedience, and their state of good.
+     O may we soon again renew that Song,
+     And keep in tune with Heaven, till God ere long
+     To His celestial consort us unite,
+     To live with Him, and sing in endless morn of light!
+
+     J. MILTON.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     116. ALEXANDER'S FEAST, OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC.
+
+     'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won
+     By Philip's warlike son&mdash;
+     Aloft in awful state
+     The godlike hero sate
+     On his imperial throne;
+     His valiant peers were placed around;
+     Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound
+     (So should desert in arms be crown'd).
+     The lovely Thais by his side
+     Sate like a blooming eastern bride
+     In flower of youth and beauty's pride:&mdash;
+     Happy, happy, happy pair!
+     None but the brave
+     None but the brave
+     None but the brave deserves the fair.
+
+       Timotheus placed on high
+     Amid the tuneful quire
+     With flying fingers touch'd the lyre:
+     The trembling notes ascend the sky
+     And heavenly joys inspire.
+     The song began from Jove
+     Who left his blissful seats above&mdash;
+     Such is the power of mighty love!
+     A dragon's fiery form belied the god;
+     Sublime on radiant spires he rode
+     When he to fair Olympia prest,
+     And while he sought her snowy breast;
+     Then round her slender waist he curl'd,
+     And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the world.
+     &mdash;The listening crowd admire the lofty sound!
+     A present deity! they shout around:
+     A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound!
+     With ravish'd ears
+     The monarch hears,
+     Assumes the god;
+     Affects to nod
+     And seems to shake the spheres.
+
+       The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung:
+     Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young:
+     The jolly god in triumph comes!
+     Sound the trumpets, beat the drums!
+     Flush'd with a purple grace
+     He shows his honest face:
+     Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes!
+     Bacchus, ever fair and young,
+     Drinking joys did first ordain;
+     Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,
+     Drinking is the soldier's pleasure:
+     Rich the treasure,
+     Sweet the pleasure,
+     Sweet is pleasure after pain.
+
+       Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain;
+     Fought all his battles o'er again,
+     And thrice he routed all his foes; and thrice he slew the slain!
+     The master saw the madness rise,
+     His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;
+     And while he Heaven and Earth defied
+     Changed his hand and check'd his pride.
+     He chose a mournful Muse
+     Soft pity to infuse:
+     He sung Darius great and good,
+     By too severe a fate
+     Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,
+     Fallen from his high estate,
+     And weltering in his blood;
+     Deserted, at his utmost need,
+     By those his former bounty fed;
+     On the bare earth exposed he lies
+     With not a friend to close his eyes.
+     &mdash;With downcast looks the joyless victor sate,
+     Revolving in his alter'd soul
+     The various turns of Chance below;
+     And now and then a sigh he stole;
+     And tears began to flow.
+
+       The mighty master smiled to see
+     That love was in the next degree;
+     'Twas but a kindred-sound to move,
+     For pity melts the mind to love.
+     Softly sweet, in Lydian measures,
+     Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures.
+     War, he sung, is toil and trouble,
+     Honour but an empty bubble,
+     Never ending, still beginning;
+     Fighting still, and still destroying;
+     If the world be worth thy winning,
+     Think, O think, it worth enjoying:
+     Lovely Thais sits beside thee,
+     Take the good the gods provide thee!
+     &mdash;The many rend the skies with loud applause;
+     So Love was crown'd, but Music won the cause.
+     The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
+     Gazed on the fair
+     Who caused his care,
+     And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd,
+     Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again:
+     At length, with love and wine at once opprest
+     The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast.
+
+       Now strike the golden lyre again:
+     A louder yet, and yet a louder strain!
+     Break his bands of sleep asunder,
+     And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder.
+     Hark, hark! the horrid sound
+     Has raised up his head:
+     As awaked from the dead,
+     And amazed he stares around.
+     Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries,
+     See the Furies arise!
+     See the snakes that they rear
+     How they hiss in their hair,
+     And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!
+     Behold a ghastly band
+     Each a torch in his hand!
+     Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain
+     And unburied remain
+     Inglorious on the plain:
+     Give the vengeance due
+     To the valiant crew!
+     Behold how they toss their torches on high,
+     How they point to the Persian abodes
+     And glittering temples of their hostile gods.
+     &mdash;The princes applaud with a furious joy:
+     And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy;
+     Thais led the way,
+     To light him to his prey,
+     And like another Helen, fired another Troy!
+
+     &mdash;Thus, long ago,
+     Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow,
+     While organs yet were mute,
+     Timotheus, to his breathing flute
+     And sounding lyre
+     Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.
+     At last divine Cecilia came,
+     Inventress of the vocal frame;
+     The sweet enthusiast from her sacred store
+     Enlarged the former narrow bounds,
+     And added length to solemn sounds,
+     With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before.
+     &mdash;Let old Timotheus yield the prize
+     Or both divide the crown;
+     He raised a mortal to the skies;
+     She drew an angel down!
+
+     J. DRYDEN.
+</pre>
+<a name="2H_4_0008"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>
+
+<h2>
+    THIRD BOOK.
+</h2>
+<a name="2H_SUMM3"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>
+
+<h2>
+    SUMMARY.
+</h2>
+<p>
+It is more difficult to characterise the English Poetry of the
+eighteenth century than that of any other. For it was an age not only of
+spontaneous transition, but of bold experiment: it includes not only
+such divergences of thought as distinguished the "Rape of the Lock" from
+the "Parish Register," but such vast contemporaneous differences as lie
+between Pope and Collins, Burns and Cowper. Yet we may clearly trace
+three leading moods or tendencies:&mdash;the aspects of courtly or educated
+life represented by Pope and carried to exhaustion by his followers; the
+poetry of Nature and of Man, viewed through a cultivated, and at the
+same time an impassioned frame of mind by Collins and Gray:&mdash;lastly, the
+study of vivid and simple narrative, including natural description,
+begun by Gay and Thomson, pursued by Burns and others in the north, and
+established in England by Goldsmith, Percy, Crabbe, and Cowper. Great
+varieties in style accompanied these diversities in aim: poets could not
+always distinguish the manner suitable for subjects so far apart; and
+the union of the language of courtly and of common life, exhibited most
+conspicuously by Burns, has given a tone to the poetry of that century
+which is better explained by reference to its historical origin than by
+naming it, in the common criticism of our day, artificial. There is
+again, a nobleness of thought, a courageous aim at high and, in a strict
+sense manly, excellence in many of the writers:&mdash;nor can that period be
+justly termed tame and wanting in originality, which produced poems such
+as Pope's Satires, Gray's Odes and Elegy, the ballads of Gay and Carey,
+the songs of Burns and Cowper. In truth Poetry at this as at all times
+was a more or less unconscious mirror of the genius of the age; and the
+brave and admirable spirit of Enquiry which made the eighteenth century
+the turning-time in European civilisation is reflected faithfully in its
+verse. An intelligent reader will find the influence of Newton as
+markedly in the poems of Pope, as of Elizabeth in the plays of
+Shakespeare. On this great subject, however, these indications must here
+be sufficient.
+</p>
+<pre>
+
+
+     117. ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE.
+
+     Now the golden Morn aloft
+       Waves her dew-bespangled wing,
+     With vermeil cheek and whisper soft
+       She woos 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.
+
+     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 lour
+     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 tost
+       On the thorny bed of pain,
+     At length repair his vigour lost
+       And breathe and walk again:
+     The meanest floweret of the vale,
+     The simplest note that swells the gale,
+     The common sun, the air, the skies,
+     To him are opening Paradise.
+
+     T. GRAY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     118. SOLITUDE.
+
+     Happy the man, whose wish and care
+     A few paternal acres bound,
+     Content to breathe his native air
+                    In his own ground.
+
+     Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
+     Whose flocks supply him with attire;
+     Whose trees in summer yield him shade
+                    In winter, fire.
+
+     Blest, who can unconcern'dly find
+     Hours, days, and years, slide soft away
+     In health of body, peace of mind,
+                    Quiet by day,
+
+     Sound sleep by night; study and ease
+     Together mix'd; sweet recreation,
+     And innocence, which most does please
+                    With meditation.
+
+     Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
+     Thus unlamented let me die;
+     Steal from the world, and not a stone
+                    Tell where I lie.
+
+     A. POPE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     119. THE BLIND BOY.
+
+     O say what is that thing call'd Light,
+       Which I must ne'er enjoy;
+     What are the blessings of the sight,
+       O tell your poor blind boy!
+
+     You talk of wondrous things you see,
+       You say the sun shines bright;
+     I feel him warm, but how can he
+       Or make it day or night?
+
+     My day or night myself I make
+       Whene'er I sleep or play;
+     And could I ever keep awake
+       With me 'twere always day.
+
+     With heavy sighs I often hear
+       You mourn my hapless woe;
+     But sure with patience I can bear
+       A loss I ne'er can know.
+
+     Then let not what I cannot have
+       My cheer of mind destroy:
+     Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,
+       Although a poor blind boy.
+
+     C. CIBBER.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     120. ON A FAVOURITE CAT, DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES.
+
+     'Twas on a lofty vase's side
+     Where China's gayest art had dyed
+     The azure flowers that blow,
+     Demurest of the tabby kind
+     The pensive Selima, reclined,
+     Gazed on the lake below.
+
+     Her conscious tail her joy declared:
+     The fair round face, the snowy beard,
+     The velvet of her paws,
+     Her coat that with the tortoise vies,
+     Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes&mdash;
+     She saw, and purr'd applause.
+
+     Still had she gazed, but 'midst the tide
+     Two angel forms were seen to glide,
+     The Genii of the stream:
+     Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue
+     Through richest purple, to the view
+     Betray'd a golden gleam.
+
+     The hapless Nymph with wonder saw;
+     A whisker first, and then a claw
+     With many an ardent wish
+     She stretch'd, in vain, to reach the prize&mdash;
+     What female heart can gold despise?
+     What cat's averse to fish?
+
+     Presumptuous maid! with looks intent
+     Again she stretch'd, again she bent,
+     Nor knew the gulf between&mdash;
+     Malignant Fate sat by and smiled&mdash;
+     The slippery verge her feet beguiled;
+     She tumbled headlong in!
+
+     Eight times emerging from the flood,
+     She mew'd to every watery God
+     Some speedy aid to send:&mdash;
+     No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd,
+     Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard&mdash;
+     A favourite has no friend!
+
+     From hence, ye Beauties! undeceived
+     Know one false step is ne'er retrieved,
+     And be with caution bold:
+     Not all that tempts your wandering eyes
+     And heedless hearts, is lawful prize,
+     Nor all that glisters, gold!
+
+     T. GRAY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     121. TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY.
+
+        Timely blossom, Infant fair,
+        Fondling 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 abandon'd 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 petty 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:&mdash;
+        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.
+
+     A. PHILIPS.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     122. RULE BRITANNIA.
+
+       When Britain first at Heaven's command
+         Arose from out the azure main,
+       This was the charter of her land,
+         And guardian angels sung the strain:
+     Rule Brittania! Brittania rules the waves!
+           Britons never shall be slaves.
+
+       The nations not so blest as thee
+         Must in their turn to tyrants fall,
+       Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free
+         The dread and envy of them all.
+
+       Still more majestic shalt thou rise,
+         More dreadful from each foreign stroke;
+       As the loud blast that tears the skies
+         Serves but to root thy native oak.
+
+       Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame;
+         All their attempts to bend thee down
+       Will but arouse thy generous flame,
+         And work their woe and thy renown.
+
+       To thee belongs the rural reign;
+         Thy cities shall with commerce shine;
+       All thine shall be the subject main,
+         And every shore it circles thine!
+
+       The Muses, still with Freedom found,
+         Shall to thy happy coast repair;
+       Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crown'd,
+         And manly hearts to guard the fair:&mdash;
+     Rule Britannia! Brittania rules the waves!
+           Britons never shall be slaves!
+
+     J. THOMSON.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     123. THE BARD.
+
+     <i>Pindaric Ode.</i>
+
+     "Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!
+      Confusion on thy banners wait!
+     Tho' fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing
+      They mock the air with idle state.
+     Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail
+     Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail
+     To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,
+     From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!"
+     &mdash;Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride
+      Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay,
+     As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side
+      He wound with toilsome march his long array:&mdash;
+     Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance;
+     "To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couch'd quivering lance.
+
+      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 beard and hoary hair
+     Stream'd 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, O 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.
+
+      "Cold is Cadwallo's tongue
+      That hush'd 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-topt head.
+      On dreary Arvon's shore they lie
+     Smear'd with gore and ghastly pale:
+     Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail;
+      The famish'd 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&mdash;
+     No more I weep; They do not sleep;
+      On yonder cliffs, a griesly 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.
+
+     "Weave the warp and weave the woof
+      The winding-sheet of Edward's race:
+     Give ample room and verge enough
+      The characters of hell to trace.
+     Mark the year and mark the night
+     When Severn shall re-echo with affright
+     The shrieks of death thro' Berkley's roof that ring,
+     Shrieks of an agonising 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.
+
+     "Mighty Victor, mighty lord,
+      Low on his funeral couch he lies!
+     No pitying heart, no eye, afford
+      A tear to grace his obsequies.
+     Is the sable warrior fled?
+     Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.
+     The swarm that in thy noon-tide beam were born?
+     &mdash;Gone to salute the rising morn.
+     Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr blows,
+      While proudly riding o'er the azure realm
+     In gallant trim the gilded Vessel goes:
+      Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm:
+     Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway,
+     That hush'd in grim repose expects his evening prey.
+
+      "Fill high the sparkling bowl,
+     The rich repast prepare;
+      Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast.
+     Close by the regal chair
+      Fell Thirst and Famine scowl
+      A baleful smile upon their baffled guest.
+     Heard ye the din of battle bray,
+      Lance to lance, and horse to horse?
+      Long years of havock urge their destined course,
+     And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way.
+      Ye Towers of Julius! London's lasting shame,
+     With many a foul and midnight murder fed,
+      Revere his Consort's faith, his Father's fame,
+     And spare the meek usurper's holy head!
+     Above, below, the rose of snow,
+      Twined with her blushing foe, we spread:
+     The bristled boar in infant gore
+      Wallows beneath the thorny shade.
+     Now, brothers, bending o'er the accurséd loom,
+     Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.
+
+     "Edward, lo! to sudden fate
+      (Weave we the woof; the thread is spun;)
+     Half of thy heart we consecrate.
+      (The web is wove; the work is done;)
+     Stay, O stay! nor thus forlorn
+     Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn:
+     In yon bright track that fires the western skies
+     They melt, they vanish from my eyes.
+     But O! 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:&mdash;
+     All hail, ye genuine Kings! Britannia's issue, hail!
+
+      "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
+     Attemper'd 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-colour'd wings.
+
+     "The verse adorn again,
+      Fierce War and faithful Love,
+     And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest.
+      In buskin'd 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 quench'd 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.
+
+     T. GRAY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     124. ODE WRITTEN IN MDCCXLVI.
+
+     How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
+     By all their Country's wishes blest!
+     When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
+     Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,
+     She there shall dress a sweeter sod
+     Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
+
+     By fairy hands their knell is rung,
+     By forms unseen their dirge is sung:
+     There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
+     To bless the turf that wraps their clay,
+     And Freedom shall awhile repair
+     To dwell a weeping hermit, there!
+
+     W. COLLINS.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     125. LAMENT FOR CULLODEN.
+
+     The lovely lass o' Inverness,
+     Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;
+     For e'en and morn she cries, Alas!
+     And aye the saut tear blink's her ee:
+     Drumossie moor&mdash;Drumossie day&mdash;
+     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 ee!
+     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 wrong to thine or thee.
+
+     R. BURNS.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     126. LAMENT FOR FLODDEN.
+
+     I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking,
+       Lasses a' lilting before dawn o' day;
+     But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning&mdash;
+       The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
+
+     At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning,
+       Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae;
+     Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing,
+       Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away.
+
+     In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
+       Bandsters are lyart, and runkled and gray;
+     At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching&mdash;
+       The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
+
+     At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming
+       'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play;
+     But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie&mdash;
+       The Flowers of the Forest are weded away.
+
+     Dool and wae for the order, sent out lads to the border!
+       The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;
+     The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,
+       The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay.
+
+     We'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe-milking;
+       Women and bairns are heartless and wae;
+     Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning&mdash;
+       The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
+
+     J. ELLIOTT.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     127. THE BRAES OF YARROW.
+
+     Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream,
+     When first on them I met my lover;
+     Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream,
+     When now thy waves his body cover!
+     For ever now, O Yarrow stream!
+     Thou art to me a stream of sorrow;
+     For never on thy banks shall I
+     Behold my Love, the flower of Yarrow!
+
+     He promised me a milk-white steed
+     To bear me to his father's bowers;
+     He promised me a little page
+     To squire me to his father's towers;
+     He promised me a wedding-ring,&mdash;
+     The wedding-day was fix'd to-morrow;&mdash;
+     Now he is wedded to his grave,
+     Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow!
+
+     Sweet were his words when last we met;
+     My passion I as freely told him;
+     Clasp'd in his arms, I little thought
+     That I should never more behold him!
+     Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost;
+     It vanish'd with a shriek of sorrow;
+     Thrice did the water-wraith ascend,
+     And gave a doleful groan thro' Yarrow.
+
+     His mother from the window look'd
+     With all the longing of a mother;
+     His little sister weeping walk'd
+     The green-wood path to meet her brother;
+     They sought him east, they sought him west,
+     They sought him all the forest thorough;
+     They only saw the cloud of night,
+     They only heard the roar of Yarrow.
+
+     No longer from thy window look&mdash;
+     Thou hast no son, thou tender mother!
+     No longer walk, thou lovely maid;
+     Alas, thou hast no more a brother!
+     No longer seek him east or west
+     And search no more the forest thorough;
+     For, wandering in the night so dark,
+     He fell a lifeless corpse in Yarrow.
+
+     The tear shall never leave my cheek,
+     No other youth shall be my marrow&mdash;
+     I'll seek thy body in the stream,
+     And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow.
+     &mdash;The tear did never leave her cheek,
+     No other youth became her marrow;
+     She found his body in the stream,
+     And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow.
+
+     J. LOGAN.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     128. WILLIE DROWNED IN YARROW.
+
+     Down in yon garden sweet and gay
+       Where bonnie grows the lily,
+     I heard a fair maid sighing say
+       "My wish be wi' sweet Willie!
+
+     "Willie's rare, and Willie's fair,
+       And Willie's wondrous bonny;
+     And Willie hecht to marry me
+       Gin e'er he married ony.
+
+     "O gentle wind, that bloweth south,
+       From where my Love repaireth,
+     Convey a kiss frae his dear mouth
+       And tell me how he fareth!
+
+     "O tell sweet Willie to come doon
+       And hear the mavis singing,
+     And see the birds on ilka bush
+       And leaves around them hinging.
+
+     "The lav'rock there, wi' her white breast
+       And gentle throat sae narrow;
+     There's sport eneuch for gentlemen
+       On Leader haughs and Yarrow.
+
+     "O Leader haughs are wide and braid
+       And Yarrow haughs are bonny;
+     There Willie hecht to marry me
+       If e'er he married ony.
+
+     "But Willie's gone, whom I thought on,
+       And does not hear me weeping;
+     Draws many a tear frae true love's e'e
+       When other maids are sleeping.
+
+     "Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid,
+       The night I'll mak' it narrow,
+     For a' the live-lang winter night
+       I lie twined o' my marrow.
+
+     "O came ye by yon water-side?
+       Pou'd you the rose or lily?
+     Or came you by yon meadow green,
+       Or saw you my sweet Willie?"
+
+     She sought him up, she sought him down,
+       She sought him braid and narrow;
+     Syne, in the cleaving of a craig,
+       She found him drown'd in Yarrow!
+
+     ANON.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     129. LOSS OF THE <i>ROYAL GEORGE</i>.
+
+     Toll for the Brave!
+     The brave that are no more!
+     All sunk beneath the wave
+     Fast by their native shore!
+
+     Eight hundred of the brave
+     Whose courage well was tried,
+     Had made the vessel heel
+     And laid her on her side.
+
+     A land-breeze shook the shrouds
+     And she was overset;
+     Down went the <i>Royal George</i>,
+     With all her crew complete.
+
+     Toll for the brave!
+     Brave Kempenfelt is gone:
+     His last sea-fight is fought,
+     His work of glory done.
+
+     It was not in the battle;
+     No tempest gave the shock;
+     She sprang no fatal leak,
+     She ran upon no rock.
+
+     His sword was in its sheath,
+     His fingers held the pen,
+     When Kempenfeld went down
+     With twice four hundred men.
+
+     Weigh the vessel up
+     Once dreaded by our foes!
+     And mingle with our cup
+     The tear that England owes.
+
+     Her timbers yet are sound,
+     And she may float again
+     Full charged with England's thunder,
+     And plough the distant main:
+
+     But Kempenfeld is gone,
+     His victories are o'er;
+     And he and his eight hundred
+     Shall plough the wave no more.
+
+     W. COWPER.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     130. BLACK-EYED SUSAN.
+
+     All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd,
+       The streamers waving in the wind,
+     When black-eyed Susan came aboard;
+       "O! 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
+       Rock'd with the billow to and fro,
+     Soon as her well-known voice he heard
+       He sigh'd, 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:&mdash;
+     The noblest captain in the British fleet
+     Might 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 fair 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 kiss'd, she sigh'd, he hung his head.
+     Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land;
+     "Adieu!" she cries; and waved her lily hand.
+
+     J. GAY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     131. SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.
+
+     Of all the girls that are so smart
+      There's none like pretty Sally;
+     She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+     There is no lady in the land
+      Is half so sweet as Sally;
+     She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+
+     Her father he makes cabbage-nets,
+      And through the streets does cry 'em;
+     Her mother she sells laces long
+      To such as please to buy 'em;
+     But sure such folks could ne'er beget
+      So sweet a girl as Sally!
+     She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+
+     When she is by, I leave my work,
+      I love her so sincerely;
+     My master comes like any Turk,
+      And bangs me most severely&mdash;
+     But let him bang his bellyful,
+      I'll bear it all for Sally;
+     She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+
+     Of all the days that's in the week
+      I dearly love but one day&mdash;
+     And that's the day that comes betwixt
+      A Saturday and Monday;
+     For then I'm drest all in my best
+      To walk abroad with Sally:
+     She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+
+     My master carries me to church,
+      And often am I blamed
+     Because I leave him in the lurch
+      As soon as text is named;
+     I leave the church in sermon-time
+      And slink away to Sally;
+     She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+
+     When Christmas comes about again,
+      O then I shall have money;
+     I'll hoard it up, and box it all,
+      I'll give it to my honey:
+     I would it were ten thousand pound,
+      I'd give it all to Sally;
+     She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+
+     My master and the neighbours all
+      Make game of me and Sally,
+     And, but for her, I'd better be
+      A slave and row a galley;
+     But when my seven long years are out
+      O then I'll marry Sally,&mdash;
+     O then we'll wed, and then we'll bed,
+      But not in our alley!
+
+     H. CAREY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     132. A FAREWELL.
+
+     Go fetch to me a pint o' wine,
+      And fill it in a silver tassie;
+     That I may drink before I go
+      A service to my bonnie lassie:
+     The boat rocks at the pier of Leith,
+      Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry,
+     The ship rides by the Berwick-law,
+      And I maun leave my bonnie Mary.
+
+     The trumpets sound, the banners fly,
+      The glittering spears are rankéd ready;
+     The shouts o' war are heard afar,
+      The battle closes thick and bloody;
+     But it's not the roar o' sea or shore
+      Wad make me langer wish to tarry;
+     Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar&mdash;
+      It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary.
+
+     R. BURNS.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     133.
+
+     If doughty deeds my lady please
+       Right soon I'll mount my steed;
+     And strong his arm, and fast his seat
+       That bears frae me the meed.
+     I'll wear thy colours in my cap
+       Thy picture in my heart;
+     And he that bends not to thine eye
+       Shall rue it to his smart!
+        Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;
+          O tell me how to woo thee!
+        For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take
+          Tho' ne'er another trow me.
+
+     If gay attire delight thine eye
+       I'll dight me in array;
+     I'll tend thy chamber door all night,
+       And squire thee all the day.
+     If sweetest sounds can win thine ear,
+       These sounds I'll strive to catch;
+     Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysell,
+       That voice that nane can match.
+
+     But if fond love thy heart can gain,
+       I never broke a vow;
+     Nae maiden lays her skaith to me,
+       I never loved but you.
+     For you alone I ride the ring,
+       For you I wear the blue;
+     For you alone I strive to sing,
+       O tell me how to woo!
+        Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;
+          O tell me how to woo thee!
+        For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take,
+          Tho' ne'er another trow me.
+
+     GRAHAM OF GARTMORE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     134. TO A YOUNG LADY.
+
+     Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade,
+     Apt emblem of a virtuous maid&mdash;
+     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-bosom'd as that watery glass,
+     And Heaven reflected in her face.
+
+     W. COWPER.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     135. THE SLEEPING BEAUTY.
+
+     Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile&mdash;
+     Tho' shut so close thy laughing eyes,
+     Thy rosy lips still wear a smile
+     And move, and breathe delicious sighs!
+
+     Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks
+     And mantle o'er her neck of snow:
+     Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks
+     What most I wish&mdash;and fear to know!
+
+     She starts, she trembles, and she weeps!
+     Her fair hands folded on her breast:
+     &mdash;And now, how like a saint she sleeps!
+     A seraph in the realms of rest!
+
+     Sleep on secure! Above controul
+     Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee:
+     And may the secret of thy soul
+     Remain within its sanctuary!
+
+     S. ROGERS.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     136.
+
+     For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove
+     An unrelenting foe to Love,
+     And when we meet a mutual heart
+     Come in between, and bid us part?
+
+     Bid us sigh on from day to day,
+     And wish and wish the soul away;
+     Till youth and genial years are flown,
+     And all the life of life is gone?
+
+     But busy, busy, still art thou,
+     To bind the loveless joyless vow,
+     The heart from pleasure to delude,
+     To join the gentle to the rude.
+
+     For once, O Fortune, hear my prayer,
+     And I absolve thy future care;
+     All other blessings I resign,
+     Make but the dear Amanda mine.
+
+     J. THOMSON.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     137.
+
+     The merchant, to secure his treasure,
+     Conveys it in a borrow'd name:
+     Euphelia serves to grace my measure,
+     But Cloe is my real flame.
+
+     My softest verse, my darling lyre
+     Upon Euphelia's toilet lay&mdash;
+     When Cloe noted her desire
+     That I should sing, that I should play.
+
+     My lyre I tune, my voice I raise,
+     But with my numbers mix my sighs:
+     And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise,
+     I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes.
+
+     Fair Cloe blush'd: Euphelia frown'd:
+     I sung, and gazed; I play'd, and trembled:
+     And Venus to the Loves around
+     Remark'd how ill we all dissembled.
+
+     M. PRIOR.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     138.
+
+     When lovely woman stoops to folly
+     And finds too late that men betray,&mdash;
+     What charm can soothe her melancholy,
+     What art can wash her guilt away?
+
+     The only art her guilt to cover,
+     To hide her shame from every eye,
+     To give repentance to her lover
+     And wring his bosom, is&mdash;to die.
+
+     O. GOLDSMITH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     139.
+
+     Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon
+       How can ye blume sae fair!
+     How can ye chant, ye little birds,
+       And I sae fu' o' care!
+
+     Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird
+       That sings upon the bough;
+     Thou minds me o' the happy days
+       When my fause Luve was true.
+
+     Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird
+       That sings beside thy mate;
+     For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
+       And wist na o' my fate.
+
+     Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon
+       To see the woodbine twine,
+     And ilka bird sang o' its love;
+       And sae did I o' mine.
+
+     Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
+       Frae aff its thorny tree;
+     And my fause luver staw the rose,
+       But left the thorn wi' me.
+
+     R. BURNS.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     140. THE PROGRESS OF POESY.
+
+     <i>A Pindaric Ode.</i>
+
+       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 re-bellow to the roar.
+
+       O Sovereign of the willing soul,
+     Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs,
+     Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares
+       And frantic Passions hear thy soft control.
+     On Thracia's hills the Lord of War
+     Has curb'd the fury of his car
+     And dropt his thirsty lance at thy command.
+     Perching on the sceptred hand
+     Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king
+     With ruffled plumes, and flagging wing:
+     Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie
+     The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye.
+
+     Thee the voice, the dance, obey,
+     Temper'd to thy warbled lay.
+     O'er Idalia's velvet-green
+     The rosy-crownéd Loves are seen
+     On Cytherea's day,
+     With antic Sport, and blue-eyed Pleasures,
+     Frisking light in frolic measures;
+     Now pursuing, now retreating,
+       Now in circling troops they meet:
+     To brisk notes in cadence beating
+       Glance their many-twinkling feet.
+     Slow-melting strains their Queen's approach declare:
+       Where'er she turns the Graces homage pay:
+     With arms sublime that float upon the air
+       In gliding state she wins her easy way:
+     O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom move
+     The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.
+
+       Man's feeble race what ills await!
+     Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain,
+     Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train,
+       And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate!
+     The fond complaint, my song, disprove,
+     And justify the laws of Jove.
+     Say, has he 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.
+
+       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.
+
+     Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep,
+     Isles, that crown th' Aegean deep,
+     Fields that cool Ilissus laves
+     Or where Maeander's amber waves
+     In lingering lab'rinths creep,
+     How do your tuneful echoes languish,
+     Mute, but to the voice of anguish!
+     Where each old poetic mountain
+       Inspiration breathed around;
+     Every shade and hallow'd fountain
+       Murmur'd deep a solemn sound:
+     Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour
+       Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains.
+     Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power,
+       And coward Vice, that revels in her chains.
+     When Latium had her lofty spirit lost,
+     They sought, O Albion! next, thy sea-encircled coast.
+
+       Far from the sun and summer-gale
+     In thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid,
+     What time, where lucid Avon stray'd,
+       To him the mighty Mother did unveil
+     Her awful face: the dauntless Child
+     Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smiled.
+     This pencil take (she said) whose colours clear
+     Richly paint the vernal year:
+     Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal Boy!
+     This can unlock the gates of Joy;
+     Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears,
+     Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic Tears.
+
+       Nor second He, that rode sublime
+     Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy
+     The secrets of the Abyss to spy:
+       He pass'd the flaming bounds of Place and Time:
+     The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze
+     Where Angels tremble while they gaze,
+     He saw; but blasted with excess of light,
+     Closed his eyes in endless night.
+     Behold where Dryden's less presumptuous car
+     Wide o'er the fields of Glory bear
+     Two coursers of ethereal race
+     With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding pace.
+
+     Hark! his hands the lyre explore!
+     Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o'er,
+     Scatters from her pictured urn
+     Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
+     But ah! 'tis heard no more&mdash;
+     O! Lyre divine, what daring Spirit
+     Wakes thee now! Tho' he inherit
+     Nor the pride, nor ample pinion
+       That the Theban Eagle bear,
+     Sailing with supreme dominion
+       Thro' the azure deep of air:
+     Yet oft before his infant eyes would run
+       Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray
+     With orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun:
+       Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way
+     Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate:
+     Beneath the Good how far&mdash;but far above the Great.
+
+     T. GRAY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     141. THE PASSIONS.
+
+     <i>An Ode for Music.</i>
+
+     When Music, heavenly maid, was young,
+     While yet in early Greece she sung,
+     The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
+     Throng'd around her magic cell
+     Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
+     Possest beyond the Muse's painting;
+     By turns they felt the glowing mind
+     Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refined:
+     'Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
+     Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired,
+     From the supporting myrtles round
+     They snatch'd 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 his hand, its skill to try,
+       Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,
+     And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
+       E'en at the sound himself had made.
+
+     Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,
+       In lightnings own'd his secret stings;
+     In one rude clash he struck the lyre
+       And swept with hurried hand the strings.
+
+     With woeful measures wan Despair&mdash;
+       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 delighted measure?
+     Still it whisper'd 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 call'd 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;&mdash;
+     And longer had she sung:&mdash;but with a frown Revenge impatient rose:
+     He threw his blood-stain'd 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 each dreary pause between,
+          Dejected Pity at his side
+          Her soul-subduing voice applied,
+       Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien,
+     While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head.
+
+     Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd:
+       Sad proof of thy distressful state!
+     Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd;
+       And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate.
+
+     With eyes up-raised, as one inspired,
+     Pale Melancholy sat retired;
+     And from her wild sequester'd seat,
+     In notes by distance made more sweet,
+     Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul:
+       And dashing soft from rocks around
+       Bubbling runnels join'd 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 alter'd was its sprightlier tone
+     When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
+       Her bow across her shoulder flung,
+       Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,
+     Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,
+       The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known!
+     The oak-crown'd 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 leap'd up, and seized his beechen spear.
+
+     Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:
+     He, with viny crown advancing,
+       First to the lively pipe his hand addrest:
+     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 kiss'd the stings,
+       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 learn'd an all-commanding power,
+     Thy mimic soul, O nymph endear'd!
+     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, energetic, chaste, sublime!
+     Thy wonders, in that god-like age,
+     Fill thy recording Sister's page;&mdash;
+     '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:&mdash;
+     O bid our vain endeavours cease:
+     Revive the just designs of Greece:
+     Return in all thy simple state!
+     Confirm the tales her sons relate!
+
+     W. COLLINS.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     142. ODE ON THE SPRING.
+
+     Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours,
+       Fair Venus' train, appear,
+     Disclose the long-expecting flowers
+       And wake the purple year!
+     The Attic warbler pours her throat
+     Responsive to the cuckoo's note,
+     The untaught harmony of Spring:
+     While, whispering pleasure as they fly,
+     Cool Zephyrs through the clear blue sky
+       Their gather'd fragrance fling.
+
+     Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch
+       A broader, browner shade,
+     Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech
+       O'er-canopies the glade,
+     Beside some water's rushy brink
+     With me the Muse shall sit, and think
+     (At ease reclined in rustic state)
+     How vain the ardour of the Crowd,
+     How low, how little, are the Proud,
+       How indigent the Great!
+
+     Still is the toiling hand of Care;
+       The panting herds repose:
+     Yet hark, how thro' the peopled air
+       The busy murmur glows!
+     The insect youth are on the wing,
+     Eager to taste the honied spring
+     And float amid the liquid noon:
+     Some lightly o'er the current skim,
+     Some show their gaily-gilded trim
+       Quick-glancing to the sun.
+
+     To Contemplation's sober eye
+       Such is the race of Man:
+     And they that creep, and they that fly,
+       Shall end where they began.
+     Alike the busy and the gay
+     But flutter thro' life's little day,
+     In Fortune's varying colours drest:
+     Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance,
+     Or chill'd by Age, their airy dance
+       They leave, in dust to rest.
+
+     Methinks I hear in accents low,
+       The sportive kind reply:
+     Poor moralist! and what art thou?
+       A solitary fly!
+     Thy joys no glittering female meets,
+     No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,
+     No painted plumage to display:
+     On hasty wings thy youth is flown;
+     Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone&mdash;
+       We frolic while 'tis May.
+
+     T. GRAY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     143. THE POPLAR FIELD.
+
+     The poplars are fell'd, farewell to the shade
+     And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade;
+     The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,
+     Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.
+
+     Twelve years have elapsed since I last took a view
+     Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew:
+     And now in the grass behold they are laid,
+     And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade.
+
+     The blackbird has fled to another retreat
+     Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat;
+     And the scene where his melody charm'd me before
+     Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.
+
+     My fugitive years are all hasting away,
+     And I must ere long lie lowly as they,
+     With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head,
+     Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.
+
+     'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can,
+     To muse on the perishing pleasures of man;
+     Short-lived as we are, our enjoyments, I see,
+     Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we.
+
+     W. COWPER.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     144. TO A FIELD-MOUSE.
+
+     Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', 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 and chase thee
+     Wi' murd'ring 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, whiles, 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!
+     It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
+     An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
+     O' foggage green!
+     And bleak December's winds ensuin'
+     Baith snell and keen!
+
+     Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
+     And weary winter comin' fast,
+     And cozie here, beneath the blast,
+     Thou thought to dwell,
+     Till crash! the cruel coulter past
+     Out thro' thy cell.
+
+     That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
+     Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
+     Now thou's turn'd 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 and men
+     Gang aft a-gley,
+     And lea'e us nought but grief and pain,
+     For promised joy.
+
+     Still thou art blest, 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 and fear.
+
+     R. BURNS.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     145. A WISH.
+
+     Mine be a cot beside the hill;
+     A bee-hive's hum shall sooth my ear;
+     A willowy brook that turns a mill,
+     With many a fall shall linger near.
+
+     The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch
+     Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
+     Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
+     And share my meal, a welcome guest.
+
+     Around my ivied porch shall spring
+     Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
+     And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
+     In russet-gown and apron blue.
+
+     The village-church among the trees,
+     Where first our marriage-vows were given,
+     With merry peals shall swell the breeze
+     And point with taper spire to Heaven.
+
+     S. ROGERS.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     146. 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,&mdash;while now the bright-hair'd sun
+     Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts
+        With brede ethereal wove,
+        O'erhang his wavy bed,
+
+     Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat
+     With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing,
+        Or where the beetle winds
+        His small but sullen horn,
+
+     As oft he rises midst the twilight path
+     Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum,&mdash;
+        Now teach me, maid composed,
+        To breathe some soften'd strain
+
+     Whose numbers, stealing through thy dark'ning vale,
+     May not unseemly with its stillness suit;
+        As musing slow I hail
+        Thy genial loved return.
+
+     For when thy folding-star arising shows
+     His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
+        The fragrant Hours, and Elves
+        Who slept in buds the day,
+
+     And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge
+     And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still
+        The pensive Pleasures sweet,
+        Prepare thy shadowy car.
+
+     Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene;
+     Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells,
+        Whose walls more awful nod
+        By thy religious gleams.
+
+     Or if chill blustering winds or driving rain
+     Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut
+        That, from the mountain's side
+        Views wilds and swelling floods,
+
+     And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires;
+     And hears their simple bell; and marks o'er all
+        Thy dewy fingers draw
+        The gradual dusky veil.
+
+     While Spring shall pour his 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, regardful of thy quiet rule,
+     Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,
+        Thy gentlest influence own,
+        And love thy favourite name!
+
+     W. COLLINS.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     147. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.
+
+     The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
+     The lowing herd wind 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 for ever 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 bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
+
+     Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
+     Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
+     Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
+     The short and simple annals of the Poor.
+
+     The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
+     And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
+     Await alike th' inevitable hour:&mdash;
+     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 sway'd,
+     Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:
+
+     But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
+     Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
+     Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
+     And froze the genial current of the soul.
+
+     Full many a gem of purest ray serene
+     The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
+     Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
+     And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
+
+     Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
+     The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
+     Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
+     Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.
+
+     Th' applause of 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 forbad; nor circumscribed alone
+     Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
+     Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,
+     And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;
+
+     The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
+     To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
+     Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
+     With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
+
+     Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife
+     Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
+     Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
+     They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
+
+     Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect
+     Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
+     With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
+     Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
+
+     Their name, their years, spelt by the unletter'd Muse,
+     The place of fame and elegy supply:
+     And many a holy text around she strews,
+     That teach the rustic moralist to die.
+
+     For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
+     This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
+     Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
+     Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?
+
+     On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
+     Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
+     E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
+     E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
+
+     For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
+     Dost in those lines their artless tale relate;
+     If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,
+     Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,&mdash;
+
+     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 noon-tide 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 cross'd in hopeless love.
+
+     One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd 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,&mdash;
+     Approach, and read (for thou canst read) the lay
+     Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.
+
+                   THE EPITAPH.
+
+     Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
+     A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown;
+     Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,
+     And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.
+
+     Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere;
+     Heaven did a recompense as largely send:
+     He gave to Misery all he had, a tear,
+     He gain'd from Heaven, 'twas all he wish'd, a friend.
+
+     No farther seek his merits to disclose,
+     Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
+     (There they alike in trembling hope repose),
+     The bosom of his Father and his God.
+
+     T. GRAY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     148. MARY MORISON.
+
+     O Mary, at thy window be,
+     It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!
+     Those smiles and glances let me see
+     That make the miser's treasure poor:
+     How blythely wad I bide the 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,&mdash;
+     I sat, but neither heard nor saw:
+     Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,
+     And yon the toast of a' the town,
+     I sigh'd, and said amang them a',
+     "Ye are na Mary Morison."
+
+     O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace
+     Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee?
+     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.
+
+     R. BURNS.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     149. BONNIE LESLEY.
+
+     O saw ye bonnie Lesley
+       As she gaed o'er the border?
+     She's gane, like Alexander,
+       To spread her conquests farther.
+
+     To see her is to love her,
+       And love but her for ever;
+     For nature made her what she is,
+       And ne'er made sic anither!
+
+     Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,
+       Thy subjects we, before thee;
+     Thou art divine, fair Lesley,
+       The hearts o' men adore thee.
+
+     The deil he could na scaith thee,
+       Or aught that wad belang thee;
+     He'd look into thy bonnie face,
+       And say "I canna wrang thee!"
+
+     The Powers aboon will tent thee,
+       Misfortune sha' na steer thee;
+     Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely
+       That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.
+
+     Return again, fair Lesley,
+       Return to Caledonie!
+     That we may brag we hae a lass
+       There's nane again sae bonnie.
+
+     R. BURNS.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     150.
+
+     O my Luve's like a red, red rose
+       That's newly sprung in June:
+     O my Luve's like the melodie
+       That's sweetly play'd in tune.
+
+     As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
+       So deep in luve am I:
+     And I will luve thee still, my dear,
+       Till a' the seas gang dry:
+
+     Till a' the seas gang dry, my Dear,
+       And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
+     I will luve thee still, my dear,
+       While the sands o' life shall run.
+
+     And fare thee weel, my only Luve!
+       And fare thee weel a while!
+     And I will come again, my Luve
+       Tho' it were ten thousand mile.
+
+     R. BURNS.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     151. HIGHLAND MARY.
+
+     Ye banks and braes and streams around
+       The castle o' Montgomery,
+     Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
+       Your waters never drumlie!
+     There simmer first unfauld her robes,
+       And there the langest tarry;
+     For there I took the last fareweel
+       O' my sweet Highland Mary.
+
+     How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
+       How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
+     As underneath their fragrant shade
+       I clasp'd her to my bosom!
+     The golden hours on angel wings
+       Flew o'er me and my dearie;
+     For dear to me as light and life
+       Was my sweet Highland Mary.
+
+     Wi' mony a vow and lock'd 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 kiss'd sae fondly!
+     And closed for aye the sparkling glance
+       That dwelt on me sae kindly;
+     And mouldering now in silent dust
+       That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
+     But still within my bosom's core
+       Shall live my Highland Mary.
+
+     R. BURNS.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     152. AULD ROBIN GRAY.
+
+     When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame,
+     And a' the warld to rest are gane,
+     The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e,
+     While my gudeman lies sound by me.
+
+     Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride;
+     But saving a croun he had naething else beside:
+     To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea;
+     And the croun and the pund were baith for me.
+
+     He hadna been awa' a week but only twa,
+     When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown awa;
+     My mother she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea&mdash;
+     And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me.
+
+     My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin;
+     I toil'd day and night, but their bread I couldna win;
+     Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e
+     Said, Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!
+
+     My heart it said nay; I look'd for Jamie back;
+     But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack;
+     His ship it was a wrack&mdash;Why didna Jamie dee?
+     Or why do I live to cry, Wae's me?
+
+     My father urgit sair: my mother didna speak;
+     But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break:
+     They gi'ed him my hand, but my heart was at the sea;
+     Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.
+
+     I hadna been a wife a week but only four,
+     When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door,
+     I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he&mdash;
+     Till he said, I'm come hame to marry thee.
+
+     O sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say;
+     We took but ae kiss, and I bad him gang away;
+     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.
+
+     LADY A. LINDSAY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     153. 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,
+     Look'd asklent and unco skeigh,
+     Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;
+        Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
+
+     Duncan fleech'd and Duncan pray'd;
+     Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig;
+     Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,
+     Grat his een baith bleert and blin',
+     Spak o' lowpin' ower a linn!
+
+     Time and chance are but a tide,
+     Slighted love is sair to bide;
+     Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,
+     For a haughty hizzie dee?
+     She may gae to&mdash;France for me!
+
+     How it comes let doctors tell,
+     Meg grew sick&mdash;as he grew heal;
+     Something in her bosom wrings,
+     For relief a sigh she brings;
+     And O, her een, they spak sic things!
+
+     Duncan was a lad o' grace;
+     Maggie's was a piteous case;
+     Duncan could na be her death,
+     Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath;
+     Now they're crouse and canty baith:
+        Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
+
+     R. BURNS.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     154. THE SAILOR'S WIFE.
+
+     And are ye sure the news is true?
+       And are ye sure he's weel?
+     Is this a time to think o' wark?
+       Ye jades, lay by your wheel;
+     Is this the time to spin a thread,
+       When Colin's at the door?
+     Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay
+       And see him come ashore.
+     For there's nae luck about the house,
+       There's nae luck at a';
+     There's little pleasure in the house
+       When our gudeman's awa'.
+
+     And gie to me my bigonet,
+       My bishop's satin gown;
+     For I maun tell the baillie's wife
+       That Colin's in the town.
+     My Turkey slippers maun gae on,
+       My stockins pearly blue;
+     It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,
+       For he's baith leal and true.
+
+     Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,
+       Put on the muckle pot;
+     Gie little Kate her button gown
+       And Jock his Sunday coat;
+     And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
+       Their hose as white as snaw;
+     It's a' to please my ain gudeman,
+       For he's been long awa.
+
+     There's twa fat hens upo' the coop
+       Been fed this month and mair;
+     Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
+       That Colin weel may fare;
+     And spread the table neat and clean,
+       Gar ilka thing look braw,
+     For wha can tell how Colin fared
+       When he was far awa?
+
+     Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech.
+       His breath like caller air;
+     His very foot has music in't
+       As he comes up the stair&mdash;
+     And will I see his face again?
+       And will I hear him speak?
+     I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
+       In troth I'm like to greet!
+
+     If Colin's weel, and weel content,
+       I hae nae mair to crave:
+     And gin I live to keep him sae,
+       I'm blest aboon the lave:
+     And will I see his face again,
+       And will I hear him speak?
+     I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
+       In troth I'm like to greet!
+
+     For there's nae luck about the house,
+       There's nae luck at a';
+     There's little pleasure in the house
+       When our gudeman's awa.
+
+     W. J. MICKLE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     155. JEAN.
+
+     Of a' the airts the wind can blaw
+       I dearly like the West,
+     For there the bonnie lassie lives,
+       The lassie I lo'e best:
+     There wild woods grow, and rivers row,
+       And mony a hill between;
+     But day and night my fancy's flight
+       Is ever wi' my Jean.
+
+     I see her in the dewy flowers,
+       I see her sweet and fair:
+     I hear her in the tunefu' birds,
+       I hear her charm the air:
+     There's not a bonnie flower that springs,
+       By fountain, shaw, or green;
+     There's not a bonnie bird that sings
+       But minds me o' my Jean.
+
+     O blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saft
+       Amang the leafy trees;
+     Wi' balmy gale, frae hill and dale
+       Bring hame the laden bees;
+     And bring the lassie back to me
+       That's aye sae neat and clean;
+     Ae smile o' her wad banish care,
+       Sae charming is my Jean.
+
+     What sighs and vows amang the knowes
+       Hae pass'd atween us twa!
+     How fond to meet, how wae to part
+       That night she gaed awa!
+     The Powers aboon can only ken
+       To whom the heart is seen,
+     That nane can be sae dear to me
+       As my sweet lovely Jean!
+
+     R. BURNS.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     156. JOHN ANDERSON.
+
+     John Anderson my jo, John,
+     When we were first acquent
+     Your locks were like the raven,
+     Your bonnie brow was brent;
+     But now your brow is bald, John,
+     Your locks are like the snow;
+     But blessings on your frosty pow,
+     John Anderson my jo.
+
+     John Anderson my jo, John,
+     We clamb the hill thegither,
+     And mony a canty day, John,
+     We've had wi' ane anither:
+     Now we maun totter down, John,
+     But hand in hand we'll go,
+     And sleep thegither at the foot,
+     John Anderson my jo.
+
+     R. BURNS.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     157. THE LAND O' THE LEAL.
+
+     I'm wearing awa', Jean
+     Like snaw when its thaw, Jean,
+     I'm wearing awa'
+       To the land o' the leal.
+     There's nae sorrow there, Jean,
+     There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,
+     The day is aye fair
+       In the land o' the leal.
+
+     Ye were aye leal and true, Jean,
+     Your task's ended noo, Jean,
+     And I'll welcome you
+       To the land o' the leal.
+     Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean,
+     She was baith guid and fair, Jean;
+     O we grudged her right sair
+       To the land o' the leal!
+
+     Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean,
+     My soul langs to be free, Jean,
+     And angels wait on me
+       To the land o' the leal.
+     Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean
+     This warld's care is vain, Jean;
+     We'll meet and aye be fain
+       In the land o' the leal.
+
+     LADY NAIRN.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     158. ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE.
+
+     Ye distant spires, ye antique towers
+       That crown the wat'ry 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 stray'd,
+       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 enthral?
+     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 possest;
+     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' alter'd 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 griesly 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,
+       Condemn'd alike to groan;
+     The tender for another's pain,
+       Th' 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;&mdash;where ignorance is bliss,
+       'Tis folly to be wise.
+
+     T. GRAY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     159. 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, design'd,
+      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 learn'd to melt at others' 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 vow their truth, and are again believed.
+
+      And Melancholy, silent maid,
+       With leaden eye, that loves the ground,
+      Still on thy solemn steps attend:
+      Warm Charity, the general 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!
+      Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad,
+       Not 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 my own defects to scan,
+     What others are to feel, and know myself a Man.
+
+     T. GRAY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     160. THE SOLITUDE OF ALEXANDER SELKIRK.
+
+     I am monarch of all I survey;
+     My right there is none to dispute;
+     From the centre all round to the sea
+     I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
+     O Solitude! Where are the charms
+     That sages have seen in thy face?
+     Better dwell in the midst of alarms
+     Than reign in this horrible place.
+
+     I am out of humanity's reach,
+     I must finish my journey alone,
+     Never hear the sweet music of speech;
+     I start at the sound of my own.
+     The beasts that roam over the plain
+     My form with indifference see;
+     They are so unacquainted with man,
+     Their tameness is shocking to me.
+
+     Society, Friendship, and Love
+     Divinely bestow'd upon man,
+     O had I the wings of a dove
+     How soon would I taste you again!
+     My sorrows I then might assuage
+     In the ways of religion and truth,
+     Might learn from the wisdom of age,
+     And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.
+
+     Ye winds that have made me your sport,
+     Convey to this desolate shore
+     Some cordial endearing report
+     Of a land I shall visit no more:
+     My friends, do they now and then send
+     A wish or a thought after me?
+     O tell me I yet have a friend,
+     Though a friend I am never to see.
+
+     How fleet is a glance of the mind!
+     Compared with the speed of its flight,
+     The tempest itself lags behind,
+     And the swift-wingéd arrows of light.
+     When I think of my own native land
+     In a moment I seem to be there;
+     But alas! recollection at hand
+     Soon hurries me back to despair.
+
+     But the seafowl is gone to her nest,
+     The beast is laid down in his lair;
+     Even here is a season of rest,
+     And I to my cabin repair.
+     There's mercy in every place,
+     And mercy, encouraging thought!
+     Gives even affliction a grace
+     And reconciles man to his lot.
+
+     W. COWPER.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     161. TO MARY UNWIN.
+
+     Mary! I want a lyre with other strings,
+     Such aid from heaven as some have feign'd they drew,
+     An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new
+     And undebased by praise of meaner things,
+
+     That ere through age or woe I shed my wings
+     I may record thy worth with honour due,
+     In verse as musical as thou art true
+     And that immortalizes whom it sings:&mdash;
+
+     But thou hast little need. There is a Book
+     By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,
+     On which the eyes of God not rarely look,
+
+     A chronicle of actions just and bright&mdash;
+     There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine;
+     And since, thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.
+
+     W. COWPER.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     162. 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&mdash;
+     'Twas my distress that brought thee low,
+             My Mary!
+
+     Thy needles, once a shining store,
+     For my sake restless heretofore,
+     Now rust disused, and shine no more;
+             My Mary!
+
+     For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil
+     The same kind office for me still,
+     Thy sight now seconds not thy will,
+             My Mary!
+
+     But well thou play'dst the housewife's part,
+     And all thy threads with magic art
+     Have wound themselves about this heart,
+             My Mary!
+
+     Thy indistinct expressions seem
+     Like language utter'd in a dream;
+     Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,
+             My Mary!
+
+     Thy silver locks, once auburn bright
+     Are still more lovely in my sight
+     Than golden beams of orient light,
+             My Mary!
+
+     For could I view nor them nor thee,
+     What sight worth seeing could I see?
+     The sun would rise in vain for me,
+             My Mary!
+
+     Partakers of thy sad decline
+     Thy hands their little force resign;
+     Yet gently press'd, press gently mine,
+             My Mary!
+
+     Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st
+     That now at every step thou mov'st
+     Upheld by two; yet still thou lov'st,
+             My Mary!
+
+     And still to love, though press'd with ill,
+     In wintry age to feel no chill,
+     With me is to be lovely still,
+             My Mary!
+
+     But ah! by constant heed I know
+     How oft the sadness that I show
+     Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,
+             My Mary!
+
+     And should my future lot be cast
+     With much resemblance of the past
+     Thy worn-out heart will break at last&mdash;
+             My Mary!
+
+     W. COWPER.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     163. THE DYING MAN IN HIS GARDEN.
+
+     Why, Damon, with the forward day
+     Dost thou thy little spot survey,
+     From tree to tree, with doubtful cheer,
+     Pursue the progress of the year,
+     What winds arise, what rains descend,
+     When thou before that year shalt end?
+
+     What do thy noontide walks avail,
+     To clear the leaf, and pick the snail,
+     Then wantonly to death decree
+     An insect usefuller than thee?
+     Thou and the worm are brother-kind,
+     As low, as earthy, and as blind.
+
+     Vain wretch! canst thou expect to see
+     The downy peach make court to thee?
+     Or that thy sense shall ever meet
+     The bean-flower's deep-embosom'd sweet
+     Exhaling with an evening blast?
+     Thy evenings then will all be past!
+
+     Thy narrow pride, thy fancied green
+     (For vanity's in little seen),
+     All must be left when Death appears,
+     In spite of wishes, groans, and tears;
+     Nor one of all thy plants that grow
+     But Rosemary will with thee go.
+
+     G. SEWELL.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     164. TO-MORROW.
+
+     In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining,
+      May my lot no less fortunate be
+     Than a snug elbow-chair can afford for reclining,
+      And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea;
+     With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn,
+      While I carol away idle sorrow,
+     And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn
+      Look forward with hope for to-morrow.
+
+     With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too,
+      As the sunshine or rain may prevail;
+     And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too,
+      With a barn for the use of the flail:
+     A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game,
+      And a purse when a friend wants to borrow;
+     I'll envy no nabob his riches or fame,
+      Nor what honours await him to-morrow.
+
+     From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely
+      Secured by a neighbouring hill;
+     And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly
+      By the sound of a murmuring rill:
+     And while peace and plenty I find at my board,
+      With a heart free from sickness and sorrow,
+     With my friends may I share what to-day may afford,
+      And let them spread the table to-morrow.
+
+     And when I at last must throw off this frail covering
+      Which I've worn for three-score years and ten,
+     On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hovering,
+      Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again:
+     But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey,
+      And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow;
+     As this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare to-day
+      May become everlasting to-morrow.
+
+     &mdash; COLLINS.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     165.
+
+     Life! I know not what thou art,
+     But know that thou and I must part;
+     And when, or how, or where we met
+     I own to me's a secret yet.
+
+     Life! we've been long together
+     Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;
+     'Tis hard to part when friends are dear&mdash;
+     Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear;
+     &mdash;Then steal away, give little warning,
+       Choose thine own time;
+     Say not Good Night,&mdash;but in some brighter clime
+       Bid me Good Morning.
+
+     A L. BARBAULD.
+</pre>
+<a name="2H_4_0010"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>
+
+<h2>
+    FOURTH BOOK.
+</h2>
+<a name="2H_SUMM4"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>
+
+<h2>
+    SUMMARY.
+</h2>
+<p>
+It proves sufficiently the lavish wealth of our own age in Poetry, that
+the pieces which, without conscious departure from the standard of
+Excellence, render this Book by far the longest, were with very few
+exceptions composed during the first thirty years the nineteenth
+century. Exhaustive reasons can hardly be given for the strangely sudden
+appearance of individual genius: but none, in the Editor's judgment, can
+be less adequate than that which assigns the splendid national
+achievements of our recent poetry, to an impulse from the frantic
+follies and criminal wars that at the time disgraced the least
+essentially civilised of our foreign neighbours. The first French
+Revolution was rather, in his opinion, one result, and in itself by no
+means the most important, of that far wider and greater spirit which
+through enquiry and doubt, through pain and triumph, sweeps mankind
+round the circles of its gradual development: and it is to this that we
+must trace the literature of modern Europe. But, without more detailed
+discussion on the motive causes of Scott, Wordsworth, Campbell, Keats,
+and Shelley, we may observe that these Poets, with others, carried to
+further perfection the later tendencies of the Century preceding, in
+simplicity of narrative, reverence for human Passion and Character in
+every sphere, and impassioned love of Nature:&mdash;that, whilst maintaining
+on the whole the advances in art made since the Restoration, they
+renewed the half-forgotten melody and depth of tone which marked the
+best Elizabethan writers:&mdash;that, lastly, to what was thus inherited they
+added a richness in language and a variety in metre, a force and fire in
+narrative, a tenderness and bloom in feeling, an insight into the finer
+passages of the Soul and the inner meanings of the landscape, a larger
+and wiser Humanity,&mdash;hitherto hardly attained, and perhaps unattainable
+even by predecessors of not inferior individual genius. In a word, the
+Nation which, after the Greeks in their glory, has been the most gifted
+of all nations for Poetry, expressed in these men the highest strength
+and prodigality of its nature. They interpreted the age to itself&mdash;hence
+the many phases of thought and style they present:&mdash;to sympathise with
+each, fervently and impartially, without fear and without fancifulness,
+is no doubtful step in the higher education of the Soul. For, as with
+the Affections and the Conscience, Purity in Taste is absolutely
+proportionate to Strength:&mdash;and when once the mind has raised itself to
+grasp and to delight in Excellence, those who love most will be found to
+love most wisely.
+</p>
+<pre>
+
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     166. ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER.
+
+     Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold
+     And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
+     Round many western islands have I been
+     Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
+
+     Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
+     That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne:
+     Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
+     Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
+
+     &mdash;Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
+     When a new planet swims into his ken;
+     Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes
+
+     He stared at the Pacific&mdash;and all his men
+     Look'd at each other with a wild surmise&mdash;
+     Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
+
+     J. KEATS.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     167. ODE ON THE POETS.
+
+     Bards of Passion and of Mirth
+     Ye have left your souls on earth!
+     Have ye souls in heaven too,
+     Doubled-lived in regions new?
+     &mdash;Yes, and those of heaven commune
+     With the spheres of sun and moon;
+     With the noise of fountains wonderous
+     And the parle of voices thunderous;
+     With the whisper of heaven's trees
+     And one another, in soft ease
+     Seated on Elysian lawns
+     Browsed by none but Dian's fawns;
+     Underneath large blue-bells tented,
+     Where the daisies are rose-scented,
+     And the rose herself has got
+     Perfume which on earth is not;
+     Where the nightingale doth sing
+     Not a senseless, trancéd thing,
+     But divine melodious truth;
+     Philosophic numbers smooth;
+     Tales and golden histories
+     Of heaven and its mysteries.
+
+       Thus ye live on high, and then
+     On the earth ye live again;
+     And the souls ye left behind you
+     Teach us, here, the way to find you
+     Where your other souls are joying,
+     Never slumber'd, never cloying.
+     Here, your earth-born souls still speak
+     To mortals, of their little week;
+     Of their sorrows and delights;
+     Of their passions and their spites;
+     Of their glory and their shame;
+     What doth strengthen and what maim:&mdash;
+     Thus ye teach us, every day,
+     Wisdom, though fled far away.
+
+       Bards of Passion and of Mirth
+     Ye have left your souls on earth!
+     Ye have souls in heaven too,
+     Double-lived in regions new!
+
+     J. KEATS.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     168. LOVE.
+
+     All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
+     Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
+     All are but ministers of Love,
+         And feed his sacred flame.
+
+     Oft in my waking dreams do I
+     Live o'er again that happy hour,
+     When midway on the mount I lay
+         Beside the ruin'd tower.
+
+     The moonshine stealing o'er the scene
+     Had blended with the lights of eve;
+     And she was there, my hope, my joy,
+         My own dear Genevieve!
+
+     She lean'd against the arméd man,
+     The statue of the arméd knight;
+     She stood and listen'd to my lay,
+         Amid the lingering light.
+
+     Few sorrows hath she of her own
+     My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!
+     She loves me best, whene'er I sing
+         The songs that make her grieve.
+
+     I play'd a soft and doleful air,
+     I sang an old and moving story&mdash;
+     An old rude song, that suited well
+         That ruin wild and hoary.
+
+     She listen'd with a flitting blush,
+     With downcast eyes and modest grace;
+     For well she knew, I could not choose
+         But gaze upon her face.
+
+     I told her of the Knight that wore
+     Upon his shield a burning brand;
+     And that for ten long years he woo'd
+         The Lady of the Land.
+
+     I told her how he pined: and ah!
+     The deep, the low, the pleading tone
+     With which I sang another's love,
+         Interpreted my own.
+
+     She listen'd with a flitting blush,
+     With downcast eyes, and modest grace;
+     And she forgave me, that I gazed
+         Too fondly on her face.
+
+     But when I told the cruel scorn
+     That crazed that bold and lovely Knight,
+     And that he cross'd the mountain-woods,
+         Nor rested day nor night;
+
+     That sometimes from the savage den,
+     And sometimes from the darksome shade,
+     And sometimes starting up at once
+         In green and sunny glade.
+
+     There came and look'd him in the face
+     An angel beautiful and bright;
+     And that he knew it was a Fiend,
+         This miserable Knight!
+
+     And that unknowing what he did,
+     He leap'd amid a murderous band,
+     And saved from outrage worse than death
+         The Lady of the Land;
+
+     And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees;
+     And how she tended him in vain;
+     And ever strove to expiate
+         The scorn that crazed his brain;
+
+     And that she nursed him in a cave,
+     And how his madness went away,
+     When on the yellow forest-leaves
+         A dying man he lay;
+
+     &mdash;His dying words&mdash;but when I reach'd
+     That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
+     My faltering voice and pausing harp
+         Disturb'd her soul with pity!
+
+     All impulses of soul and sense
+     Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve;
+     The music and the doleful tale,
+         The rich and balmy eve;
+
+     And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,
+     An undistinguishable throng,
+     And gentle wishes long subdued,
+         Subdued and cherish'd long!
+
+     She wept with pity and delight,
+     She blush'd with love, and virgin shame;
+     And like the murmur of a dream,
+         I heard her breathe my name.
+
+     Her bosom heaved&mdash;she stepp'd aside,
+     As conscious of my look she stept&mdash;
+     Then suddenly, with timorous eye
+         She fled to me and wept.
+
+     She half enclosed me with her arms,
+     She press'd me with a meek embrace;
+     And bending back her head, look'd up,
+         And gazed upon my face.
+
+     'Twas partly love, and partly fear,
+     And partly 'twas a bashful art,
+     That I might rather feel, than see.
+         The swelling of her heart.
+
+     I calm'd her fears, and she was calm,
+     And told her love with virgin pride;
+     And so I won my Genevieve,
+         My bright and beauteous Bride.
+
+     S. T. COLERIDGE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     169. ALL FOR LOVE.
+
+     O talk not to me of a name great in story;
+     The days of our youth are the days of our glory;
+     And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
+     Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.
+
+     What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?
+     'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled:
+     Then away with all such from the head that is hoary&mdash;
+     What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?
+
+     O Fame!&mdash;if I e'er took delight in thy praises,
+     'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,
+     Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover
+     She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
+
+     There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;
+     Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee;
+     When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story,
+     I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.
+
+     LORD BYRON.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     170. THE OUTLAW.
+
+     O Brignall banks are wild and fair,
+      And Greta woods are green,
+     And you may gather garlands there
+      Would grace a summer-queen.
+     And as I rode by Dalton-Hall
+      Beneath the turrets high,
+     A Maiden on the castle-wall
+      Was singing merrily:
+     "O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
+      And Greta woods are green;
+     I'd rather rove with Edmund there
+      Than reign our English queen."
+
+     "If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me,
+      To leave both tower and town,
+     Thou first must guess what life lead we
+      That dwell by dale and down.
+     And if thou canst that riddle read,
+      As read full well you may,
+     Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed
+      As blithe as Queen of May."
+     Yet sung she "Brignall banks are fair,
+      And Greta woods are green;
+     I'd rather rove with Edmund there
+      Than reign our English queen.
+
+     "I read you by your bugle-horn
+      And by your palfrey good,
+     I read you for a ranger sworn
+      To keep the King's greenwood."
+     "A Ranger, Lady, winds his horn,
+      And 'tis at peep of light;
+     His blast is heard at merry morn,
+      And mine at dead of night."
+     Yet sung she, "Brignall banks are fair,
+      And Greta woods are gay;
+     I would I were with Edmund there
+      To reign his Queen of May!
+
+     "With burnish'd brand and musketoon
+      So gallantly you come,
+     I read you for a bold Dragoon,
+      That lists the tuck of drum."
+     "I list no more the tuck of drum,
+      No more the trumpet hear;
+     But when the beetle sounds his hum
+      My comrades take the spear.
+     And O! though Brignall banks be fair,
+      And Greta woods be gay,
+     Yet mickle must the maiden dare,
+      Would reign my Queen of May!
+
+     "Maiden! a nameless life I lead,
+      A nameless death I'll die;
+     The fiend whose lantern lights the mead
+      Were better mate than I!
+     And when I'm with my comrades met
+      Beneath the greenwood bough,
+     What once we were we all forget,
+      Nor think what we are now.
+
+                   <i>Chorus.</i>
+
+     Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
+      And Greta woods are green,
+     And you may gather flowers there
+      Would grace a summer-queen.
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     171.
+
+     There be none of Beauty's daughters
+      With a magic like Thee;
+     And like music on the waters
+      Is thy sweet voice to me:
+     When, as if its sound were causing
+     The charméd ocean's pausing,
+     The waves lie still and gleaming,
+     And the lull'd winds seem dreaming
+     And the midnight moon is weaving
+      Her bright chain o'er the deep,
+     Whose breast is gently heaving,
+      As an infant's asleep:
+     So the spirit bows before thee
+     To listen and adore thee;
+     With a full but soft emotion,
+     Like the swell of Summer's ocean.
+
+     LORD BYRON.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     172. LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR.
+
+     I arise from dreams of Thee
+     In the first sweet sleep of night,
+     When the winds are breathing low
+     And the stars are shining bright:
+     I arise from dreams of thee,
+     And a spirit in my feet
+     Hath led me&mdash;who knows how?
+     To thy chamber-window, Sweet!
+
+     The wandering airs they faint
+     On the dark, the silent stream&mdash;
+     The champak odours fail
+     Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
+     The nightingale's complaint,
+     It dies upon her heart,
+     As I must on thine,
+     Oh, belovéd as thou art!
+
+     Oh lift me from the grass!
+     I die! I faint, I fail!
+     Let thy love in kisses rain
+     On my lips and eyelids pale.
+     My cheek is cold and white, alas!
+     My heart beats loud and fast;
+     O! press it to thine own again
+     Where it will break at last.
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     173.
+
+     She walks in beauty, like the night
+     Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
+     And all that's best of dark and bright
+     Meets in her aspect and her eyes,
+     Thus mellow'd to that tender light
+     Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
+
+     One shade the more, one ray the less,
+     Had half impair'd the nameless grace
+     Which waves in every raven tress
+     Or softly lightens o'er her face,
+     Where thoughts serenely sweet express
+     How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
+
+     And on that cheek, and o'er that brow
+     So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
+     The smiles that win, the tints that glow
+     But tell of days in goodness spent,&mdash;
+     A mind at peace with all below,
+     A heart whose love is innocent.
+
+     LORD BYRON.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     174.
+
+     She was a phantom of delight
+     When first she gleam'd upon my sight;
+     A lovely apparition, sent
+     To be a moment's ornament;
+     Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
+     Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
+     But all things else about her drawn
+     From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
+     A dancing shape, an image gay,
+     To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
+
+     I saw her upon nearer view,
+     A spirit, yet a woman too!
+     Her household motions light and free,
+     And steps of virgin-liberty;
+     A countenance in which did meet
+     Sweet records, promises as sweet;
+     A creature not too bright or good
+     For human nature's daily food,
+     For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
+     Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
+
+     And now I see with eye serene
+     The very pulse of the machine;
+     A being breathing thoughtful breath,
+     A traveller between life and death:
+     The reason firm, the temperate will,
+     Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
+     A perfect woman, nobly plann'd,
+     To warn, to comfort, and command;
+     And yet a Spirit still, and bright
+     With something of an angel-light.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     175.
+
+       She is not fair to outward view
+        As many maidens be;
+       Her loveliness I never knew
+        Until she smiled on me.
+       O then I saw her eye was bright,
+       A well of love, a spring of light.
+
+       But now her looks are coy and cold,
+        To mine they ne'er reply,
+       And yet I cease not to behold
+        The love-light in her eye:
+       Her very frowns are fairer far
+       Than smiles of other maidens are.
+
+     H. COLERIDGE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     176.
+
+     I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden;
+     Thou needest not fear mine;
+     My spirit is too deeply laden
+     Ever to burthen thine.
+
+     I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion;
+     Thou needest not fear mine;
+     Innocent is the heart's devotion
+     With which I worship thine.
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     177. THE LOST LOVE.
+
+     She dwelt among the untrodden ways
+       Beside the springs of Dove;
+     A maid whom there were none to praise,
+       And very few to love.
+
+     A violet by a mossy stone
+       Half hidden from the eye!
+     &mdash;Fair as a star, when only one
+       Is shining in the sky.
+
+     She lived unknown, and few could know
+       When Lucy ceased to be;
+     But she is in her grave, and O!
+       The difference to me!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     178.
+
+     I travell'd among unknown men
+       In lands beyond the sea;
+     Nor, England! did I know till then
+       What love I bore to thee.
+
+     'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
+       Nor will I quit thy shore
+     A second time, for still I seem
+       To love thee more and more.
+
+     Among thy mountains did I feel
+       The joy of my desire;
+     And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel
+       Beside an English fire.
+
+     Thy mornings showed, thy nights conceal'd,
+       The bowers where Lucy play'd;
+     And thine too is the last green field
+       That Lucy's eyes survey'd.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     179. THE EDUCATION OF NATURE.
+
+     Three years she grew in sun and shower;
+     Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower
+     On earth was never sown;
+     This child I to myself will take;
+     She shall be mine, and I will make
+     A lady of my own.
+
+     "Myself will to my darling be
+     Both law and impulse: and with me
+     The girl, in rock and plain,
+     In earth and heaven, in glade and bower
+     Shall feel an overseeing power
+     To kindle or restrain.
+
+     "She shall be sportive as the fawn
+     That wild with glee across the lawn
+     Or up the mountain springs;
+     And her's shall be the breathing balm,
+     And her's the silence and the calm
+     Of mute insensate things.
+
+     "The floating clouds their state shall lend
+     To her; for her the willow bend;
+     Nor shall she fail to see
+     E'en in the motions of the storm
+     Grace that shall mould the maiden's form
+     By silent sympathy.
+
+     "The stars of midnight shall be dear
+     To her; and she shall lean her ear
+     In many a secret place
+     Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
+     And beauty born of murmuring sound
+     Shall pass into her face.
+
+     "And vital feelings of delight
+     Shall rear her form to stately height,
+     Her virgin bosom swell;
+     Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
+     While she and I together live
+     Here in this happy dell."
+
+     Thus Nature spake&mdash;The work was done&mdash;
+     How soon my Lucy's race was run!
+     She died, and left to me
+     This heath, this calm and quiet scene;
+     The memory of what has been,
+     And never more will be.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     180.
+
+     A slumber did my spirit seal;
+       I had no human fears:
+     She seem'd a thing that could not feel
+       The touch of earthly years.
+
+     No motion has she now, no force;
+       She neither hears nor sees;
+     Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course
+       With rocks, and stones, and trees!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     181. LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.
+
+     A Chieftain to the Highlands bound
+     Cries "Boatman, do not tarry!
+     And I'll give thee a silver pound
+     To row us o'er the ferry!"
+
+     "Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle
+     This dark and stormy water?"
+     "O I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,
+     And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.
+
+     "And fast before her father's men
+     Three days we've fled together,
+     For should he find us in the glen,
+     My blood would stain the heather.
+
+     "His horsemen hard behind us ride&mdash;
+     Should they our steps discover,
+     Then who will cheer my bonny bride
+     When they have slain her lover?"
+
+     Out spoke the hardy Highland wight
+     "I'll go, my chief, I'm ready:
+     It is not for your silver bright,
+     But for your winsome lady:&mdash;
+
+     "And by my word! the bonny bird
+     In danger not shall tarry;
+     So though the waves are raging white
+     I'll row you o'er the ferry."
+
+     By this the storm grew loud apace,
+     The water-wraith was shrieking;
+     And in the scowl of heaven each face
+     Grew dark as they were speaking.
+
+     But still as wilder blew the wind
+     And as the night grew drearer,
+     Adown the glen rode arméd men,
+     Their trampling sounded nearer.
+
+     "O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,
+     "Though tempests round us gather;
+     I'll meet the raging of the skies,
+     But not an angry father."
+
+     The boat has left a stormy land,
+     A stormy sea before her,&mdash;
+     When O! too strong for human hand
+     The tempest gather'd o'er her.
+
+     And still they row'd amidst the roar
+     Of waters fast prevailing:
+     Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,&mdash;
+     His wrath was changed to wailing.
+
+     For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shade
+     His child he did discover:&mdash;
+     One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,
+     And one was round her lover.
+
+     "Come back! come back!" he cried in grief,
+     "Across this stormy water:
+     And I'll forgive your Highland chief,
+     My daughter!&mdash;O my daughter!"
+
+     'Twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore,
+     Return or aid preventing:
+     The waters wild went o'er his child,
+     And he was left lamenting.
+
+     T. CAMPBELL.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     182. JOCK O' HAZELDEAN.
+
+     "Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?
+       Why weep ye by the tide?
+     I'll wed ye to my youngest son,
+       And ye sall be his bride:
+     And ye sall be his bride, ladie,
+       Sae comely to be seen"&mdash;
+     But aye she loot the tears doon fa'
+       For Jock o' Hazeldean.
+
+     "Now let this wilfu' grief be done,
+       And dry that cheek so pale;
+     Young Frank is chief of Errington
+       And lord of Langley-dale;
+     His step is first in peaceful ha',
+       His sword in battle keen"&mdash;
+     But aye she loot the tears down fa'
+       For Jock o' Hazeldean.
+
+     "A chain of gold ye shall not lack,
+       Nor braid to bind your hair,
+     Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk
+       Nor palfrey fresh and fair;
+     And you the foremost o' them a'
+       Shall ride our forest queen"&mdash;
+     But aye she loot the tears down fa'
+       For Jock o' Hazeldean.
+
+     The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide,
+       The tapers glimmer'd fair;
+     The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,
+       And dame and knight are there:
+     They sought her baith by bower and ha';
+       The ladie was not seen!
+     She's o'er the Border, and awa'
+       Wi' Jock o' Hazeldean.
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     183. FREEDOM AND LOVE.
+
+     How delicious is the winning
+     Of a kiss at love's beginning,
+     When two mutual hearts are sighing
+     For the knot there's no untying!
+
+     Yet remember, 'midst your wooing,
+     Love has bliss, but Love has ruing;
+     Other smiles may make you fickle,
+     Tears for other charms may trickle.
+
+     Love he comes, and Love he tarries,
+     Just as fate or fancy carries;
+     Longest stays, when sorest chidden;
+     Laughs and flies, when press'd and bidden.
+
+     Bind the sea to slumber stilly,
+     Bind its odour to the lily,
+     Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver,
+     Then bind Love to last for ever.
+
+     Love's a fire that needs renewal
+     Of fresh beauty for its fuel:
+     Love's wing moults when caged and captured,
+     Only free, he soars enraptured.
+
+     Can you keep the bee from ranging
+     Or the ringdove's neck from changing?
+     No! nor fetter'd Love from dying
+     In the knot there's no untying.
+
+     T. CAMPBELL.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     184. LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY.
+
+     The fountains mingle with the river
+     And the rivers with the ocean,
+     The winds of heaven mix for ever
+     With a sweet emotion;
+     Nothing in the world is single,
+     All things by a law divine
+     In one another's being mingle&mdash;
+     Why not I with thine?
+
+     See the mountains kiss high heaven
+     And the waves clasp one another;
+     No sister-flower would be forgiven
+     If it disdain'd its brother:
+     And the sunlight clasps the earth,
+     And the moonbeams kiss the sea&mdash;
+     What are all these kissings worth,
+     If thou kiss not me?
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     185. ECHOES.
+
+     How sweet the answer Echo makes
+     To Music at night
+     When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
+     And far away o'er lawns and lakes
+     Goes answering light!
+
+     Yet Love hath echoes truer far
+     And far more sweet
+     Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star,
+     Of horn or lute or soft guitar
+     The songs repeat.
+
+     'Tis when the sigh,&mdash;in youth sincere
+     And only then,
+     The sigh that's breathed for one to hear&mdash;
+     Is by that one, that only Dear
+     Breathed back again.
+
+     T. MOORE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     186. A SERENADE.
+
+     Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,
+       The sun has left the lea,
+     The orange-flower perfumes the bower,
+       The breeze is on the sea.
+     The lark, his lay who trill'd all day,
+       Sits hush'd his partner nigh;
+     Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,
+       But where is County Guy?
+
+     The village maid steals through the shade
+       Her shepherd's suit to hear;
+     To Beauty shy, by lattice high,
+       Sings high-born Cavalier.
+     The star of Love, all stars above,
+       Now reigns o'er earth and sky,
+     And high and low the influence know&mdash;
+       But where is County Guy?
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     187. TO THE EVENING STAR.
+
+     Gem of the crimson-colour'd Even,
+     Companion of retiring day,
+     Why at the closing gates of heaven,
+     Beloved Star, dost thou delay?
+
+     So fair thy pensile beauty burns
+     When soft the tear of twilight flows;
+     So due thy plighted love returns
+     To chambers brighter than the rose;
+
+     To Peace, to Pleasure, and to love
+     So kind a star thou seem'st to be,
+     Sure some enamour'd orb above
+     Descends and burns to meet with thee.
+
+     Thine is the breathing, blushing hour
+     When all unheavenly passions fly,
+     Chased by the soul-subduing power
+     Of Love's delicious witchery.
+
+     O! sacred to the fall of day
+     Queen of propitious stars, appear,
+     And early rise, and long delay
+     When Caroline herself is here!
+
+     Shine on her chosen green resort
+     Whose trees the sunward summit crown,
+     And wanton flowers, that well may court
+     An angel's feet to tread them down:&mdash;
+
+     Shine on her sweetly scented road
+     Thou star of evening's purple dome,
+     That lead'st the nightingale abroad,
+     And guid'st the pilgrim to his home.
+
+     Shine where my charmer's sweeter breath
+     Embalms the soft exhaling dew,
+     Where dying winds a sigh bequeath
+     To kiss the cheek of rosy hue:&mdash;
+
+     Where, winnow'd by the gentle air,
+     Her silken tresses darkly flow
+     And fall upon her brow so fair,
+     Like shadows on the mountain snow.
+
+     Thus, ever thus, at day's decline
+     In converse sweet to wander far&mdash;
+     O bring with thee my Caroline,
+     And thou shalt be my Ruling Star!
+
+     T. CAMPBELL.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     188. TO THE NIGHT.
+
+     Swiftly walk over the western wave,
+                 Spirit of Night!
+     Out of the misty eastern cave
+     Where all the long and lone daylight
+     Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear
+     Which make thee terrible and dear,&mdash;
+                 Swift be thy flight!
+
+     Wrap thy form in a mantle gray,
+                 Star-inwrought!
+     Blind with thine hair the eyes of day,
+     Kiss her until she be wearied out,
+     Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land,
+     Touching all with thine opiate wand&mdash;
+                 Come, long-sought!
+
+     When I arose and saw the dawn,
+                 I sigh'd for thee;
+     When light rode high, and the dew was gone,
+     And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,
+     And the weary Day turn'd to his rest,
+     Lingering like an unloved guest,
+                 I sigh'd for thee.
+
+     Thy brother Death came, and cried,
+                 Wouldst thou me?
+     Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,
+     Murmur'd like a noon-tide bee
+     Shall I nestle near thy side?
+     Wouldst thou me?&mdash;And I replied
+                 No, not thee!
+
+     Death will come when thou art dead,
+                 Soon, too soon&mdash;
+     Sleep will come when thou art fled;
+     Of neither would I ask the boon
+     I ask of thee, belovéd Night&mdash;
+     Swift be thine approaching flight,
+                 Come soon, soon!
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     189. TO A DISTANT FRIEND.
+
+     Why art thou silent! Is thy love a plant
+     Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air
+     Of absence withers what was once so fair?
+     Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant?
+
+     Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant,
+     Bound to thy service with unceasing care&mdash;
+     The mind's least generous wish a mendicant
+     For nought but what thy happiness could spare.
+
+     Speak!&mdash;though this soft warm heart, once free to hold
+     A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine,
+     Be left more desolate, more dreary cold
+     Than a forsaken bird's-nest fill'd with snow
+     'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine&mdash;
+     Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     190.
+
+          When we two parted
+          In silence and tears,
+          Half broken-hearted
+          To sever for years,
+          Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
+          Colder thy kiss;
+          Truly that hour foretold
+          Sorrow to this!
+
+          The dew of the morning
+          Sunk chill on my brow;
+          It felt like the warning
+          Of what I feel now.
+          Thy vows are all broken,
+          And light is thy fame:
+          I hear thy name spoken,
+          And share in its shame.
+
+          They name thee before me,
+          A knell to mine ear;
+          A shudder comes o'er me&mdash;
+          Why wert thou so dear?
+          They know not I knew thee,
+          Who knew thee too well:
+          Long, long shall I rue thee
+          Too deeply to tell.
+
+          In secret we met:
+          In silence I grieve
+          That thy heart could forget,
+          Thy spirit deceive.
+          If I should meet thee
+          After long years,
+          How should I greet thee?&mdash;
+          With silence and tears.
+
+     LORD BYRON.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     191. HAPPY INSENSIBILITY.
+
+     In a drear-nighted December,
+     Too happy, happy Tree
+     Thy branches ne'er remember
+     Their green felicity:
+     The north cannot undo them
+     With a sleety whistle through them,
+     Nor frozen thawings glue them
+     From budding at the prime.
+
+     In a drear-nighted December
+     Too happy, happy Brook
+     Thy bubblings ne'er remember
+     Apollo's summer look;
+     But with a sweet forgetting
+     They stay their crystal fretting,
+     Never, never petting
+     About the frozen time.
+
+     Ah! would 'twere so with many
+     A gentle girl and boy!
+     But were there ever any
+     Writhed not at passéd joy?
+     To know the change and feel it,
+     When there is none to heal it
+     Nor numbéd sense to steal it&mdash;
+     Was never said in rhyme.
+
+     J. KEATS.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     192.
+
+     Where shall the lover rest
+      Whom the fates sever
+     From his true maiden's breast
+      Parted for ever?
+     Where, through groves deep and high
+      Sounds the far billow,
+     Where early violets die
+      Under the willow.
+        Eleu loro
+      Soft shall be his pillow.
+
+     There, through the summer day
+      Cool streams are laving:
+     There, while the tempests sway,
+      Scarce are boughs waving;
+     There thy rest shalt thou take,
+      Parted for ever,
+     Never again to wake
+      Never, O never!
+        Eleu loro
+      Never, O never!
+
+     Where shall the traitor rest,
+      He, the deceiver,
+     Who would win maiden's breast,
+      Ruin, and leave her?
+     In the lost battle,
+      Borne down by the flying,
+     Where mingles war's rattle
+      With groans of the dying;
+        Eleu loro
+      There shall he be lying.
+
+     Her wing shall the eagle flap
+      O'er the falsehearted;
+     His warm blood the wolf shall lap
+      Ere life be parted:
+     Shame and dishonour sit
+      By his grave ever;
+     Blessing shall hallow it
+      Never, O never!
+        Eleu loro
+      Never, O never!
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     193. LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI.
+
+     "O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
+      Alone and palely loitering?
+     The sedge has wither'd from the lake,
+      And no birds sing.
+
+     "O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
+      So haggard and so woe-begone?
+     The squirrel's granary is full,
+      And the harvest's done.
+
+     "I see a lily on thy brow
+      With anguish moist and fever-dew,
+     And on thy cheeks a fading rose
+      Fast withereth too."
+
+     "I met a lady in the meads,
+      Full beautiful&mdash;a faery's child,
+     Her hair was long, her foot was light,
+      And her eyes were wild.
+
+     "I made a garland for her head,
+      And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
+     She look'd at me as she did love,
+      And made sweet moan.
+
+     "I set her on my pacing steed
+      And nothing else saw all day long,
+     For sidelong would she bend, and sing
+      A faery's song.
+
+     "She found me roots of relish sweet,
+      And honey wild and manna-dew,
+     And sure in language strange she said,
+      'I love thee true.'
+
+     "She took me to her elfin grot,
+      And there she wept, and sigh'd full sore,
+     And there I shut her wild wild eyes
+      With kisses four.
+
+     "And there she lulléd me asleep,
+      And there I dream'd&mdash;Ah! woe betide!
+     The latest dream I ever dream'd
+      On the cold hill's side.
+
+     "I saw pale kings and princes too,
+      Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
+     They cried&mdash;'La belle Dame sans Merci
+      Hath thee in thrall!'
+
+     "I saw their starved lips in the gloam
+      With horrid warning gapéd wide,
+     And I awoke and found me here,
+      On the cold hill's side.
+
+     "And this is why I sojourn here
+      Alone and palely loitering,
+     Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
+      And no birds sing."
+
+     J. KEATS.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     194. THE ROVER.
+
+     "A weary lot is thine, fair maid,
+       A weary lot is thine!
+     To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
+       And press the rue for wine.
+     A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,
+       A feather of the blue,
+     A doublet of the Lincoln green&mdash;
+       No more of me you knew,
+                   My Love!
+     No more of me you knew.
+
+     "The morn is merry June, I trow,
+       The rose is budding fain;
+     But she shall bloom in winter snow
+       Ere we two meet again."
+     He turn'd his charger as he spake
+       Upon the river shore,
+     He gave the bridle-reins a shake,
+       Said "Adieu for evermore,
+                   My Love!
+     And adieu for evermore."
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     195. THE FLIGHT OF LOVE.
+
+     When the lamp is shatter'd,
+     The light in the dust lies dead&mdash;
+     When the cloud is scatter'd,
+     The rainbow's glory is shed.
+     When the lute is broken,
+     Sweet tones are remember'd not;
+     When the lips have spoken,
+     Loved accents are soon forgot.
+
+     As music and splendour
+     Survive not the lamp and the lute,
+     The heart's echoes render
+     No song when the spirit is mute&mdash;
+     No song but sad dirges,
+     Like the wind through a ruin'd cell,
+     Or the mournful surges
+     That ring the dead seaman's knell.
+
+     When hearts have once mingled,
+     Love first leaves the well-built nest;
+     The weak one is singled
+     To endure what it once possest.
+     O Love! who bewailest
+     The frailty of all things here,
+     Why choose you the frailest
+     For your cradle, your home, and your bier?
+
+     Its passions will rock thee
+     As the storms rock the ravens on high;
+     Bright reason will mock thee
+     Like the sun from a wintry sky.
+     From thy nest every rafter
+     Will rot, and thine eagle home
+     Leave thee naked to laughter,
+     When leaves fall and cold winds come.
+
+     P. B. SHELLEY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     196. THE MAID OF NEIDPATH.
+
+     O lovers' eyes are sharp to see,
+      And lovers' ears in hearing;
+     And love, in life's extremity
+      Can lend an hour of cheering.
+     Disease had been in Mary's bower
+      And slow decay from mourning,
+     Though now she sits on Neidpath's tower
+      To watch her Love's returning.
+
+     All sunk and dim her eyes so bright,
+      Her form decay'd by pining,
+     Till through her wasted hand, at night,
+      You saw the taper shining.
+     By fits a sultry hectic hue
+      Across her cheek was flying;
+     By fits so ashy pale she grew
+      Her maidens thought her dying.
+
+     Yet keenest powers to see and hear
+      Seem'd in her frame residing;
+     Before the watch-dog prick'd his ear
+      She heard her lover's riding;
+     Ere scarce a distant form was kenn'd
+      She knew and waved to greet him,
+     And o'er the battlement did bend
+      As on the wing to meet him.
+
+     He came&mdash;he pass'd&mdash;an heedless gaze
+      As o'er some stranger glancing;
+     Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase,
+      Lost in his courser's prancing&mdash;
+
+     The castle-arch, whose hollow tone
+      Returns each whisper spoken,
+     Could scarcely catch the feeble moan
+      Which told her heart was broken.
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     197. THE MAID OF NEIDPATH.
+
+     Earl March look'd on his dying child,
+      And smit with grief to view her&mdash;
+     The youth, he cried, whom I exiled
+      Shall be restored to woo her.
+
+     She's at the window many an hour
+      His coming to discover:
+     And he look'd up to Ellen's bower
+      And she look'd on her lover&mdash;
+
+     But ah! so pale, he knew her not,
+      Though her smile on him was dwelling&mdash;
+     And am I then forgot&mdash;forgot?
+      It broke the heart of Ellen.
+
+     In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs,
+      Her cheek is cold as ashes;
+     Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes
+      To lift their silken lashes.
+
+     T. CAMPBELL
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     198.
+
+     Bright Star! would I were steadfast as thou art&mdash;
+     Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,
+     And watching, with eternal lids apart,
+     Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,
+
+     The moving waters at their priestlike task
+     Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
+     Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask
+     Of snow upon the mountains and the moors:&mdash;
+
+     No&mdash;yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
+     Pillow'd upon my fair Love's ripening breast
+     To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
+     Awake for ever in a sweet unrest;
+
+     Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
+     And so live ever,&mdash;or else swoon to death.
+
+     J. KEATS.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     199. THE TERROR OF DEATH.
+
+     When I have fears that I may cease to be
+     Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
+     Before high-piléd books, in charact'ry,
+     Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;
+
+     When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
+     Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
+     And think that I may never live to trace
+     Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
+
+     And when I feel, fair Creature of an hour!
+     That I shall never look upon thee more,
+     Never have relish in the fairy power
+     Of unreflecting love&mdash;then on the shore
+
+     Of the wide world I stand alone, and think,
+     Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.
+
+     J. KEATS.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     200. DESIDERIA.
+
+     Surprized by joy&mdash;impatient as the wind&mdash;
+     I turn'd to share the transport&mdash;Oh, with whom
+     But Thee&mdash;deep buried in the silent tomb,
+     That spot which no vicissitude can find?
+
+     Love, faithful love recall'd thee to my mind&mdash;
+     But how could I forget thee? Through what power
+     Even for the least division of an hour
+     Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
+
+     To my most grievous loss?&mdash;That thought's return
+     Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore
+     Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
+
+     Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
+     That neither present time, nor years unborn
+     Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     201.
+
+     At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping,
+           I fly
+     To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in
+           thine eye;
+     And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions
+           of air
+     To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to
+           me there
+     And tell me our love is remember'd even in the sky!
+
+     Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear
+     When our voices, commingling, breathed like one on
+           the ear;
+     And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison
+           rolls,
+     I think, O my love! 'tis thy voice, from the Kingdom
+           of Souls
+     Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.
+
+     T. MOORE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     202. ELEGY ON THYRZA.
+
+     And thou art dead, as young and fair
+       As aught of mortal birth;
+     And forms so soft and charms so rare
+       Too soon return'd to Earth!
+     Though Earth received them in her bed,
+     And o'er the spot the crowd may tread
+       In carelessness or mirth,
+     There is an eye which could not brook
+     A moment on that grave to look.
+
+     I will not ask where thou liest low
+       Nor gaze upon the spot;
+     There flowers and weeds at will may grow
+       So I behold them not:
+     It is enough for me to prove
+     That what I loved and long must love
+       Like common earth can rot;
+     To me there needs no stone to tell
+     'Tis Nothing that I loved so well.
+
+     Yet did I love thee to the last,
+       As fervently as thou
+     Who didst not change through all the past
+       And canst not alter now.
+     The love where Death has set his seal
+     Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,
+       Nor falsehood disavow:
+     And, what were worse, thou canst not see
+     Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.
+
+     The better days of life were ours;
+       The worst can be but mine:
+     The sun that cheers, the storm that lours
+       Shall never more be thine.
+     The silence of that dreamless sleep
+     I envy now too much to weep;
+       Nor need I to repine
+     That all those charms have pass'd away
+     I might have watch'd through long decay.
+
+     The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd
+       Must fall the earliest prey;
+     Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,
+       The leaves must drop away.
+     And yet it were a greater grief
+     To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,
+       Than see it pluck'd to-day;
+     Since earthly eye but ill can bear
+     To trace the change from foul to fair.
+
+     I know not if I could have borne
+       To see thy beauties fade;
+     The night that follow'd such a morn
+       Had worn a deeper shade:
+     Thy day without a cloud hath past,
+     And thou wert lovely to the last,
+       Extinguish'd, not decay'd;
+     As stars that shoot along the sky
+     Shine brightest as they fall from high.
+
+     As once I wept if I could weep,
+       My tears might well be shed
+     To think I was not near, to keep
+       One vigil o'er thy bed:
+     To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
+     To fold thee in a faint embrace,
+       Uphold thy drooping head;
+     And show that love, however vain,
+     Nor thou nor I can feel again.
+
+     Yet how much less it were to gain,
+       Though thou hast left me free,
+     The loveliest things that still remain
+       Than thus remember thee!
+     The all of thine that cannot die
+     Through dark and dread Eternity
+       Returns again to me,
+     And more thy buried love endears
+     Than aught except its living years.
+
+     LORD BYRON.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     203.
+
+     One word is too often profaned
+       For me to profane it,
+     One feeling too falsely disdain'd
+       For thee to disdain it.
+     One hope is too like despair
+       For prudence to smother,
+     And Pity from thee more dear
+       Than that from another.
+
+     I can give not what men call love;
+       But wilt thou accept not
+     The worship the heart lifts above
+       And the Heavens reject not:
+     The desire of the moth for the star,
+       Of the night for the morrow,
+     The devotion to something afar
+       From the sphere of our sorrow?
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     204. GATHERING SONG OF DONALD THE BLACK.
+
+       Pibroch of Donuil Dhu
+        Pibroch of Donuil
+       Wake thy wild voice anew,
+        Summon Clan Conuil.
+       Come away, come away,
+        Hark to the summons!
+       Come in your war-array,
+        Gentles and commons.
+
+       Come from deep glen, and
+        From mountain so rocky;
+       The war-pipe and pennon
+        Are at Inverlochy.
+       Come every hill-plaid, and
+        True heart that wears one,
+       Come every steel blade, and
+        Strong hand that bears one.
+
+       Leave untended the herd,
+        The flock without shelter;
+       Leave the corpse uninterr'd,
+        The bride at the altar;
+       Leave the deer, leave the steer,
+        Leave nets and barges:
+       Come with your fighting gear,
+        Broadswords and targes.
+
+       Come as the winds come, when
+        Forests are rended,
+       Come as the waves come, when
+        Navies are stranded:
+       Faster come, faster come,
+        Faster and faster,
+       Chief, vassal, page and groom,
+        Tenant and master.
+
+       Fast they come, fast they come;
+        See how they gather!
+       Wide waves the eagle plume
+        Blended with heather.
+       Cast your plaids, draw your blades,
+        Forward each man set!
+       Pibroch of Donuil Dhu
+        Knell for the onset!
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     205.
+
+     A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
+       A wind that follows fast
+     And fills the white and rustling sail
+       And bends the gallant mast;
+     And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
+       While like the eagle free
+     Away the good ship flies, and leaves
+       Old England on the lee.
+
+     O for a soft and gentle wind!
+       I heard a fair one cry;
+     But give to me the snoring breeze
+       And white waves heaving high;
+     And white waves heaving high, my lads,
+       The good ship tight and free&mdash;
+     The world of waters is our home,
+       And merry men are we.
+
+     There's tempest in yon hornéd moon,
+       And lightning in yon cloud;
+     But hark the music, mariners!
+       The wind is piping loud;
+     The wind is piping loud, my boys,
+       The lightning flashes free&mdash;
+     While the hollow oak our palace is,
+       Our heritage the sea.
+
+     A. CUNNINGHAM.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     206.
+
+     Ye Mariners of England
+     That guard our native seas!
+     Whose flag has braved, a thousand years
+     The battle and the breeze!
+     Your glorious standard launch again
+     To match another foe:
+     And sweep through the deep,
+     While the stormy winds do blow;
+     While the battle rages loud and long
+     And the stormy winds do blow.
+
+     The spirits of your fathers
+     Shall start from every wave&mdash;
+     For the deck it was their field of fame,
+     And Ocean was their grave:
+     Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell
+     Your manly hearts shall glow,
+     As ye sweep through the deep,
+     While the stormy winds do blow;
+     While the battle rages loud and long
+     And the stormy winds do blow.
+
+     Britannia needs no bulwarks,
+     No towers along the steep;
+     Her march is o'er the mountain waves,
+     Her home is on the deep.
+     With thunders from her native oak
+     She quells the floods below&mdash;
+     As they roar on the shore,
+     When the stormy winds do blow;
+     When the battle rages loud and long
+     And the stormy winds do blow.
+
+     The meteor flag of England
+     Shall yet terrific burn;
+     Till danger's troubled night depart
+     And the star of peace return.
+     Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!
+     Our song and feast shall flow
+     To the fame of your name,
+     When the storm has ceased to blow;
+     When the fiery fight is heard no more,
+     And the storm has ceased to blow.
+
+     T. CAMPBELL.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     207. BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.
+
+     Of Nelson and the North
+     Sing the glorious day's renown,
+     When to battle fierce came forth
+     All the might of Denmark's crown,
+     And her arms along the deep proudly shone;
+     By each gun the lighted brand
+     In a bold determined hand,
+     And the Prince of all the land
+     Led them on.
+
+     Like leviathans afloat
+     Lay their bulwarks on the brine;
+     While the sign of battle flew
+     On the lofty British line:
+     It was ten of April morn by the chime:
+     As they drifted on their path
+     There was silence deep as death;
+     And the boldest held his breath
+     For a time.
+
+     But the might of England flush'd
+     To anticipate the scene;
+     And her van the fleeter rush'd
+     O'er the deadly space between.
+     "Hearts of oak!" our captains cried, when each gun
+     From its adamantine lips
+     Spread a death-shade round the ships,
+     Like the hurricane eclipse
+     Of the sun.
+
+     Again! again! again!
+     And the havoc did not slack,
+     Till a feeble cheer the Dane
+     To our cheering sent us back;&mdash;
+     Their shots along the deep slowly boom:&mdash;
+     Then ceased&mdash;and all is wail,
+     As they strike the shatter'd sail,
+     Or in conflagration pale
+     Light the gloom.
+
+     Out spoke the victor then
+     As he hail'd them o'er the wave,
+     "Ye are brothers! ye are men!
+     And we conquer but to save:&mdash;
+     So peace instead of death let us bring:
+     But yield, proud foe, thy fleet
+     With the crews, at England's feet,
+     And make submission meet
+     To our King."
+
+     Then Denmark blest our chief
+     That he gave her wounds repose;
+     And the sounds of joy and grief
+     From her people wildly rose,
+     As death withdrew his shades from the day:
+     While the sun look'd smiling bright
+     O'er a wide and woeful sight,
+     Where the fires of funeral light
+     Died away.
+
+     Now joy, old England, raise!
+     For the tidings of thy might,
+     By the festal cities' blaze,
+     Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;
+     And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
+     Let us think of them that sleep
+     Full many a fathom deep
+     By thy wild and stormy steep,
+     Elsinore!
+
+     Brave hearts! to Britain's pride
+     Once so faithful and so true,
+     On the deck of fame that died
+     With the gallant good Riou:
+     Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave!
+     While the billow mournful rolls
+     And the mermaid's song condoles
+     Singing glory to the souls
+     Of the brave!
+
+     T. CAMPBELL.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     208. ODE TO DUTY
+
+       Stern Daughter of the voice of God!
+       O Duty! if that name thou love
+       Who art a light to guide, a rod
+       To check the erring, and reprove;
+       Thou who art victory and law
+       When empty terrors overawe;
+       From vain temptations dost set free,
+     And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!
+
+       There are who ask not if thine eye
+       Be on them; who, in love and truth
+       Where no misgiving is, rely
+       Upon the genial sense of youth:
+       Glad hearts! without reproach or blot,
+       Who do thy work, and know it not:
+       Oh! if through confidence misplaced
+     They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast.
+
+       Serene will be our days and bright
+       And happy will our nature be
+       When love is an unerring light,
+       And joy its own security.
+       And they a blissful course may hold
+       Ev'n now who, not unwisely bold,
+       Live in the spirit of this creed;
+     Yet find that other strength, according to their need.
+
+       I, loving freedom, and untried;
+       No sport of every random gust,
+       Yet being to myself a guide,
+       Too blindly have reposed my trust:
+       And oft, when in my heart was heard
+       Thy timely mandate, I deferr'd
+       The task, in smoother walks to stray;
+     But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.
+
+       Through no disturbance of my soul
+       Or strong compunction in me wrought,
+       I supplicate for thy controul,
+       But in the quietness of thought:
+       Me this uncharter'd freedom tires;
+       I feel the weight of chance desires;
+       My hopes no more must change their name;
+     I long for a repose which ever is the same.
+
+       Stern lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
+       The Godhead's most benignant grace;
+       Nor know we anything so fair
+       As is the smile upon thy face:
+       Flowers laugh before thee on their beds,
+       And fragrance in thy footing treads;
+       Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong;
+     And the most ancient Heavens, through thee, are fresh and strong.
+
+       To humbler functions, awful Power!
+       I call thee: I myself commend
+       Unto thy guidance from this hour;
+       O let my weakness have an end!
+       Give unto me, made lowly wise,
+       The spirit of self-sacrifice;
+       The confidence of reason give;
+     And in the light of Truth thy bondman let me live.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     209. ON THE CASTLE OF CHILLON.
+
+     Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind!
+     Brightest in dungeons, Liberty, thou art&mdash;
+     For there thy habitation is the heart&mdash;
+     The heart which love of Thee alone can bind;
+
+     And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd,
+     To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom,
+     Their country conquers with their martyrdom
+     And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind.
+
+     Chillon! thy prison is a holy place
+     And thy sad floor an altar, for 'twas trod
+     Until his very steps have left a trace
+
+     Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod,
+     By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface!
+     For they appeal from tyranny to God.
+
+     LORD BYRON.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     210. ENGLAND AND SWITZERLAND.
+
+                      1802.
+
+     Two Voices are there; one is of the Sea,
+     One of the Mountains; each a mighty voice:
+     In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,
+     They were thy chosen music, Liberty!
+
+     There came a tyrant, and with holy glee
+     Thou fought'st against him,&mdash;but hast vainly striven:
+     Thou from thy Alpine holds at length are driven
+     Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.
+
+     &mdash;Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft;
+     Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left&mdash;
+     For, high-soul'd Maid, what sorrow would it be
+
+     That Mountain floods should thunder as before,
+     And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
+     And neither awful Voice be heard by Thee!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     211. ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC.
+
+     Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee
+     And was the safeguard of the West; the worth
+     Of Venice did not fall below her birth,
+     Venice, the eldest child of liberty.
+
+     She was a maiden city, bright and free;
+     No guile seduced, no force could violate;
+     And when she took unto herself a mate,
+     She must espouse the everlasting Sea.
+
+     And what if she had seen those glories fade,
+     Those titles vanish, and that strength decay,&mdash;
+     Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid
+
+     When her long life hath reach'd its final day:
+     Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade
+     Of that which once was great has pass'd away.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     212. LONDON, MDCCCII.
+
+     O Friend! I know not which way I must look
+     For comfort, being, as I am, opprest
+     To think that now our life is only drest
+     For show; mean handiwork of craftsman, cook,
+
+     Or groom!&mdash;We must run glittering like a brook
+     In the open sunshine, or we are unblest;
+     The wealthiest man among us is the best:
+     No grandeur now in Nature or in book
+
+     Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,
+     This is idolatry; and these we adore:
+     Plain living and high thinking are no more:
+
+     The homely beauty of the good old cause
+     Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,
+     And pure religion breathing household laws.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     213. THE SAME.
+
+     Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:
+     England hath need of thee: she is a fen
+     Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
+     Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
+
+     Have forfeited their ancient English dower
+     Of inward happiness. We are selfish men
+     O! raise us up, return to us again;
+     And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
+
+     Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:
+     Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea,
+     Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free;
+
+     So didst thou travel on life's common way
+     In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
+     The lowliest duties on herself did lay.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     214.
+
+     When I have borne in memory what has tamed
+     Great nations; how ennobling thoughts depart
+     When men change swords for ledgers, and desert
+     The student's bower for gold,&mdash;some fears unnamed
+
+     I had, my Country!&mdash;am I to be blamed?
+     Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art,
+     Verily, in the bottom of my heart
+     Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.
+
+     For dearly must we prize thee; we who find
+     In thee a bulwark of the cause of men;
+     And I by my affection was beguiled:
+
+     What wonder if a Poet now and then,
+     Among the many movements of his mind,
+     Felt for thee as a lover or a child!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     215. HOHENLINDEN.
+
+     On Linden, when the sun was low,
+     All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;
+     And dark as winter was the flow
+        Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
+
+     But Linden saw another sight,
+     When the drum beat at dead of night
+     Commanding fires of death to light
+        The darkness of her scenery.
+
+     By torch and trumpet fast array'd
+     Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
+     And furious every charger neigh'd
+        To join the dreadful revelry.
+
+     Then shook the hills with thunder riven;
+     Then rush'd the steed, to battle driven;
+     And louder than the bolts of Heaven
+        Far flash'd the red artillery.
+
+     But redder yet that light shall glow
+     On Linden's hills of stainéd snow;
+     And bloodier yet the torrent flow
+        Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
+
+     'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun
+     Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
+     Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
+       Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
+
+     The combat deepens. On, ye Brave
+     Who rush to glory, or the grave!
+     Wave, Munich all thy banners wave,
+        And charge with all thy chivalry!
+
+     Few, few shall part, where many meet!
+     The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
+     And every turf beneath their feet
+        Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
+
+     T. CAMPBELL.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     216. AFTER BLENHEIM.
+
+     It was a summer evening,
+       Old Kaspar's work was done,
+     And he before his cottage door
+       Was sitting in the sun;
+     And by him sported on the green
+     His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
+
+     She saw her brother Peterkin
+       Roll something large and round
+     Which he beside the rivulet
+       In playing there had found
+     He came to ask what he had found
+     That was so large and smooth and round.
+
+     Old Kaspar took it from the boy
+       Who stood expectant by;
+     And then the old man shook his head,
+       And with a natural sigh
+     "'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he,
+     "Who fell in the great victory.
+
+     "I find then in the garden,
+       For there's many here about;
+     And often when I go to plough
+       The ploughshare turns them out.
+     For many thousand men," said he,
+     "Were slain in that great victory."
+
+     "Now tell us what 'twas all about,"
+       Young Peterkin he cries;
+     And little Wilhelmine looks up
+       With wonder-waiting eyes;
+     "Now tell us all about the war,
+     And what they fought each other for."
+
+     "It was the English," Kaspar cried,
+       "Who put the French to rout;
+     But what they fought each other for
+       I could not well make out.
+     But every body said," quoth he,
+     "That 'twas a famous victory.
+
+     "My father lived at Blenheim then,
+       Yon little stream hard by;
+     They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
+       And he was forced to fly:
+     So with his wife and child he fled,
+     Nor had he where to rest his head.
+
+     "With fire and sword the country round
+       Was wasted far and wide,
+     And many a childing mother then
+       And newborn baby died:
+     But things like that, you know, must be
+     At every famous victory.
+
+     "They say it was a shocking sight
+       After the field was won;
+     For many thousand bodies here
+       Lay rotting in the sun:
+     But things like that, you know, must be
+     After a famous victory.
+
+     "Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won
+       And our good Prince Eugene";
+     "Why 'twas a very wicked thing!"
+       Said little Wilhelmine;
+     "Nay&mdash;nay&mdash;my little girl," quoth he,
+     "It was a famous victory.
+
+     And every body praised the Duke
+       Who this great fight did win."
+     "But what good came of it at last?"
+       Quoth little Peterkin:&mdash;
+     "Why that I cannot tell," said he,
+     "But 'twas a famous victory."
+
+     R. SOUTHEY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     217. PRO PATRIA MORI.
+
+     When he who adores thee has left but the name
+       Of his fault and his sorrows behind,
+     O! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame
+       Of a life that for thee was resign'd!
+     Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,
+       Thy tears shall efface their decree;
+     For, Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,
+       I have been but too faithful to thee.
+
+     With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;
+       Every thought of my reason was thine;
+     In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above
+       Thy name shall be mingled with mine!
+     O! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live
+       The days of thy glory to see;
+     But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give
+       Is the pride of thus dying for thee.
+
+     T. MOORE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     218. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA.
+
+     Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
+       As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;
+     Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
+       O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
+
+     We buried him darkly at dead of night,
+       The sods with our bayonets turning;
+     By the struggling moonbeam's misty light
+       And the lantern dimly burning.
+
+     No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
+       Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him:
+     But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
+       With his martial cloak around him.
+
+     Few and short were the prayers we said
+       And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
+     But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
+       And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
+
+     We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed
+       And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,
+     That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
+       And we far away on the billow!
+
+     Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
+       And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him&mdash;
+     But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
+       In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
+
+     But half of our heavy task was done
+       When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
+     And we heard the distant and random gun
+       That the foe was sullenly firing.
+
+     Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
+       From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
+     We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
+       But we left him alone with his glory.
+
+     C. WOLFE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     219. SIMON LEE THE OLD HUNTSMAN.
+
+     In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
+     Not far from pleasant Ivor Hall,
+     An old man dwells, a little man,
+     I've heard he once was tall.
+     Full five-and-thirty years he lived
+     A running huntsman merry;
+     And still the centre of his cheek
+     Is red as a ripe cherry.
+
+     No man like him the horn could sound,
+     And hill and valley rang with glee,
+     When Echo bandied round and round
+     The halloo of Simon Lee.
+     In those proud days he little cared
+     For husbandry or tillage;
+     To blither tasks did Simon rouse
+     The sleepers of the village.
+
+     He all the country could outrun,
+     Could leave both man and horse behind;
+     And often, ere the chase was done,
+     He reel'd and was stone-blind.
+     And still there's something in the world
+     At which his heart rejoices;
+     For when the chiming hounds are out,
+     He dearly loves their voices.
+
+     But O the heavy change!&mdash;bereft
+     Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see
+     Old Simon to the world is left
+     In liveried poverty:
+     His master's dead, and no one now
+     Dwells in the Hall of Ivor;
+     Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;
+     He is the sole survivor.
+
+     And he is lean and he is sick,
+     His body dwindled and awry
+     Rests upon ankles swoln and thick;
+     His legs are thin and dry.
+     He has no son, he has no child;
+     His wife, an aged woman,
+     Lives with him, near the waterfall,
+     Upon the village common.
+
+     Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,
+     Not twenty paces from the door,
+     A scrap of land they have, but they
+     Are poorest of the poor.
+     This scrap of land he from the heath
+     Enclosed when he was stronger;
+     But what avails the land to them
+     Which he can till no longer?
+
+     Oft, working by her husband's side,
+     Ruth does what Simon cannot do;
+     For she, with scanty cause for pride,
+     Is stouter of the two.
+     And, though you with your utmost skill
+     From labour could not wean them,
+     'Tis little, very little, all
+     That they can do between them.
+
+     Few months of life has he in store
+     As he to you will tell,
+     For still, the more he works, the more
+     Do his weak ankles swell.
+     My gentle reader, I perceive
+     How patiently you've waited,
+     And now I fear that you expect
+     Some tale will be related.
+
+     O reader! had you in your mind
+     Such stores as silent thought can bring,
+     O gentle reader! you would find
+     A tale in everything.
+     What more I have to say is short,
+     And you must kindly take it;
+     It is no tale; but, should you think,
+     Perhaps a tale you'll make it.
+
+     One summer-day I chanced to see
+     This old man doing all he could
+     To unearth the root of an old tree,
+     A stump of rotten wood.
+     The mattock totter'd in his hand
+     So vain was his endeavour
+     That at the root of the old tree
+     He might have work'd for ever.
+
+     "You're overtask'd, good Simon Lee,
+     Give me your tool," to him I said;
+     And at the word right gladly he
+     Received my proffer'd aid.
+     I struck, and with a single blow
+     The tangled root I sever'd,
+     At which the poor old man so long
+     And vainly had endeavour'd.
+
+     The tears into his eyes were brought,
+     And thanks and praises seem'd to run
+     So fast out of his heart, I thought
+     They never would have done.
+     &mdash;I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds
+     With coldness still returning;
+     Alas! the gratitude of men
+     Has oftener left me mourning.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     220. THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES.
+
+     I have had playmates, I have had companions
+     In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days;
+     All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
+
+     I have been laughing, I have been carousing,
+     Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies;
+     All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
+
+     I loved a Love once, fairest among women:
+     Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her&mdash;
+     All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
+
+     I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man:
+     Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;
+     Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.
+
+     Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood,
+     Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse,
+     Seeking to find the old familiar faces.
+
+     Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,
+     Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?
+     So might we talk of the old familiar faces,
+
+     How some they have died, and some they have left me,
+     And some are taken from me; all are departed;
+     All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
+
+     C. LAMB.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     221. THE JOURNEY ONWARDS.
+
+     As slow our ship her foamy track
+      Against the wind was cleaving,
+     Her trembling pennant still look'd back
+      To that dear isle 'twas leaving.
+     So loth we part from all we love,
+      From all the links that bind us;
+     So turn our hearts, as on we rove,
+      To those we've left behind us!
+
+     When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years
+      We talk with joyous seeming&mdash;
+     With smiles that might as well be tears,
+      So faint, so sad their beaming;
+     While memory brings us back again
+      Each early tie that twined us,
+     Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then
+      To those we've left behind us!
+
+     And when in other climes, we meet
+      Some isle or vale enchanting,
+     Where all looks flowery wild and sweet,
+      And nought but love is wanting;
+     We think how great had been our bliss
+      If Heaven had but assign'd us
+     To live and die in scenes like this,
+      With some we've left behind us!
+
+     As travellers oft look back at eve
+      When eastward darkly going,
+     To gaze upon that light they leave
+      Still faint behind them glowing,&mdash;
+     So, when the close of pleasure's day
+      To gloom hath near consign'd us,
+     We turn to catch our fading ray
+      Of joy that's left behind us.
+
+     T. MOORE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     222. YOUTH AND AGE.
+
+     There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away
+     When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay;
+     'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone which fades so fast,
+     But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.
+
+     Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness
+     Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess:
+     The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain
+     The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again.
+
+     Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down;
+     It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own;
+     That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears,
+     And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears.
+
+     Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast,
+     Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest;
+     'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe,
+     All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath.
+
+     O could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been,
+     Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanish'd scene,&mdash;
+     As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be,
+     So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me!
+
+     LORD BYRON.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     223. A LESSON.
+
+     There is a flower, the Lesser Celandine,
+     That shrinks like many more from cold and rain,
+     And the first moment that the sun may shine,
+     Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again!
+
+     When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm,
+     Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest,
+     Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm
+     In close self-shelter, like a thing at rest.
+
+     But lately, one rough day, this flower I past,
+     And recognised it, though an alter'd form,
+     Now standing forth an offering to the blast,
+     And buffeted at will by rain and storm.
+
+     I stopp'd and said with inly-mutter'd voice,
+     "It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold;
+     This neither is its courage nor its choice,
+     But its necessity in being old.
+
+     "The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew;
+     It cannot help itself in its decay;
+     Stiff in its members, wither'd, changed of hue."
+     And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was gray.
+
+     To be a prodigal's favourite&mdash;then, worse truth,
+     A miser's pensioner&mdash;behold our lot!
+     O Man! that from thy fair and shining youth
+     Age might but take the things Youth needed not!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     224. PAST AND PRESENT.
+
+     I remember, I remember
+     The house where I was born,
+     The little window where the sun
+     Came peeping in at morn;
+     He never came a wink too soon
+     Nor brought too long a day;
+     But now, I often wish the night
+     Had borne my breath away.
+
+     I remember, I remember
+     The roses, red and white,
+     The violets, and the lily-cups&mdash;
+     Those flowers made of light!
+     The lilacs where the robin built,
+     And where my brother set
+     The laburnum on his birthday,&mdash;
+     The tree is living yet!
+
+     I remember, I remember
+     Where I was used to swing,
+     And thought the air must rush as fresh
+     To swallows on the wing;
+     My spirit flew in feathers then
+     That is so heavy now,
+     And summer pools could hardly cool
+     The fever on my brow.
+
+     I remember, I remember
+     The fir trees dark and high;
+     I used to think their slender tops
+     Were close against the sky:
+     It was a childish ignorance,
+     But now 'tis little joy
+     To know I'm farther off from Heaven
+     Than when I was a boy.
+
+     T. HOOD.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     225. THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS.
+
+     Oft, in the stilly night,
+      Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
+     Fond Memory brings the light
+      Of other days around me:
+        The smiles, the tears
+        Of boyhood's years,
+      The words of love then spoken;
+        The eyes that shone,
+        Now dimm'd and gone,
+      The cheerful hearts now broken!
+     Thus in the stilly night,
+      Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
+     Sad Memory brings the light
+      Of other days around me.
+
+     When I remember all
+      The friends, so link'd together,
+     I've seen around me fall
+      Like leaves in wintry weather,
+        I feel like one
+        Who treads alone
+      Some banquet-hall deserted,
+        Whose lights are fled,
+        Whose garlands dead,
+      And all but he departed!
+     Thus in the stilly night,
+      Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
+     Sad Memory brings the light
+      Of other days around me.
+
+     T. MOORE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     226. INVOCATION.
+
+     Rarely, rarely, comest thou,
+       Spirit of Delight!
+     Wherefore hast thou left me now
+       Many a day and night?
+     Many a weary night and day
+     'Tis since thou art fled away.
+
+     How shall ever one like me
+       Win thee back again?
+     With the joyous and the free
+       Thou wilt scoff at pain.
+     Spirit false! thou hast forgot
+     All but those who need thee not.
+
+     As a lizard with the shade
+       Of a trembling leaf,
+     Thou with sorrow art dismay'd;
+       Even the sighs of grief
+     Reproach thee, that thou art not near,
+     And reproach thou wilt not hear.
+
+     Let me set my mournful ditty
+       To a merry measure;&mdash;
+     Thou wilt never come for pity,
+       Thou wilt come for pleasure;&mdash;
+     Pity then will cut away
+     Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.
+
+     I love all that thou lovest,
+       Spirit of Delight!
+     The fresh Earth in new leaves drest
+       And the starry night;
+     Autumn evening, and the morn
+     When the golden mists are born.
+
+     I love snow, and all the forms
+       Of the radiant frost;
+     I love waves, and winds, and storms,
+       Everything almost
+     Which is Nature's, and may be
+     Untainted by man's misery.
+
+     I love tranquil solitude,
+       And such society
+     As is quiet, wise, and good;
+       Between thee and me
+     What diff'rence? but thou dost possess
+     The things I seek, not love them less.
+
+     I love Love&mdash;though he has wings,
+       And like light can flee,
+     But above all other things,
+       Spirit, I love thee&mdash;
+     Thou art love and life! O come!
+     Make once more my heart thy home!
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     227. STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES.
+
+         The sun is warm, the sky is clear,
+         The waves are dancing fast and bright,
+         Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
+         The purple noon's transparent light:
+         The breath of the moist air is light
+         Around its unexpanded buds;
+         Like many a voice of one delight&mdash;
+         The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods'&mdash;
+     The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's.
+
+         I see the Deep's untrampled floor
+         With green and purple sea-weeds strown;
+         I see the waves upon the shore
+         Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown;
+         I sit upon the sands alone;
+         The lightning of the noon-tide ocean
+         Is flashing round me, and a tone
+         Arises from its measured motion&mdash;
+     How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.
+
+         Alas! I have nor hope nor health,
+         Nor peace within nor calm around,
+         Nor that Content, surpassing wealth,
+         The sage in meditation found,
+         And walked with inward glory crown'd&mdash;
+         Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure;
+         Others I see whom these surround&mdash;
+         Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;
+     To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.
+
+         Yet now despair itself is mild
+         Even as the winds and waters are;
+         I could lie down like a tired child,
+         And weep away the life of care
+         Which I have borne, and yet must bear,
+         Till death like sleep might steal on me,
+         And I might feel in the warm air
+         My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
+     Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     228. THE SCHOLAR.
+
+     My days among the Dead are past;
+     Around me I behold,
+     Where'er these casual eyes are cast,
+     The mighty minds of old:
+     My never-failing friends are they,
+     With whom I converse day by day.
+
+     With them I take delight in weal
+     And seek relief in woe;
+     And while I understand and feel
+     How much to them I owe,
+     My cheeks have often been bedew'd
+     With tears of thoughtful gratitude.
+
+     My thoughts are with the Dead; with them
+     I live in long-past years,
+     Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
+     Partake their hopes and fears,
+     And from their lessons seek and find
+     Instruction with an humble mind.
+
+     My hopes are with the Dead; anon
+     My place with them will be,
+     And I with them shall travel on
+     Through all Futurity;
+     Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
+     That will not perish in the dust.
+
+     R. SOUTHEY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     229. THE MERMAID TAVERN.
+
+     Souls of Poets dead and gone
+     What Elysium have ye known,
+     Happy field or mossy cavern,
+     Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
+     Have ye tippled drink more fine
+     Than mine host's Canary wine?
+     Or are fruits of Paradise
+     Sweeter than those dainty pies
+     Of Venison? O generous food!
+     Drest as though bold Robin Hood
+     Would, with his Maid Marian,
+     Sup and browse from horn and can.
+
+       I have heard that on a day
+     Mine host's signboard flew away
+     Nobody knew whither, till
+     An astrologer's old quill
+     To a sheepskin gave the story&mdash;
+     Said he saw you in your glory
+     Underneath a new-old Sign
+     Sipping beverage divine,
+     And pledging with contented smack
+     The Mermaid in the Zodiac!
+       Souls of poets dead and gone
+     What Elysium have ye known&mdash;
+     Happy field or mossy cavern&mdash;
+     Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
+
+     J. KEATS.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     230. THE PRIDE OF YOUTH.
+
+     Proud Maisie is in the wood,
+      Walking so early;
+     Sweet Robin sits on the bush,
+      Singing so rarely.
+
+     "Tell me, thou bonny bird,
+      When shall I marry me?"
+     &mdash;"When six braw gentlemen
+      Kirkward shall carry ye."
+
+     "Who makes the bridal bed,
+      Birdie, say truly?"
+     &mdash;"The gray-headed sexton
+      That delves the grave duly.
+
+     "The glowworm o'er grave and stone
+      Shall light thee steady;
+     The owl from the steeple sing
+      Welcome, proud lady!"
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     231. THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.
+
+         One more Unfortunate
+         Weary of breath
+         Rashly importunate,
+         Gone to her death!
+
+         Take her up tenderly,
+         Lift her with care;
+         Fashion'd so slenderly
+         Young, and so fair!
+
+         Look at her garments
+         Clinging like cerements;
+         Whilst the wave constantly
+         Drips from her clothing;
+         Take her up instantly,
+         Loving, not loathing.
+
+         Touch her not scornfully;
+         Think of her mournfully,
+         Gently and humanly;
+         Not of the stains of her&mdash;
+         All that remains of her
+         Now is pure womanly.
+
+         Make no deep scrutiny
+         Into her mutiny
+         Rash and undutiful:
+         Past all dishonour,
+         Death has left on her
+         Only the beautiful.
+
+         Still, for all slips of hers,
+         One of Eve's family&mdash;
+         Wipe those poor lips of hers
+         Oozing so clammily.
+
+         Loop up her tresses
+         Escaped from the comb,
+         Her fair auburn tresses;
+         Whilst wonderment guesses
+         Where was her home?
+
+         Who was her father?
+         Who was her mother?
+         Had she a sister?
+         Had she a brother?
+         Or was there a dearer one
+         Still, and a nearer one
+         Yet, than all other?
+
+         Alas! for the rarity
+         Of Christian charity
+         Under the sun!
+         O! it was pitiful!
+         Near a whole city full,
+         Home she had none.
+
+         Sisterly, brotherly,
+         Fatherly, motherly
+         Feelings had changed:
+         Love, by harsh evidence,
+         Thrown from its eminence;
+         Even God's providence
+         Seeming estranged.
+
+         Where the lamps quiver
+         So far in the river,
+         With many a light
+         From window and casement,
+         From garret to basement,
+         She stood, with amazement,
+         Houseless by night.
+
+         The bleak wind of March
+         Made her tremble and shiver;
+         But not the dark arch,
+         Or the black flowing river:
+         Mad from life's history,
+         Glad to death's mystery,
+         Swift to be hurl'd&mdash;
+         Any where, any where
+         Out of the world!
+
+         In she plunged boldly,
+         No matter how coldly
+         The rough river ran,
+         Over the brink of it,&mdash;
+         Picture it, think of it,
+         Dissolute Man!
+         Lave in it, drink of it,
+         Then, if you can!
+
+         Take her up tenderly,
+         Lift her with care;
+         Fashion'd so slenderly,
+         Young, and so fair!
+
+         Ere her limbs frigidly
+         Stiffen too rigidly,
+         Decently, kindly,
+         Smooth and compose them;
+         And her eyes, close them,
+         Staring so blindly!
+
+         Dreadfully staring
+         Thro' muddy impurity,
+         As when with the daring
+         Last look of despairing
+         Fix'd on futurity.
+
+         Perishing gloomily,
+         Spurr'd by contumely,
+         Cold inhumanity,
+         Burning insanity,
+         Into her rest.
+         &mdash;Cross her hands humbly
+         As if praying dumbly,
+         Over her breast!
+
+         Owning her weakness,
+         Her evil behaviour,
+         And leaving, with meekness,
+         Her sins to her Saviour!
+
+     T. HOOD.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     232. ELEGY.
+
+       O snatch'd away in beauty's bloom!
+       On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;
+       But on thy turf shall roses rear
+       Their leaves, the earliest of the year,
+     And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:
+
+       And oft by yon blue gushing stream
+       Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,
+       And feed deep thought with many a dream,
+       And lingering pause and lightly tread;
+     Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead!
+
+       Away! we know that tears are vain,
+       That Death nor heeds nor hears distress:
+       Will this unteach us to complain?
+       Or make one mourner weep the less?
+       And thou, who tell'st me to forget,
+     Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.
+
+     LORD BYRON.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     233. HESTER.
+
+     When maidens such as Hester die
+     Their place ye may not well supply,
+     Though ye among a thousand try
+            With vain endeavour.
+     A month or more hath she been dead,
+     Yet cannot I by force be led
+     To think upon the wormy bed
+            And her together.
+
+     A springy motion in her gait,
+     A rising step, did indicate
+     Of pride and joy no common rate,
+            That flush'd her spirit:
+     I know not by what name beside
+     I shall it call: if 'twas not pride,
+     It was a joy to that allied,
+            She did inherit.
+
+     Her parents held the Quaker rule
+     Which doth the human feeling cool;
+     But she was train'd in Nature's school;
+            Nature had blest her.
+     A waking eye, a prying mind;
+     A heart that stirs, is hard to bind;
+     A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind;
+            Ye could not Hester.
+
+     My sprightly neighbour! gone before
+     To that unknown and silent shore,
+     Shall we not meet, as heretofore
+            Some summer morning&mdash;
+     When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
+     Hath struck a bliss upon the day,
+     A bliss that would not go away,
+            A sweet fore-warning?
+
+     C. LAMB.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     234. CORONACH.
+
+     He is gone on the mountain,
+       He is lost to the forest
+     Like a summer-dried fountain,
+       When our need was the sorest.
+     The fount reappearing
+       From the raindrops shall borrow,
+     But to us comes no cheering,
+       To Duncan no morrow!
+
+     The hand of the reaper
+       Take the ears that are hoary,
+     But the voice of the weeper
+       Wails manhood in glory.
+     The autumn winds rushing
+       Waft the leaves that are serest,
+     But our flower was in flushing
+       When blighting was nearest.
+
+     Fleet foot on the correi,
+       Sage counsel in cumber,
+     Red hand in the foray,
+       How sound is thy slumber!
+     Like the dew on the mountain,
+       Like the foam on the river,
+     Like the bubble on the fountain,
+       Thou art gone, and for ever!
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     235. THE DEATH BED.
+
+     We watch'd her breathing thro' the night,
+      Her breathing soft and low,
+     As in her breast the wave of life
+      Kept heaving to and fro.
+
+     But when the morn came dim and sad
+      And chill with early showers,
+     Her quiet eyelids closed&mdash;she had
+      Another morn than ours.
+
+     T. HOOD.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     236. ROSABELLE.
+
+     O listen, listen, ladies gay!
+      No haughty feat of arms I tell;
+     Soft is the note, and sad the lay
+      That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.
+
+     "Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew,
+      And, gentle lady, deign to stay!
+     Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,
+      Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.
+
+     "The blackening wave is edged with white;
+      To inch and rock the sea-mews fly;
+     The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite,
+      Whose screams forbode that wreck is nigh.
+
+     "Last night the gifted Seer did view
+      A wet shroud swathed round lady gay;
+     Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch;
+      Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?
+
+     "'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir
+      To-night at Roslin leads the ball,
+     But that my lady-mother there
+      Sits lonely in her castle-hall.
+
+     "'Tis not because the ring they ride,
+      And Lindesay at the ring rides well,
+     But that my sire the wine will chide
+      If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle."
+
+     &mdash;O'er Roslin all that dreary night
+      A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;
+     'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light,
+      And redder than the bright moonbeam.
+
+     It glared on Roslin's castled rock,
+      It ruddied all the copse-wood glen;
+     'Twas seen from Dryden's grove of oak,
+      And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.
+
+     Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud
+      Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie,
+     Each baron, for a sabled shroud,
+      Sheathed in his iron panoply.
+
+     Seem'd all on fire within, around,
+      Deep sacristy and altar's pale;
+     Shone every pillar foliage-bound,
+      And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail.
+
+     Blazed battlement and pinnet high,
+      Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair&mdash;
+     So still they blaze, when fate is nigh
+      The lordly line of high Saint Clair.
+
+     There are twenty of Roslin's baron's bold
+      Lie buried within that proud chapelle;
+     Each one the holy vault doth hold,
+      But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle!
+
+     And each Saint Clair was buried there
+      With candle, with book, and with knell;
+     But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung
+      The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     237. ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN.
+
+     I saw where in the shroud did lurk
+     A curious frame of Nature's work;
+     A flow'ret crushéd in the bud,
+     A nameless piece of Babyhood
+     Was in her cradle-coffin lying;
+     Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying:
+     So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb
+     For darker closets of the tomb!
+     She did but ope an eye, and put
+     A clear beam forth, then straight up shut
+     For the long dark: ne'er more to see
+     Through glasses of mortality.
+     Riddle of destiny, who can show
+     What thy short visit meant, or know
+     What thy errand here below?
+     Shall we say, that Nature blind
+     Check'd her hand, and changed her mind
+     Just when she had exactly wrought
+     A finish'd pattern without fault?
+     Could she flag, or could she tire,
+     Or lack'd she the Promethean fire
+     (With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd)
+     That should thy little limbs have quicken'd?
+     Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure
+     Life of health, and days mature:
+     Woman's self in miniature!
+     Limbs so fair, they might supply
+     (Themselves now but cold imagery)
+     The sculptor to make Beauty by.
+     Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry
+     That babe or mother, one must die;
+     So in mercy left the stock
+     And cut the branch; to save the shock
+     Of young years widow'd, and the pain
+     When Single State comes back again
+     To the lone man who, reft of wife,
+     Thenceforward drags a maiméd life?
+     The economy of Heaven is dark,
+     And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark
+     Why human buds, like this, should fall,
+     More brief than fly ephemeral
+     That has his day; while shrivell'd crones
+     Stiffen with age to stocks and stones;
+     And crabbéd use the conscience sears
+     In sinners of an hundred years.
+     &mdash;Mother's prattle, mother's kiss,
+     Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss:
+     Rites, which custom does impose,
+     Silver bells, and baby clothes;
+     Coral redder than those lips
+     Which pale death did late eclipse;
+     Music framed for infants' glee,
+     Whistle never tuned for thee;
+     Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them,
+     Loving hearts were they which gave them.
+     Let not one be missing; nurse,
+     See them laid upon the hearse
+     Of infant slain by doom perverse.
+     Why should kings and nobles have
+     Pictured trophies to their grave,
+     And we, churls, to thee deny
+     Thy pretty toys with thee to lie&mdash;
+     A more harmless vanity?
+
+     C. LAMB.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     238. THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET.
+
+     Where art thou, my beloved Son,
+     Where art thou, worse to me than dead!
+     Oh find me, prosperous or undone!
+     Or if the grave be now thy bed,
+     Why am I ignorant of the same
+     That I may rest; and neither blame
+     Nor sorrow may attend thy name?
+
+     Seven years, alas! to have received
+     No tidings of an only child&mdash;
+     To have despair'd, have hoped, believed,
+     And be for evermore beguiled,&mdash;
+     Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss!
+     I catch at them, and then I miss;
+     Was ever darkness like to this?
+
+     He was among the prime in worth,
+     An object beauteous to behold;
+     Well born, well bred; I sent him forth
+     Ingenuous, innocent, and bold:
+     If things ensued that wanted grace,
+     As hath been said, they were not base;
+     And never blush was on my face.
+
+     Ah! little doth the young-one dream,
+     When full of play and childish cares,
+     What power is in his wildest scream,
+     Heard by his mother unawares!
+     He knows it not, he cannot guess:
+     Years to a mother bring distress;
+     But do not make her love the less.
+
+     Neglect me! no, I suffer'd long
+     From that ill thought; and being blind
+     Said, "Pride shall help me in my wrong:
+     Kind mother have I been, as kind
+     As ever breathed": and that is true;
+     I've wet my path with tears like dew,
+     Weeping for him when no one knew.
+
+     My Son, if thou be humbled, poor,
+     Hopeless of honour and of gain,
+     O! do not dread thy mother's door,
+     Think not of me with grief and pain:
+     I now can see with better eyes;
+     And worldly grandeur I despise
+     And fortune with her gifts and lies.
+
+     Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings
+     And blasts of heaven will aid their flight;
+     They mount&mdash;how short a voyage brings
+     The wanderers back to their delight!
+     Chains tie us down by land and sea;
+     And wishes, vain as mine, may be
+     All that is left to comfort thee.
+
+     Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan
+     Maim'd, mangled by inhuman men;
+     Or thou upon a desert thrown
+     Inheritest the lion's den;
+     Or hast been summoned to the deep,
+     Thou, thou, and all thy mates, to keep
+     An incommunicable sleep.
+
+     I look for ghosts: but none will force
+     Their way to me; 'tis falsely said
+     That there was ever intercourse
+     Between the living and the dead;
+     For surely then I should have sight
+     Of him I wait for day and night
+     With love and longings infinite.
+
+     My apprehensions come in crowds;
+     I dread the rustling of the grass;
+     The very shadows of the clouds
+     Have power to shake me as they pass;
+     I question things, and do not find
+     One that will answer to my mind;
+     And all the world appears unkind.
+
+     Beyond participation lie
+     My troubles, and beyond relief:
+     If any chance to heave a sigh
+     They pity me, and not my grief.
+     Then come to me, my Son, or send
+     Some tidings that my woes may end!
+     I have no other earthly friend.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     239. HUNTING SONG.
+
+     Waken, lords and ladies gay,
+     On the mountain dawns the day;
+     All the jolly chase is here
+     With hawk and horse and hunting-spear;
+     Hounds are in their couples yelling,
+     Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,
+     Merrily merrily mingle they,
+     "Waken, lords and ladies gay."
+
+     Waken, lords and ladies gay,
+     The mist has left the mountains gray,
+     Springlets in the dawn are streaming,
+     Diamonds on the brake are gleaming,
+     And foresters have busy been
+     To track the buck in thicket green;
+     Now we come to chant our lay
+     "Waken, lords and ladies gay."
+
+     Waken, lords and ladies gay,
+     To the greenwood haste away;
+     We can show you where he lies,
+     Fleet of foot and tall of size;
+     We can show the marks he made
+     When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd;
+     You shall see him brought to bay;
+     "Waken, lords and ladies gay."
+
+     Louder, louder chant the lay
+     Waken, lords and ladies gay!
+     Tell them youth and mirth and glee
+     Run a course as well as we;
+     Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk,
+     Staunch as hound and fleet as hawk;
+     Think of this, and rise with day
+     Gentle lords and ladies gay!
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     240. TO THE SKYLARK.
+
+     Ethereal Minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!
+     Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?
+     Or while the wings aspire, are heart and eye
+     Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
+     Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will,
+     Those quivering wings composed, that music still!
+
+     To the last point of vision, and beyond,
+     Mount, daring warbler!&mdash;that love-prompted strain
+     &mdash;'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond&mdash;
+     Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain:
+     Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing
+     All independent of the leafy Spring.
+
+     Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;
+     A privacy of glorious light is thine;
+     Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood
+     Of harmony, with instinct more divine;
+     Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam&mdash;
+     True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     241. TO A SKYLARK.
+
+             Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
+               Bird thou never wert,
+             That from heaven, or near it
+               Pourest thy full heart
+     In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
+
+             Higher still and higher
+               From the earth thou springest,
+             Like a cloud of fire;
+               The blue deep thou wingest,
+     And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
+
+             In the golden lightning
+               Of the sunken sun
+             O'er which clouds are brightening,
+               Thou dost float and run,
+     Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
+
+             The pale purple even
+               Melts around thy flight;
+             Like a star of heaven
+               In the broad daylight
+     Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight:
+
+             Keen as are the arrows
+               Of that silver sphere,
+             Whose intense lamp narrows
+               In the white dawn clear
+     Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.
+
+             All the earth and air
+               With thy voice is loud,
+             As, when night is bare,
+               From one lonely cloud
+     The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd.
+
+             What thou art we know not;
+               What is most like thee?
+             From rainbow clouds there flow not
+               Drops so bright to see
+     As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
+
+             Like a poet hidden
+               In the light of thought,
+             Singing hymns unbidden
+               Till the world is wrought
+     To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
+
+             Like a high-born maiden
+               In a palace tower,
+             Soothing her love-laden
+               Soul in secret hour
+     With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:
+
+             Like a glow-worm golden
+               In a dell of dew,
+             Scattering unbeholden
+               Its aerial hue
+     Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:
+
+             Like a rose embower'd
+               In its own green leaves,
+             By warm winds deflower'd,
+               Till the scent it gives
+     Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-wingéd thieves.
+
+             Sound of vernal showers
+               On the twinkling grass,
+             Rain-awaken'd flowers,
+               All that ever was
+     Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.
+
+             Teach us, sprite or bird,
+               What sweet thoughts are thine:
+             I have never heard
+               Praise of love or wine
+     That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
+
+             Chorus hymeneal
+               Or triumphal chaunt
+             Match'd with thine, would be all
+               But an empty vaunt&mdash;
+     A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
+
+             What objects are the fountains
+               Of thy happy strain?
+             What fields, or waves, or mountains?
+               What shapes of sky or plain?
+     What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?
+
+             With thy clear keen joyance
+               Languor cannot be:
+             Shadow of annoyance
+               Never came near thee:
+     Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
+
+             Waking or asleep
+               Thou of death must deem
+             Things more true and deep
+               Than we mortals dream,
+     Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
+
+             We look before and after,
+               And pine for what is not:
+             Our sincerest laughter
+               With some pain is fraught;
+     Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
+
+             Yet if we could scorn
+               Hate, and pride, and fear;
+             If we were things born
+               Not to shed a tear,
+     I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
+
+             Better than all measures
+               Of delightful sound,
+             Better than all treasures
+               That in books are found,
+     Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
+
+             Teach me half the gladness
+               That thy brain must know,
+             Such harmonious madness
+               From my lips would flow
+     The world should listen then, as I am listening now!
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     242. THE GREEN LINNET.
+
+     Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed
+     Their snow white blossoms on my head,
+     With brightest sunshine round me spread
+     Of Spring's unclouded weather,
+     In this sequester'd nook how sweet
+     To sit upon my orchard-seat!
+     And birds and flowers once more to greet,
+     My last year's friends together.
+
+     One have I mark'd, the happiest guest
+     In all this covert of the blest:
+     Hail to Thee, far above the rest
+     In joy of voice and pinion!
+     Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,
+     Presiding Spirit here to-day
+     Dost lead the revels of the May,
+     And this is thy dominion.
+
+     While birds, and butterflies, and flowers
+     Make all one band of paramours,
+     Thou, ranging up and down the bowers
+     Art sole in thy employment;
+     A Life, a Presence like the air,
+     Scattering thy gladness without care,
+     Too blest with any one to pair;
+     Thyself thy own enjoyment.
+
+     Amid yon tuft of hazel trees,
+     That twinkle to the gusty breeze,
+     Behold him perch'd in ecstasies,
+     Yet seeming still to hover;
+     There, where the flutter of his wings
+     Upon his back and body flings
+     Shadows and sunny glimmerings,
+     That cover him all over.
+
+     My dazzled sight he oft deceives&mdash;
+     A brother of the dancing leaves;
+     Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves
+     Pours forth his song in gushes,
+     As if by that exulting strain
+     He mock'd and treated with disdain
+     The voiceless Form he chose to feign
+     While fluttering in the bushes.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     243. TO THE CUCKOO.
+
+       O blithe new-comer! I have heard,
+       I hear thee and rejoice:
+       O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird,
+       Or but a wandering Voice?
+
+       While I am lying on the grass
+       Thy twofold shout I hear;
+       From hill to hill it seems to pass,
+       At once far off and near.
+
+       Though babbling only to the vale
+       Of sunshine and of flowers,
+       Thou bringest unto me a tale
+       Of visionary hours.
+
+       Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
+       Even yet thou art to me
+       No bird, but an invisible thing,
+       A voice, a mystery;
+
+       The same whom in my school-boy days
+       I listen'd to; that Cry
+       Which made me look a thousand ways
+       In bush, and tree, and sky.
+
+       To seek thee did I often rove
+       Through woods and on the green;
+       And thou wert still a hope, a love;
+       Still long'd for, never seen!
+
+       And I can listen to thee yet;
+       Can lie upon the plain
+       And listen, till I do beget
+       That golden time again.
+
+       O blesséd bird! the earth we pace
+       Again appears to be
+       An unsubstantial, fairy place;
+       That is fit home for Thee!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     244. ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE.
+
+     My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
+      My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
+     Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
+      One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
+     'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
+      But being too happy in thine happiness,&mdash;
+       That thou, light-wingéd Dryad of the trees,
+          In some melodious plot
+      Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
+       Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
+
+     O for a draught of vintage, that hath been
+      Cool'd a long age in the deep-delvéd earth,
+     Tasting of Flora and the country-green,
+      Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
+     O for a beaker full of the warm South,
+      Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
+       With beaded bubbles winking at the brim
+          And purple-stainéd mouth;
+      That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
+       And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
+
+     Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
+      What thou among the leaves hast never known,
+     The weariness, the fever, and the fret
+      Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
+     Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
+      Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
+       Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
+          And leaden-eyed despairs;
+      Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
+       Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
+
+     Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
+      Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
+     But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
+      Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
+     Already with thee! tender is the night,
+      And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
+       Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
+          But here there is no light
+      Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
+       Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
+
+     I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
+      Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
+     But, in embalméd darkness, guess each sweet
+      Wherewith the seasonable month endows
+     The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
+      White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
+       Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
+          And mid-May's eldest child,
+      The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
+       The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
+
+     Darkling I listen; and for many a time
+      I have been half in love with easeful Death,
+     Call'd him soft names in many a muséd rhyme,
+      To take into the air my quiet breath;
+     Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
+      To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
+       While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
+          In such an ecstasy!
+      Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain&mdash;
+       To thy high requiem become a sod.
+
+     Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
+      No hungry generations tread thee down;
+     The voice I hear this passing night was heard
+      In ancient days by emperor and clown:
+     Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
+      Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
+       She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
+          The same that oft-times hath
+      Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
+       Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
+
+     Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
+      To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
+     Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
+      As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
+     Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
+      Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
+       Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
+          In the next valley-glades:
+      Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
+       Fled is that music:&mdash;do I wake or sleep?
+
+     J. KEATS.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     245. UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE.
+
+              <i>Sept.</i> 3, 1802.
+
+     Earth has not anything to show more fair:
+     Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
+     A sight so touching in its majesty:
+     This City now doth like a garment wear
+     The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
+     Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
+     Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
+     All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
+
+     Never did sun more beautifully steep
+     In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;
+     Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
+
+     The river glideth at his own sweet will:
+     Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
+     And all that mighty heart is lying still!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     246. OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT.
+
+     I met a traveller from an antique land
+     Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
+     Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand
+     Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
+     And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
+     Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
+     Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
+     The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed;
+     And on the pedestal these words appear:
+     "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
+     Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
+     Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
+     Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
+     The lone and level sands stretch far away.
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     247. COMPOSED AT NEIDPATH CASTLE, THE PROPERTY OF LORD QUEENSBERRY,
+          1803.
+
+     Degenerate Douglas! O the unworthy lord!
+     Whom mere despite of heart could so far please
+     And love of havoc (for with such disease
+     Fame taxes him) that he could send forth word
+
+     To level with the dust a noble horde,
+     A brotherhood of venerable trees,
+     Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like these
+     Beggar'd and outraged!&mdash;Many hearts deplored
+
+     The fate of those old trees; and oft with pain
+     The traveller at this day will stop and gaze
+     On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed:
+
+     For shelter'd places, bosoms, nooks, and bays,
+     And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed,
+     And the green silent pastures, yet remain.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     248. ADMONITION TO A TRAVELLER.
+
+     Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!
+     &mdash;The lovely cottage in the guardian nook
+     Hath stirr'd thee deeply; with its own dear brook,
+     Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!
+
+     But covet not the abode&mdash;O do not sigh
+     As many do, repining while they look;
+     Intruders who would tear from Nature's book
+     This precious leaf with harsh impiety:
+
+     &mdash;Think what the home would be if it were thine,
+     Even thine, though few thy wants!&mdash;Roof, window, door,
+     The very flowers are sacred to the Poor,
+
+     The roses to the porch which they entwine:
+     Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the day
+     On which it should be touch'd would melt away!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     249. TO THE HIGHLAND GIRL OF INVERSNEYDE.
+
+     Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower
+     Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
+     Twice seven consenting years have shed
+     Their utmost bounty on thy head:
+     And these grey rocks, this household lawn,
+     These trees&mdash;a veil just half withdrawn,
+     This fall of water that doth make
+     A murmur near the silent lake,
+     This little bay, a quiet road
+     That holds in shelter thy abode;
+     In truth together ye do seem
+     Like something fashion'd in a dream;
+     Such forms as from their covert peep
+     When earthly cares are laid asleep!
+     But, O fair Creature! in the light
+     Of common day, so heavenly bright,
+     I bless Thee, Vision as thou art,
+     I bless thee with a human heart;
+     God shield thee to thy latest years!
+     I neither know thee nor thy peers:
+     And yet my eyes are fill'd with tears.
+
+     With earnest feeling I shall pray
+     For thee when I am far away;
+     For never saw I mien or face
+     In which more plainly I could trace
+     Benignity and home-bred sense
+     Ripening in perfect innocence.
+     Here scatter'd like a random seed,
+     Remote from men, Thou dost not need
+     The embarrass'd look of shy distress,
+     And maidenly shamefacedness:
+     Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear
+     The freedom of a mountaineer:
+     A face with gladness overspread,
+     Soft smiles, by human kindness bred;
+     And seemliness complete, that sways
+     Thy courtesies, about thee plays;
+     With no restraint, but such as springs
+     From quick and eager visitings
+     Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach
+     Of thy few words of English speech:
+     A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strife
+     That gives thy gestures grace and life!
+     So have I, not unmoved in mind,
+     Seen birds of tempest-loving kind,
+     Thus beating up against the wind.
+
+     What hand but would a garland cull
+     For thee who art so beautiful?
+     O happy pleasure! here to dwell
+     Beside thee in some heathy dell;
+     Adopt your homely ways and dress,
+     A shepherd, thou a shepherdess!
+     But I could frame a wish for thee
+     More like a grave reality:
+     Thou art to me but as a wave
+     Of the wild sea: and I would have
+     Some claim upon thee, if I could,
+     Though but of common neighbourhood.
+     What joy to hear thee, and to see!
+     Thy elder brother I would be,
+     Thy father, anything to thee.
+
+     Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace
+     Hath led me to this lonely place.
+     Joy have I had; and going hence
+     I bear away my recompense.
+     In spots like these it is we prize
+     Our memory, feel that she hath eyes:
+     Then why should I be loth to stir?
+     I feel this place was made for her;
+     To give new pleasure like the past,
+     Continued long as life shall last.
+     Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart,
+     Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part;
+     For I, methinks, till I grow old
+     As fair before me shall behold
+     As I do now, the cabin small,
+     The lake, the bay, the waterfall;
+     And Thee, the spirit of them all!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     250. THE REAPER.
+
+     Behold her, single in the field,
+     Yon solitary Highland Lass!
+     Reaping and singing by herself;
+     Stop here, or gently pass!
+     Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
+     And sings a melancholy strain;
+     O listen! for the vale profound
+     Is overflowing with the sound.
+
+     No nightingale did ever chaunt
+     More welcome notes to weary bands
+     Of travellers in some shady haunt,
+     Among Arabian sands:
+     No sweeter voice was ever heard
+     In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,
+     Breaking the silence of the seas
+     Among the farthest Hebrides.
+
+     Will no one tell me what she sings?
+     Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
+     For old, unhappy, far-off things,
+     And battles long ago:
+     Or is it some more humble lay,
+     Familiar matter of to-day?
+     Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
+     That has been, and may be again?
+
+     Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
+     As if her song could have no ending;
+     I saw her singing at her work,
+     And o'er the sickle bending;
+     I listen'd till I had my fill;
+     And, as I mounted up the hill,
+     The music in my heart I bore
+     Long after it was heard no more.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     251. THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN.
+
+     At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears
+     Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:
+     Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot, and has heard
+     In the silence of morning the song of the bird.
+
+     'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees
+     A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
+     Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
+     And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
+
+     Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale
+     Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail;
+     And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,
+     The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.
+
+     She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade
+     The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;
+     The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
+     And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     252. TO A LADY, WITH A GUITAR.
+
+     Ariel to Miranda:&mdash;Take
+     This slave of music, for the sake
+     Of him who is the slave of thee;
+     And teach it all the harmony
+     In which thou canst, and only thou,
+     Make the delighted spirit glow,
+     Till joy denies itself again
+     And, too intense, is turn'd to pain;
+     For by permission and command
+     Of thine own Prince Ferdinand,
+     Poor Ariel sends this silent token
+     Of more than ever can be spoken;
+     Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who
+     From life to life, must still pursue
+     Your happiness, for thus alone
+     Can Ariel ever find his own;
+     From Prospero's enchanted cell,
+     As the mighty verses tell,
+     To the throne of Naples he
+     Lit you o'er the trackless sea,
+     Flitting on, your prow before,
+     Like a living meteor.
+     When you die, the silent Moon,
+     In her interlunar swoon
+     Is not sadder in her cell
+     Than deserted Ariel;
+     When you live again on earth,
+     Like an unseen Star of birth
+     Ariel guides you o'er the sea
+     Of life from your nativity:&mdash;
+     Many changes have been run
+     Since Ferdinand and you begun
+     Your course of love, and Ariel still
+     Has track'd your steps and served your will.
+     Now in humbler, happier lot,
+     This is all remember'd not;
+     And now, alas! the poor sprite is
+     Imprison'd for some fault of his
+     In a body like a grave&mdash;
+     From you he only dares to crave
+     For his service and his sorrow
+     A smile to-day, a song to-morrow.
+
+     The artist who this viol wrought
+     To echo all harmonious thought,
+     Fell'd a tree, while on the steep
+     The woods were in their winter sleep,
+     Rock'd in that repose divine
+     On the wind-swept Apennine;
+     And dreaming, some of autumn past,
+     And some of spring approaching fast,
+     And some of April buds and showers,
+     And some of songs in July bowers,
+     And all of love; and so this tree,&mdash;
+     O that such our death may be!&mdash;
+     Died in sleep, and felt no pain,
+     To live in happier form again:
+     From which, beneath Heaven's fairest star,
+     The artist wrought this loved Guitar;
+     And taught it justly to reply
+     To all who question skilfully
+     In language gentle as thine own;
+     Whispering in enamour'd tone
+     Sweet oracles of woods and dells,
+     And summer winds in sylvan cells;
+     &mdash;For it had learnt all harmonies
+     Of the plains and of the skies,
+     Of the forests and the mountains,
+     And the many-voicéd fountains;
+     The clearest echoes of the hills,
+     The softest notes of falling rills,
+     The melodies of birds and bees,
+     The murmuring of summer seas,
+     And pattering rain, and breathing dew,
+     And airs of evening; and it knew
+     That seldom-heard mysterious sound
+     Which, driven on its diurnal round,
+     As it floats through boundless day,
+     Our world enkindles on its way:
+     &mdash;All this it knows, but will not tell
+     To those who cannot question well
+     The spirit that inhabits it;
+     It talks according to the wit
+     Of its companions; and no more
+     Is heard than has been felt before
+     By those who tempt it to betray
+     These secrets of an elder day:
+     But, sweetly as its answers will
+     Flatter hands of perfect skill,
+     It keeps its highest holiest tone
+     For one beloved Friend alone.
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     253. THE DAFFODILS.
+
+       I wander'd lonely as a cloud
+       That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
+       When all at once I saw a crowd,
+       A host of golden daffodils,
+       Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
+       Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
+
+       Continuous as the stars that shine
+       And twinkle on the milky way,
+       They stretch'd in never-ending line
+       Along the margin of a bay:
+       Ten thousand saw I at a glance
+       Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
+
+       The waves beside them danced; but they
+       Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:&mdash;
+       A Poet could not but be gay
+       In such a jocund company!
+       I gazed&mdash;and gazed&mdash;but little thought
+       What wealth the show to me had brought;
+
+       For oft, when on my couch I lie
+       In vacant or in pensive mood,
+       They flash upon that inward eye
+       Which is the bliss of solitude;
+       And then my heart with pleasure fills,
+       And dances with the daffodils.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     254. TO THE DAISY.
+
+       With little here to do or see
+       Of things that in the great world be,
+       Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee
+           For thou art worthy,
+       Thou unassuming commonplace
+       Of Nature, with that homely face,
+       And yet with something of a grace,
+           Which love makes for thee!
+
+       Oft on the dappled turf at ease
+       I sit and play with similes,
+       Loose types of things through all degrees,
+           Thoughts of thy raising;
+       And many a fond and idle name
+       I give to thee, for praise or blame,
+       As is the humour of the game,
+           While I am gazing.
+
+       A nun demure, of lowly port;
+       Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court,
+       In thy simplicity the sport
+           Of all temptations;
+       A queen in crown of rubies drest;
+       A starveling in a scanty vest;
+       Are all, as seem to suit thee best,
+           Thy appellations.
+
+       A little Cyclops, with one eye
+       Staring to threaten and defy,
+       That thought comes next&mdash;and instantly
+           The freak is over,
+       The shape will vanish, and behold!
+       A silver shield with boss of gold
+       That spreads itself, some fairy bold
+           In fight to cover.
+
+       I see thee glittering from afar&mdash;
+       And then thou art a pretty star,
+       Not quite so fair as many are
+           In heaven above thee!
+       Yet like a star, with glittering crest,
+       Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest;&mdash;
+       May peace come never to his nest,
+           Who shall reprove thee!
+
+       Sweet Flower! for by that name at last
+       When all my reveries are past
+       I call thee and to that cleave fast,
+           Sweet silent Creature!
+       That breath'st with me in sun and air,
+       Do thou, as thou art wont, repair
+       My heart with gladness, and a share
+           Of thy meek nature!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     255. ODE TO AUTUMN.
+
+     Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
+     Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
+     Conspiring with him how to load and bless
+     With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
+     To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
+     And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
+     To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
+     With a sweet kernel; to set budding more
+     And still more, later flowers for the bees,
+     Until they think warm days will never cease;
+     For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.
+
+     Who hath not seen Thee oft amid thy store?
+     Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
+     Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
+     Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
+     Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
+     Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
+     Spares the next swath and all its twinéd flowers;
+     And sometime like a gleaner thou dost keep
+     Steady thy laden head across a brook;
+     Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
+     Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
+
+     Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
+     Think not of them,&mdash;thou hast thy music too,
+     While barréd clouds bloom the soft-dying day
+     And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
+     Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
+     Among the river sallows, borne aloft
+     Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
+     And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
+     Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft
+     The redbreast whistles from a garden croft;
+     And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
+
+     J. KEATS.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     256. ODE TO WINTER.
+
+          <i>Germany</i>, <i>December</i>, 1800.
+
+     When first the fiery mantled Sun
+     His heavenly race began to run,
+     Round the earth and ocean blue
+     His children four the Seasons flew:&mdash;
+      First, in green apparel dancing,
+     The young Spring smiled with angel-grace;
+      Rosy Summer next advancing,
+     Rush'd into her sire's embrace&mdash;
+     Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep
+      For ever nearest to his smiles,
+     On Calpe's olive-shaded steep
+      Or India's citron-cover'd isles.
+     More remote and buxom-brown,
+      The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne;
+     A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown,
+      A ripe sheaf bound her zone.
+
+     But howling Winter fled afar
+     To hills that prop the polar star;
+     And loves on deer-borne car to ride
+     With barren darkness at his side
+     Round the shore where loud Lofoden
+      Whirls to death the roaring whale,
+     Round the hall where Runic Odin
+      Howls his war-song to the gale&mdash;
+     Save when adown the ravaged globe
+      He travels on his native storm,
+     Deflowering Nature's grassy robe
+      And trampling on her faded form;
+     Till light's returning Lord assume
+      The shaft that drives him to his northern fields,
+     Of power to pierce his raven plume
+      And crystal-cover'd shield.
+
+     O sire of storms! whose savage ear
+     The Lapland drum delights to hear,
+     When Frenzy with her bloodshot eye
+     Implores thy dreadful deity&mdash;
+     Archangel! Power of desolation!
+      Fast descending as thou art,
+     Say, hath mortal invocation
+      Spells to touch thy stony heart:
+     Then, sullen Winter! hear my prayer,
+     And gently rule the ruin'd year;
+     Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare
+     Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear:
+     To shuddering Want's unmantled bed
+      Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend,
+     And gently on the orphan head
+      Of Innocence descend.
+
+     But chiefly spare, O king of clouds!
+     The sailor on his airy shrouds,
+     When wrecks and beacons strew the deep
+     And spectres walk along the deep.
+     Milder yet thy snowy breezes
+      Pour on yonder tented shores,
+     Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes,
+      Or the dark-brown Danube roars.
+     O winds of Winter! list ye there
+      To many a deep and dying groan?
+     Or start, ye demons of the midnight air,
+      At shrieks and thunders louder than your own?
+     Alas! e'en your unhallow'd breath
+      May spare the victim fallen low;
+     But Man will ask no truce to death,
+      No bounds to human woe.
+
+     T. CAMPBELL.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     257. YARROW UNVISITED.
+
+               1803.
+
+     From Stirling castle we had seen
+     The mazy Forth unravell'd,
+     Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay,
+     And with the Tweed had travell'd;
+     And when we came to Clovenford,
+     Then said my "winsome Marrow."
+     "Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,
+     And see the Braes of Yarrow."
+
+     "Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,
+     Who have been buying, selling,
+     Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own,
+     Each maiden to her dwelling!
+     On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,
+     Hares couch, and rabbits burrow,
+     But we will downward with the Tweed,
+     Nor turn aside to Yarrow.
+
+     "There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
+     Both lying right before us;
+     And Dryburgh, where with chiming Tweed
+     The lintwhites sing in chorus;
+     There's pleasant Tiviotdale, a land
+     Made blythe with plough and harrow:
+     Why throw away a needful day
+     To go in search of Yarrow?
+
+     "What's Yarrow but a river bare
+     That glides the dark hills under?
+     There are a thousand such elsewhere
+     As worthy of your wonder."
+     &mdash;Strange words they seem'd of slight and scorn;
+     My true-love sighed for sorrow,
+     And look'd me in the face, to think
+     I thus could speak of Yarrow!
+
+     "O green," said I, "are Yarrow's holms,
+     And sweet is Yarrow flowing!
+     Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
+     But we will leave it growing.
+     O'er hilly path, and open strath,
+     We'll wander Scotland thorough;
+     But, though so near, we will not turn
+     Into the dale of Yarrow.
+
+     "Let beeves and home-bred kine partake
+     The sweets of Burn-mill meadow;
+     The swan on still Saint Mary's Lake
+     Float double, swan and shadow!
+     We will not see them; will not go
+     To-day, nor yet to-morrow;
+     Enough if in our hearts we know
+     There's such a place as Yarrow.
+
+     "Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown;
+     It must, or we shall rue it:
+     We have a vision of our own;
+     Ah! why should we undo it?
+     The treasured dreams of times long past,
+     We'll keep them, winsome Marrow!
+     For when we're there, although 'tis fair,
+     'Twill be another Yarrow.
+
+     "If care with freezing years should come
+     And wandering seem but folly,&mdash;
+     Should we be loth to stir from home,
+     And yet be melancholy;
+     Should life be dull, and spirits low,
+     'Twill soothe us in our sorrow
+     That earth has something yet to show,
+     The bonny Holms of Yarrow!"
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     258. YARROW VISITED.
+
+               <i>September</i>, 1814.
+
+     And is this&mdash;Yarrow?&mdash;This is the Stream
+     Of which my fancy cherish'd
+     So faithfully, a waking dream,
+     An image that hath perish'd?
+     O that some minstrel's harp were near
+     To utter notes of gladness
+     And chase this silence from the air,
+     That fills my heart with sadness!
+
+     Yet why?&mdash;a silvery current flows
+     With uncontroll'd meanderings;
+     Nor have these eyes by greener hills
+     Been soothed, in all my wanderings.
+     And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake
+     Is visibly delighted;
+     For not a feature of those hills
+     Is in the mirror slighted.
+
+     A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow Vale,
+     Save where that pearly whiteness
+     Is round the rising sun diffused,
+     A tender hazy brightness;
+     Mild dawn of promise! that excludes
+     All profitless dejection;
+     Though not unwilling here to admit
+     A pensive recollection.
+
+     Where was it that the famous Flower
+     Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding?
+     His bed perchance was yon smooth mound
+     On which the herd is feeding:
+     And haply from this crystal pool,
+     Now peaceful as the morning,
+     The water-Wraith ascended thrice,
+     And gave his doleful warning.
+
+     Delicious is the Lay that sings
+     The haunts of happy lovers,
+     The path that leads them to the grove,
+     The leafy grove that covers:
+     And pity sanctifies the verse
+     That paints, by strength of sorrow,
+     The unconquerable strength of love;
+     Bear witness, rueful Yarrow!
+
+     But thou that didst appear so fair
+     To fond imagination
+     Dost rival in the light of day
+     Her delicate creation:
+     Meek loveliness is round thee spread,
+     A softness still and holy:
+     The grace of forest charms decay'd,
+     And pastoral melancholy.
+
+     That region left, the vale unfolds
+     Rich groves of lofty stature,
+     With Yarrow winding through the pomp
+     Of cultivated Nature;
+     And rising from those lofty groves
+     Behold a ruin hoary,
+     The shatter'd front of Newark's Towers,
+     Renown'd in Border story.
+
+     Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom,
+     For sportive youth to stray in,
+     For manhood to enjoy his strength,
+     And age to wear away in!
+     Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss,
+     A covert for protection
+     Of studious ease and generous cares,
+     And every chaste affection!
+
+     How sweet on this autumnal day
+     The wild-wood fruits to gather,
+     And on my true-love's forehead plant
+     A crest of blooming heather!
+     And what if I enwreathed my own?
+     'Twere no offence to reason;
+     The sober hills thus deck their brows
+     To meet the wintry season.
+
+     I see&mdash;but not by sight alone
+     Loved Yarrow, have I won thee;
+     A ray of Fancy still survives&mdash;
+     Her sunshine plays upon thee!
+     Thy ever-youthful waters keep
+     A course of lively pleasure;
+     And gladsome notes my lips can breathe
+     Accordant to the measure.
+
+     The vapours linger round the heights,
+     They melt, and soon must vanish;
+     One hour is theirs, nor more is mine&mdash;
+     Sad thought! which I would banish,
+     But that I know, where'er I go,
+     Thy genuine image, Yarrow!
+     Will dwell with me, to heighten joy
+     And cheer my mind in sorrow.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     259. THE INVITATION.
+
+     Best and Brightest, come away,
+     Fairer far than this fair day,
+     Which, like thee, to those in sorrow
+     Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow
+     To the rough year just awake
+     In its cradle on the brake.
+     The brightest hour of unborn Spring
+     Through the winter wandering,
+     Found, it seems, the halcyon morn
+     To hoar February born;
+     Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth,
+     It kiss'd the forehead of the earth,
+     And smiled upon the silent sea,
+     And bade the frozen streams be free,
+     And waked to music all their fountains,
+     And breathed upon the frozen mountains,
+     And like a prophetess of May
+     Strew'd flowers upon the barren way,
+     Making the wintry world appear
+     Like one on whom thou smilest, Dear.
+
+     Away, away, from men and towns,
+     To the wild wood and the downs&mdash;
+     To the silent wilderness
+     Where the soul need not repress
+     Its music, lest it should not find
+     An echo in another's mind,
+     While the touch of Nature's art
+     Harmonises heart to heart.
+
+     Radiant Sister of the Day
+     Awake! arise! and come away!
+     To the wild woods and the plains,
+     And the pools where winter rains
+     Image all their roof of leaves,
+     Where the pine its garland weaves
+     Of sapless green, and ivy dun,
+     Round stems that never kiss the sun,
+     Where the lawns and pastures be
+     And the sandhills of the sea,
+     Where the melting hoar-frost wets
+     The daisy-star that never sets,
+     And wind-flowers and violets
+     Which yet join not scent to hue
+     Crown the pale year weak and new;
+     When the night is left behind
+     In the deep east, dim and blind,
+     And the blue noon is over us,
+     And the multitudinous
+     Billows murmur at our feet,
+     Where the earth and ocean meet,
+     And all things seem only one
+     In the universal Sun.
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     260. THE RECOLLECTION.
+
+     Now the last day of many days
+     All beautiful and bright as thou,
+     The loveliest and the last, is dead,
+     Rise, Memory, and write its praise!
+     Up, do thy wonted work! come, trace
+     The epitaph of glory fled,
+     For now the Earth has changed its face,
+     A frown is on the Heaven's brow.
+
+     We wander'd to the Pine Forest
+      That skirts the Ocean's foam;
+     The lightest wind was in its nest,
+      The tempest in its home.
+     The whispering waves were half asleep,
+      The clouds were gone to play,
+     And on the bosom of the deep
+      The smile of Heaven lay;
+     It seem'd as if the hour were one
+      Sent from beyond the skies
+     Which scatter'd from above the sun
+      A light of Paradise!
+
+     We paused amid the pines that stood
+      The giants of the waste,
+     Tortured by storms to shapes as rude
+      As serpents interlaced,&mdash;
+     And soothed by every azure breath
+      That under heaven is blown
+     To harmonies and hues beneath,
+      As tender as its own:
+     Now all the tree-tops lay asleep
+      Like green waves on the sea,
+     As still as in the silent deep
+      The ocean-woods may be.
+
+     How calm it was!&mdash;the silence there
+      By such a chain was bound,
+     That even the busy woodpecker
+      Made stiller by her sound
+     The inviolable quietness;
+      The breath of peace we drew
+     With its soft motion made not less
+      The calm that round us grew.
+     There seem'd from the remotest seat
+      Of the wide mountain waste
+     To the soft flower beneath our feet
+      A magic circle traced
+     A spirit interfused around,
+      A thrilling silent life;
+     To momentary peace it bound
+      Our mortal nature's strife;&mdash;
+     And still I felt the centre of
+      The magic circle there
+     Was one fair Form that fill'd with love
+      The lifeless atmosphere.
+
+     We paused beside the pools that lie
+      Under the forest bough;
+     Each seemed as 'twere a little sky
+      Gulf'd in a world below;
+     A firmament of purple light
+      Which in the dark earth lay,
+     More boundless than the depth of night
+      And purer than the day&mdash;
+     In which the lovely forests grew
+      As in the upper air,
+     More perfect both in shape and hue
+      Than any spreading there.
+     There lay the glade and neighbouring lawn,
+      And through the dark green wood
+     The white sun twinkling like the dawn
+      Out of a speckled cloud.
+     Sweet views which in our world above
+      Can never well be seen
+     Were imaged by the water's love
+      Of that fair forest green:
+     And all was interfused beneath
+      With an Elysian glow,
+     An atmosphere without a breath,
+      A softer day below.
+     Like one beloved the scene had lent
+      To the dark water's breast
+     Its very leaf and lineament
+      With more than truth exprest;
+     Until an envious wind crept by,
+      Like an unwelcome thought
+     Which from the mind's too faithful eye
+      Blots one dear image out.
+     &mdash;Though Thou art ever fair and kind,
+      The forests ever green,
+     Less oft is peace in Shelley's mind,
+      Than calm in waters seen!
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     261. BY THE SEA.
+
+     It is a beauteous evening, calm and free;
+     The holy time is quiet as a nun
+     Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
+     Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
+
+     The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea:
+     Listen! the mighty being is awake,
+     And doth with his eternal motion make
+     A sound like thunder&mdash;everlastingly.
+
+     Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here,
+     If thou appear untouch'd by solemn thought
+     Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
+
+     Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year;
+     And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine,
+     God being with thee when we know it not.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     262. TO THE EVENING STAR.
+
+     Star that bringest home the bee,
+     And sett'st the weary labourer free!
+     If any star shed peace, 'tis Thou
+       That send'st it from above,
+     Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow
+       Are sweet as hers we love.
+
+     Come to the luxuriant skies,
+     Whilst the landscape's odours rise,
+     Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard
+       And songs when toil is done,
+     From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd
+       Curls yellow in the sun.
+
+     Star of love's soft interviews,
+     Parted lovers on thee muse;
+     Their remembrancer in Heaven
+       Of thrilling vows thou art,
+     Too delicious to be riven
+       By absence from the heart.
+
+     T. CAMPBELL.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     263. DATUR HORA QUIETI.
+
+     The sun upon the lake is low,
+      The wild birds hush their song,
+     The hills have evening's deepest glow,
+      Yet Leonard tarries long.
+     Now all whom varied toil and care
+      From home and love divide,
+     In the calm sunset may repair
+      Each to the loved one's side.
+
+     The noble dame on turret high,
+      Who waits her gallant knight,
+     Looks to the western beam to spy
+      The flash of armour bright.
+     The village maid, with hand on brow
+      The level ray to shade,
+     Upon the footpath watches now
+      For Colin's darkening plaid.
+
+     Now to their mates the wild swans row,
+      By day they swam apart,
+     And to the thicket wanders slow
+      The hind beside the hart.
+     The woodlark at his partner's side
+      Twitters his closing song&mdash;
+     All meet whom day and care divide,
+      But Leonard tarries long!
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     264. TO THE MOON.
+
+         Art thou pale for weariness
+       Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth,
+         Wandering companionless
+       Among the stars that have a different birth,&mdash;
+     And ever-changing, like a joyless eye
+     That finds no object worth its constancy?
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     265.
+
+       A widow bird sate mourning for her Love
+         Upon a wintry bough;
+       The frozen wind crept on above,
+         The freezing stream below.
+
+       There was no leaf upon the forest bare,
+         No flower upon the ground,
+       And little motion in the air
+         Except the mill-wheel's sound.
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     266. TO SLEEP.
+
+     A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by
+     One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
+     Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
+     Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;&mdash;
+
+     I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie
+     Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies
+     Must hear, first utter'd from my orchard trees,
+     And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
+
+     Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay,
+     And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:
+     So do not let me wear to-night away:
+
+     Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?
+     Come, blesséd barrier between day and day,
+     Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     267. THE SOLDIERS DREAM.
+
+     Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd,
+      And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
+     And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,
+      The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
+
+     When reposing that night on my pallet of straw
+      By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,
+     At the dead of the night a sweet Vision I saw;
+      And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.
+
+     Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array
+      Far, far, I had roam'd on a desolate track:
+     'Twas Autumn,&mdash;and sunshine arose on the way
+      To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.
+
+     I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft
+      In life's morning march, when my bosom was young;
+     I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
+      And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
+
+     Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore
+      From my home and my weeping friends never to part;
+     My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,
+      And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.
+
+     "Stay&mdash;stay with us!&mdash;rest!&mdash;thou art weary and worn!"&mdash;
+      And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;&mdash;
+     But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,
+      And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
+
+     T. CAMPBELL.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     268. A DREAM OF THE UNKNOWN.
+
+     I dream'd that, as I wander'd by the way
+      Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring,
+     And gentle odours led my steps astray,
+      Mix'd with a sound of waters murmuring
+     Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay
+      Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling
+     Its green arms round the bosom of the stream,
+     But kiss'd it and then fled, as Thou mightest in dream.
+
+     There grew pied wind-flowers and violets,
+      Daisies, those pearl'd Arcturi of the earth,
+     The constellated flower that never sets;
+      Faint oxlips; tender blue-bells, at whose birth
+     The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets
+     Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears,
+     When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears.
+
+     And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,
+      Green cow-bind and the moonlight-colour'd May,
+     And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whose wine
+      Was the bright dew yet drain'd not by the day;
+     And wild roses, and ivy serpentine,
+      With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray;
+     And flowers azure, black, and streak'd with gold,
+     Fairer than any waken'd eyes behold.
+
+     And nearer to the rivers trembling edge
+      There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prankt with white,
+     And starry river-buds among the sedge,
+      And floating water-lilies, broad and bright,
+     Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge
+      With moonlight beams of their own watery light;
+     And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green
+     As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.
+
+     Methought that of these visionary flowers
+      I made a nosegay, bound in such a way
+     That the same hues, which in their natural bowers
+      Were mingled or opposed, the like array
+     Kept these imprison'd children of the Hours
+      Within my hand;&mdash;and then, elate and gay,
+     I hasten'd to the spot whence I had come
+     That I might there present it&mdash;O! to Whom?
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     269. THE INNER VISION.
+
+     Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes
+     To pace the ground, if path there be or none,
+     While a fair region round the Traveller lies
+     Which he forbears again to look upon;
+
+     Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene
+     The work of Fancy, or some happy tone
+     Of meditation, slipping in between
+     The beauty coming and the beauty gone.
+
+     &mdash;If Thought and Love desert us, from that day
+     Let us break off all commerce with the Muse:
+     With Thought and Love companions of our way&mdash;
+
+     Whate'er the senses take or may refuse,&mdash;
+     The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews
+     Of inspiration on the humblest lay.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     270. THE REALM OF FANCY.
+
+     Ever let the Fancy roam!
+     Pleasure never is at home:
+     At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth,
+     Like to bubbles when rain pelteth;
+     Then let wingéd Fancy wander
+     Through the thought still spread beyond her:
+     Open wide the mind's cage-door,
+     She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.
+     O sweet Fancy! let her loose;
+     Summer's joys are spoilt by use,
+     And the enjoying of the Spring
+     Fades as does its blossoming:
+     Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too
+     Blushing through the mist and dew
+     Cloys with tasting: What do then?
+     Sit thee by the ingle, when
+     The sear faggot blazes bright,
+     Spirit of a winter's night;
+     When the soundless earth is muffled,
+     And the cakéd snow is shuffled
+     From the ploughboy's heavy shoon;
+     When the Night doth meet the Noon
+     In dark conspiracy
+     To banish Even from her sky.
+     &mdash;Sit thee there, and send abroad
+     With a mind self-overawed
+     Fancy, high-commission'd:&mdash;send her!
+     She has vassals to attend her;
+     She will bring, in spite of frost,
+     Beauties that the earth hath lost;
+     She will bring thee, all together,
+     All delights of summer weather;
+     All the buds and bells of May,
+     From dewy sward or thorny spray;
+     All the heapéd Autumn's wealth,
+     With a still, mysterious stealth:
+     She will mix these pleasures up
+     Like three fit wines in a cup,
+     And thou shalt quaff it;&mdash;thou shalt hear
+     Distant harvest-carols clear;
+     Rustle of the reapéd corn;
+     Sweet birds antheming the morn:
+     And in the same moment&mdash;hark!
+     'Tis the early April lark,
+     Or the rooks, with busy caw,
+     Foraging for sticks and straw.
+     Thou shalt, at one glance, behold
+     The daisy and the marigold;
+     White-plumed lilies, and the first
+     Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst;
+     Shaded hyacinth, alway
+     Sapphire queen of the mid-May;
+     And every leaf, and every flower
+     Pearléd with the self-same shower.
+     Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep
+     Meagre from its celléd sleep;
+     And the snake all winter-thin
+     Cast on sunny bank its skin;
+     Freckled nest eggs thou shalt see
+     Hatching in the hawthorn-tree,
+     When the hen-bird's wing doth rest
+     Quiet on her mossy nest;
+     Then the hurry and alarm
+     When the bee-hive casts its swarm;
+     Acorns ripe down-pattering
+     While the autumn breezes sing.
+
+       O sweet Fancy! let her loose;
+     Everything is spoilt by use:
+     Where's the cheek that doth not fade,
+     Too much gazed at? Where's the maid
+     Whose lip mature is ever new?
+     Where's the eye, however blue,
+     Doth not weary? Where's the face
+     One would meet in every place?
+     Where's the voice, however soft,
+     One would hear so very oft?
+     At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth
+     Like to bubbles when rain pelteth.
+     Let then wingéd Fancy find
+     Thee a mistress to thy mind:
+     Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter,
+     Ere the God of Torment taught her
+     How to frown and how to chide;
+     With a waist and with a side
+     White as Hebe's, when her zone
+     Slipt its golden clasp, and down
+     Fell her kirtle to her feet,
+     While she held the goblet sweet,
+     And Jove grew languid.&mdash;Break the mesh
+     Of the Fancy's silken leash;
+     Quickly break her prison-string,
+     And such joys as these she'll bring:
+     &mdash;Let the wingéd Fancy roam!
+     Pleasure never is at home.
+
+     J. KEATS.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     271. HYMN TO THE SPIRIT OF NATURE.
+
+     Life of Life! Thy lips enkindle
+      With their love the breath between them;
+     And thy smiles before they dwindle
+      Make the cold air fire; then screen them
+     In those locks, where whoso gazes
+     Faints, entangled in their mazes.
+
+     Child of Light! Thy limbs are burning
+      Through the veil which seems to hide them,
+     As the radiant lines of morning
+      Through thin clouds, ere they divide them;
+     And this atmosphere divinest
+     Shrouds thee wheresoe'er thou shinest.
+
+     Fair are others; none beholds Thee;
+      But thy voice sounds low and tender
+     Like the fairest, for it folds thee
+      From the sight, that liquid splendour;
+     And all feel, yet see thee never,&mdash;
+     As I feel now, lost for ever!
+
+     Lamp of Earth! Where'er thou movest
+      Its dim shapes are clad with brightness,
+     And the souls of whom thou lovest
+      Walk upon the winds with lightness
+     Till they fail, as I am failing,
+     Dizzy, lost, yet unbewailing!
+
+     P. B. SHELLEY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     272. WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.
+
+     I heard a thousand blended notes
+     While in a grove I sat reclined,
+     In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
+     Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
+
+     To her fair works did Nature link
+     The human soul that through me ran;
+     And much it grieved my heart to think
+     What Man has made of Man.
+
+     Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,
+     The periwinkle trail'd its wreaths;
+     And 'tis my faith that every flower
+     Enjoys the air it breathes.
+
+     The birds around me hopp'd and play'd,
+     Their thoughts I cannot measure&mdash;
+     But the least motion which they made
+     It seem'd a thrill of pleasure.
+
+     The budding twigs spread out their fan
+     To catch the breezy air;
+     And I must think, do all I can,
+     That there was pleasure there.
+
+     If this belief from heaven be sent,
+     If such be Nature's holy plan,
+     Have I not reason to lament
+     What Man has made of Man?
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     273. RUTH: OR THE INFLUENCES OF NATURE.
+
+     When Ruth was left half desolate,
+     Her father took another mate;
+     And Ruth, not seven years old,
+     A slighted child, at her own will
+     Went wandering over dale and hill,
+     In thoughtless freedom bold.
+
+     And she had made a pipe of straw,
+     And music from that pipe could draw
+     Like sounds of winds and floods;
+     Had built a bower upon the green,
+     As if she from her birth had been
+     An infant of the woods.
+
+     Beneath her father's roof, alone
+     She seem'd to live; her thoughts her own;
+     Herself her own delight:
+     Pleased with herself, nor sad nor gay,
+     She pass'd her time; and in this way
+     Grew up to woman's height.
+
+     There came a youth from Georgia's shore&mdash;
+     A military casque he wore
+     With splendid feathers drest;
+     He brought them from the Cherokees;
+     The feathers nodded in the breeze
+     And made a gallant crest.
+
+     From Indian blood you deem him sprung:
+     But no! he spake the English tongue
+     And bore a soldier's name;
+     And, when America was free
+     From battle and from jeopardy,
+     He 'cross the ocean came.
+
+     With hues of genius on his cheek,
+     In finest tones the youth could speak:
+     &mdash;While he was yet a boy
+     The moon, the glory of the sun,
+     And streams that murmur as they run
+     Had been his dearest joy.
+
+     He was a lovely youth! I guess
+     The panther in the wilderness
+     Was not so fair as he;
+     And when he chose to sport and play,
+     No dolphin ever was so gay
+     Upon the tropic sea.
+
+     Among the Indians he had fought,
+     And with him many tales he brought
+     Of pleasure and of fear;
+     Such tales as, told to any maid
+     By such a youth, in the green shade,
+     Were perilous to hear.
+
+     He told of girls, a happy rout!
+     Who quit their fold with dance and shout,
+     Their pleasant Indian town,
+     To gather strawberries all day long;
+     Returning with a choral song
+     When daylight is gone down.
+
+     He spake of plants that hourly change
+     Their blossoms, through a boundless range
+     Of intermingling hues;
+     With budding, fading, faded flowers,
+     They stand the wonder of the bowers
+     From morn to evening dews,
+
+     He told of the Magnolia, spread
+     High as a cloud, high over head!
+     The cypress and her spire;
+     &mdash;Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam
+     Cover a hundred leagues, and seem
+     To set the hills on fire.
+
+     The youth of green savannahs spake,
+     And many an endless, endless lake,
+     With all its fairy crowds
+     Of islands, that together lie
+     As quietly as spots of sky
+     Among the evening clouds.
+
+     And then he said, "How sweet it were
+     A fisher or a hunter there,
+     In sunshine or in shade
+     To wander with an easy mind,
+     And build a household fire, and find
+     A home in every glade!
+
+     "What days and what bright years! Ah me!
+     Our life were life indeed, with Thee
+     So pass'd in quiet bliss;
+     And all the while," said he, "to know
+     That we were in a world of woe,
+     On such an earth as this!"
+
+     And then he sometimes interwove
+     Fond thoughts about a father's love,
+     "For there," said he, "are spun
+     Around the heart such tender ties,
+     That our own children to our eyes
+     Are dearer than the sun.
+
+     "Sweet Ruth! and could you go with me
+     My helpmate in the woods to be,
+     Our shed at night to rear;
+     Or run, my own adopted bride,
+     A sylvan huntress at my side,
+     And drive the flying deer!
+
+     "Beloved Ruth!"&mdash;No more he said.
+     The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed
+     A solitary tear:
+     She thought again&mdash;and did agree
+     With him to sail across the sea,
+     And drive the flying deer.
+
+     "And now, as fitting is and right,
+     We in the church our faith will plight,
+     A husband and a wife."
+     Even so they did; and I may say
+     That to sweet Ruth that happy day
+     Was more than human life.
+
+     Through dream and vision did she sink,
+     Delighted all the while to think
+     That, on those lonesome floods,
+     And green savannahs, she should share
+     His board with lawful joy, and bear
+     His name in the wild woods.
+
+     But, as you have before been told,
+     This Stripling, sportive, gay, and bold,
+     And with his dancing crest
+     So beautiful, through savage lands
+     Had roam'd about, with vagrant bands
+     Of Indians in the West.
+
+     The wind, the tempest roaring high,
+     The tumult of a tropic sky
+     Might well be dangerous food
+     For him, a youth to whom was given
+     So much of earth&mdash;so much of heaven,
+     And such impetuous blood.
+
+     Whatever in those climes he found
+     Irregular in sight or sound
+     Did to his mind impart
+     A kindred impulse, seem'd allied
+     To his own powers, and justified
+     The workings of his heart.
+
+     Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought,
+     The beauteous forms of Nature wrought,&mdash;
+     Fair trees and gorgeous flowers;
+     The breezes their own languor lent;
+     The stars had feelings, which they sent
+     Into those favour'd bowers.
+
+     Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween
+     That sometimes there did intervene
+     Pure hopes of high intent:
+     For passions link'd to forms so fair
+     And stately, needs must have their share
+     Of noble sentiment.
+
+     But ill he lived, much evil saw,
+     With men to whom no better law
+     Nor better life was known;
+     Deliberately and undeceived,
+     Those wild men's vices he received,
+     And gave them back his own.
+
+     His genius and his moral frame
+     Were thus impair'd, and he became
+     The slave of low desires:
+     A man who without self-control
+     Would seek what the degraded soul
+     Unworthily admires.
+
+     And yet he with no feign'd delight
+     Had woo'd the maiden, day and night
+     Had loved her, night and morn:
+     What could he less than love a maid
+     Whose heart with so much nature play'd&mdash;
+     So kind and so forlorn?
+
+     Sometimes most earnestly he said,
+     "O Ruth! I have been worse than dead;
+     False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain
+     Encompass'd me on every side
+     When I, in confidence and pride,
+     Had cross'd the Atlantic main.
+
+     "Before me shone a glorious world
+     Fresh as a banner bright, unfurl'd
+     To music suddenly:
+     I look'd upon those hills and plains,
+     And seem'd as if let loose from chains
+     To live at liberty!
+
+     "No more of this&mdash;for now, by thee,
+     Dear Ruth! more happily set free
+     With nobler zeal I burn;
+     My soul from darkness is released
+     Like the whole sky when to the east
+     The morning doth return."
+
+     Full soon that better mind was gone;
+     No hope, no wish remain'd, not one,&mdash;
+     They stirr'd him now no more;
+     New objects did new pleasure give,
+     And once again he wish'd to live
+     As lawless as before.
+
+     Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared,
+     They for the voyage were prepared,
+     And went to the sea-shore,
+     But, when they thither came, the youth
+     Deserted his poor bride, and Ruth
+     Could never find him more.
+
+     God help thee, Ruth!&mdash;Such pains she had
+     That she in half a year was mad
+     And in a prison housed;
+     And there, exulting in her wrongs,
+     Among the music of her songs
+     She fearfully caroused.
+
+     Yet sometimes milder hours she knew,
+     Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew,
+     Nor pastimes of the May;
+     &mdash;They all were with her in her cell;
+     And a clear brook with cheerful knell
+     Did o'er the pebbles play.
+
+     When Ruth three seasons thus had lain,
+     There came a respite to her pain;
+     She from her prison fled;
+     But of the vagrant none took thought;
+     And where it liked her best she sought
+     Her shelter and her bread.
+
+     Among the fields she breathed again:
+     The master-current of her brain
+     Ran permanent and free;
+     And, coming to the banks of Tone,
+     There did she rest; and dwell alone
+     Under the greenwood tree.
+
+     The engines of her pain, the tools
+     That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools,
+     And airs that gently stir
+     The vernal leaves&mdash;she loved them still,
+     Nor ever tax'd them with the ill
+     Which had been done to her.
+
+     A barn her Winter bed supplies;
+     But, till the warmth of Summer skies
+     And Summer days is gone,
+     (And all do in this tale agree)
+     She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree,
+     And other home hath none.
+
+     An innocent life, yet far astray!
+     And Ruth will, long before her day,
+     Be broken down and old:
+     Sore aches she needs must have! but less
+     Of mind, than body's wretchedness,
+     From damp, and rain, and cold.
+
+     If she is prest by want of food
+     She from her dwelling in the wood
+     Repairs to a road-side;
+     And there she begs at one steep place
+     Where up and down with easy pace
+     The horsemen-travellers ride.
+
+     That oaten pipe of hers is mute
+     Or thrown away; but with a flute
+     Her loneliness she cheers;
+     This flute, made of a hemlock stalk,
+     At evening in his homeward walk
+     The Quantock woodman hears.
+
+     I, too, have pass'd her on the hills
+     Setting her little water-mills
+     By spouts and fountains wild&mdash;
+     Such small machinery as she turn'd
+     Ere she had wept, ere she had mourn'd,
+     A young and happy child!
+
+     Farewell! and when thy days are told,
+     Ill-fated Ruth! in hallow'd mould
+     Thy corpse shall buried be;
+     For thee a funeral bell shall ring,
+     And all the congregation sing
+     A Christian psalm for thee.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     274. WRITTEN IN THE EUGANEAN HILLS, NORTH ITALY.
+
+     Many a green isle needs must be
+     In the deep wide sea of misery,
+     Or the mariner, worn and wan,
+     Never thus could voyage on
+     Day and night, and night and day,
+     Drifting on his dreary way,
+     With the solid darkness black
+     Closing round his vessel's track;
+     Whilst above, the sunless sky
+     Big with clouds, hangs heavily,
+     And behind the tempest fleet
+     Hurries on with lightning feet,
+     Riving sail, and cord, and plank,
+     Till the ship has almost drank
+     Death from the o'er-brimming deep;
+     And sinks down, down, like that sleep
+     When the dreamer seems to be
+     Weltering through eternity;
+     And the dim low line before
+     Of a dark and distant shore
+     Still recedes, as ever still
+     Longing with divided will,
+     But no power to seek or shun,
+     He is ever drifted on
+     O'er the unreposing wave,
+     To the haven of the grave.
+
+     Ah, many flowering islands lie
+     In the waters of wide agony:
+     To such a one this morn was led
+     My bark, by soft winds piloted.
+     &mdash;'Mid the mountains Euganean
+     I stood listening to the paean
+     With which the legion'd rooks did hail
+     The Sun's uprise majestical:
+     Gathering round with wings all hoar,
+     Through the dewy mist they soar
+     Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven
+     Bursts, and then,&mdash;as clouds of even
+     Fleck'd with fire and azure, lie
+     In the unfathomable sky,&mdash;
+     So their plumes of purple grain
+     Starr'd with drops of golden rain
+     Gleam above the sunlight woods,
+     As in silent multitudes
+     On the morning's fitful gale
+     Through the broken mist they sail;
+     And the vapours cloven and gleaming
+     Follow down the dark steep streaming,
+     Till all is bright, and clear, and still
+     Round the solitary hill.
+
+       Beneath is spread like a green sea
+     The waveless plain of Lombardy,
+     Bounded by the vaporous air,
+     Islanded by cities fair;
+     Underneath day's azure eyes,
+     Ocean's nursling, Venice lies,&mdash;
+     A peopled labyrinth of walls,
+     Amphitrite's destined halls,
+     Which her hoary sire now paves
+     With his blue and beaming waves.
+     Lo! the sun upsprings behind,
+     Broad, red, radiant, half-reclined
+     On the level quivering line
+     Of the waters crystalline;
+     And before that chasm of light,
+     As within a furnace bright,
+     Column, tower, and dome, and spire,
+     Shine like obelisks of fire,
+     Pointing with inconstant motion
+     From the altar of dark ocean
+     To the sapphire-tinted skies;
+     As the flames of sacrifice
+     From the marble shrines did rise
+     As to pierce the dome of gold
+     Where Apollo spoke of old.
+
+       Sun-girt City! thou hast been
+     Ocean's child, and then his queen;
+     Now is come a darker day,
+     And thou soon must be his prey,
+     If the power that raised thee here
+     Hallow so thy watery bier.
+     A less drear ruin then than now
+     With thy conquest-branded brow
+     Stooping to the slave of slaves
+     From thy throne among the waves,
+     Wilt thou be,&mdash;when the sea-mew
+     Flies, as once before it flew,
+     O'er thine isles depopulate,
+     And all is in its ancient state,
+     Save where many a palace-gate
+     With green sea-flowers overgrown
+     Like a rock of ocean's own,
+     Topples o'er the abandon'd sea
+     As the tides change sullenly.
+     The fisher on his watery way
+     Wandering at the close of day,
+     Will spread his sail and seize his oar
+     Till he pass the gloomy shore,
+     Lest thy dead should, from their sleep
+     Bursting o'er the starlight deep,
+     Lead a rapid masque of death
+     O'er the waters of his path.
+
+       Noon descends around me now:
+     'Tis the noon of autumn's glow,
+     When a soft and purple mist
+     Like a vaporous amethyst,
+     Or an air-dissolvéd star
+     Mingling light and fragrance, far
+     From the curved horizon's bound
+     To the point of heaven's profound,
+     Fills the overflowing sky:
+     And the plains that silent lie
+     Underneath; the leaves unsodden
+     Where the infant frost has trodden
+     With his morning-wingéd feet
+     Whose bright print is gleaming yet;
+     And the red and golden vines
+     Piercing with their trellised lines
+     The rough, dark-skirted wilderness;
+     The dun and bladed grass no less,
+     Pointing from this hoary tower
+     In the windless air; the flower
+     Glimmering at my feet; the line
+     Of the olive-sandall'd Apennine
+     In the south dimly islanded;
+     And the Alps, whose snows are spread
+     High between the clouds and sun;
+     And of living things each one;
+     And my spirit, which so long
+     Darken'd this swift stream of song,&mdash;
+     Interpenetrated lie
+     By the glory of the sky;
+     Be it love, light, harmony,
+     Odour, or the soul of all
+     Which from Heaven like dew doth fall,
+     Or the mind which feeds this verse
+     Peopling the lone universe.
+
+     Noon descends, and after noon
+     Autumn's evening meets me soon,
+     Leading the infantine moon
+     And that one star, which to her
+     Almost seems to minister
+     Half the crimson light she brings
+     From the sunset's radiant springs:
+     And the soft dreams of the morn
+     (Which like wingéd winds had borne
+     To that silent isle, which lies
+     'Mid remember'd agonies,
+     The frail bark of this lone being),
+     Pass, to other sufferers fleeing,
+     And its ancient pilot, Pain,
+     Sits beside the helm again.
+
+     Other flowering isles must be
+     In the sea of life and agony:
+     Other spirits float and flee
+     O'er that gulf: ev'n now, perhaps,
+     On some rock the wild wave wraps,
+     With folding wings they waiting sit
+     For my bark, to pilot it
+     To some calm and blooming cove,
+     Where for me, and those I love,
+     May a windless bower be built,
+     Far from passion, pain, and guilt,
+     In a dell 'mid lawny hills
+     Which the wild sea-murmur fills,
+     And soft sunshine, and the sound
+     Of old forests echoing round,
+     And the light and smell divine
+     Of all flowers that breathe and shine.
+     &mdash;We may live so happy there,
+     That the spirits of the air,
+     Envying us, may even entice
+     To our healing paradise
+     The polluting multitude;
+     But their rage would be subdued
+     By that clime divine and calm,
+     And the winds whose wings rain balm
+     On the uplifted soul, and leaves
+     Under which the bright sea heaves;
+     While each breathless interval
+     In their whisperings musical
+     The inspired soul supplies
+     With its own deep melodies;
+     And the Love which heals all strife
+     Circling, like the breath of life,
+     All things in that sweet abode
+     With its own mild brotherhood.
+     They, not it, would change; and soon
+     Every sprite beneath the moon
+     Would repent its envy vain,
+     And the Earth grow young again!
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     275. ODE TO THE WEST WIND.
+
+     O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
+     Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
+     Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
+     Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
+     Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou
+     Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
+     The wingéd seeds, where they lie cold and low,
+     Each like a corpse within its grave, until
+     Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow
+     Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
+     (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
+     With living hues and odours plain and hill:
+     Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
+     Destroyer and preserver; Hear, O hear!
+
+       Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,
+     Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed
+     Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,
+     Angels of rain and lightning; there are spread
+     On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
+     Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
+     Of some fierce Maenad, ev'n from the dim verge
+     Of the horizon to the zenith's height&mdash;
+     The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
+     Of the dying year, to which this closing night
+     Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
+     Vaulted with all thy congregated might
+     Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
+     Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: O hear!
+
+       Thou who didst waken from his summer-dreams
+     The blue Mediterranean, where he lay
+     Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams,
+     Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,
+     And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
+     Quivering within the wave's intenser day,
+     All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
+     So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
+     For whose path the Atlantic's level powers
+     Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
+     The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
+     The sapless foliage of the ocean, know
+     Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear
+     And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!
+
+       If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
+     If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
+     A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share
+     The impulse of thy strength, only less free
+     Than Thou, O uncontrollable! If even
+     I were as in my boyhood, and could be
+     The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,
+     As then, when to outstrip the skyey speed
+     Scarce seem'd a vision, I would ne'er have striven
+     As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
+     O lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
+     I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
+     A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd
+     One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.
+
+       Make me thy lyre, ev'n as the forest is:
+     What if my leaves are falling like its own!
+     The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
+     Will take from both a deep autumnal tone,
+     Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
+     My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!
+     Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
+     Like wither'd leaves to quicken a new birth!
+     And, by the incantation of this verse,
+     Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth
+     Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
+     Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth
+     The trumpet of a prophecy! O, Wind,
+     If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     276. NATURE AND THE POET.
+
+     <i>Suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle in a Storm, painted by
+     Sir George Beaumont.</i>
+
+     I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile!
+     Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee:
+     I saw thee every day; and all the while
+     Thy form was sleeping on a glassy sea.
+
+     So pure the sky, so quiet was the air!
+     So like, so very like, was day to day!
+     Whene'er I look'd, thy image still was there;
+     It trembled, but it never pass'd away.
+
+     How perfect was the calm! It seem'd no sleep,
+     No mood, which season takes away, or brings:
+     I could have fancied that the mighty Deep
+     Was even the gentlest of all gentle things.
+
+     Ah! then if mine had been the painter's hand
+     To express what then I saw; and add the gleam,
+     The light that never was on sea or land,
+     The consecration, and the Poet's dream,&mdash;
+
+     I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile,
+     Amid a world how different from this!
+     Beside a sea that could not cease to smile;
+     On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss.
+
+     A picture had it been of lasting ease,
+     Elysian quiet, without toil or strife;
+     No motion but the moving tide, a breeze,
+     Or merely silent Nature's breathing life.
+
+     Such, in the fond illusion of my heart,
+     Such picture would I at that time have made;
+     And seen the soul of truth in every part,
+     A steadfast peace that might not be betray'd.
+
+     So once it would have been,&mdash;'tis so no more
+     I have submitted to a new control:
+     A power is gone, which nothing can restore;
+     A deep distress hath humanised my soul.
+
+     Not for a moment could I now behold
+     A smiling sea, and be what I have been:
+     The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old;
+     This, which I know, I speak with mind serene.
+
+     Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the friend
+     If he had lived, of him whom I deplore,
+     This work of thine I blame not, but commend;
+     This sea in anger, and that dismal shore.
+
+     O 'tis a passionate work!&mdash;yet wise and well,
+     Well chosen is the spirit that is here;
+     That hulk which labours in the deadly swell,
+     This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear!
+
+     And this huge Castle, standing here sublime,
+     I love to see the look with which it braves,
+     &mdash;Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time&mdash;
+     The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.
+
+     Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone,
+     Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind!
+     Such happiness, wherever it be known,
+     Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind.
+
+     But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer,
+     And frequent sights of what is to be borne!
+     Such sights, or worse, as are before me here:
+     Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     277. THE POET'S DREAM.
+
+        On a Poet's lips I slept
+        Dreaming like a love-adept
+        In the sound his breathing kept;
+        Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses,
+        But feeds on the aerial kisses
+        Of shapes that haunt Thought's wildernesses.
+        He will watch from dawn to gloom
+        The lake-reflected sun illume
+        The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom,
+          Nor heed nor see, what things they be&mdash;
+        But from these create he can
+        Forms more real than living Man,
+          Nurslings of immortality!
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     278.
+
+     The World is too much with us; late and soon,
+     Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
+     Little we see in Nature that is ours;
+     We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
+
+     This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
+     The winds that will be howling at all hours
+     And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers,
+     For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
+
+     It moves us not.&mdash;Great God! I'd rather be
+     A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn,&mdash;
+     So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
+
+     Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
+     Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
+     Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     279. WITHIN KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE.
+
+     Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense,
+     With ill-match'd aims the Architect who plann'd
+     (Albeit labouring for a scanty band
+     Of white-robed Scholars only) this immense
+
+     And glorious work of fine intelligence!
+     &mdash;Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore
+     Of nicely-calculated less or more:&mdash;
+     So deem'd the man who fashion'd for the sense
+
+     These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof
+     Self-poised, and scoop'd into ten thousand cells
+     Where light and shade repose, where music dwells
+
+     Lingering and wandering on as loth to die&mdash;
+     Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof
+     That they were born for immortality.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     280. YOUTH AND AGE.
+
+     Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying,
+     Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee&mdash;
+     Both were mine! Life went a-maying
+     With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,
+                 When I was young!
+
+     When I was young?&mdash;Ah, woeful when!
+     Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then!
+     This breathing house not built with hands,
+     This body that does me grievous wrong,
+     O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands
+     How lightly then it flash'd along:
+     Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,
+     On winding lakes and rivers wide,
+     That ask no aid of sail or oar,
+     That fear no spite of wind or tide!
+     Nought cared this body for wind or weather
+     When Youth and I lived in't together.
+     Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;
+     Friendship is a sheltering tree;
+     O! the joys, that came down shower-like,
+     Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,
+                 Ere I was old!
+
+     Ere I was old? Ah woeful Ere,
+     Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!
+     O Youth! for years so many and sweet
+     'Tis known that Thou and I were one,
+     I'll think it but a fond conceit&mdash;
+     It cannot be, that Thou art gone!
+     Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd:&mdash;
+     And thou wert aye a masker bold!
+     What strange disguise hast now put on
+     To make believe that thou art gone?
+     I see these locks in silvery slips,
+     This drooping gait, this alter'd size:
+     But Springtide blossoms on thy lips,
+     And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!
+     Life is but Thought: so think I will
+     That Youth and I are housemates still.
+
+     Dew-drops are the gems of morning,
+     But the tears of mournful eve!
+     Where no hope is, life's a warning
+     That only serves to make us grieve
+
+                 When we are old:
+     &mdash;That only serves to make us grieve
+     With oft and tedious taking-leave,
+     Like some poor nigh-related guest
+     That may not rudely be dismist,
+     Yet hath out-stay'd his welcome while,
+     And tells the jest without a smile.
+
+     S. T. COLERIDGE.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     281. THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS.
+
+     We walk'd along, while bright and red
+     Uprose the morning sun;
+     And Matthew stopp'd, he looked, and said,
+     "The will of God be done!"
+
+     A village schoolmaster was he,
+     With hair of glittering gray;
+     As blithe a man as you could see
+     On a spring holiday.
+
+     And on that morning, through the grass,
+     And by the steaming rills
+     We travel'd merrily, to pass
+     A day among the hills.
+
+     "Our work," said I, "was well begun;
+     Then, from thy breast what thought,
+     Beneath so beautiful a sun,
+     So sad a sigh has brought?"
+
+     A second time did Matthew stop;
+     And fixing still his eye
+     Upon the eastern mountain-top,
+     To me he made reply:
+
+     "Yon cloud with that long purple cleft
+     Brings fresh into my mind
+     A day like this, which I have left
+     Full thirty years behind.
+
+     "And just above yon slope of corn
+     Such colours, and no other,
+     Were in the sky, that April morn
+     Of this the very brother.
+
+     "With rod and line I sued the sport
+     Which that sweet season gave,
+     And, to the church-yard come, stopp'd short
+     Beside my daughter's grave.
+
+     "Nine summers had she scarcely seen,
+     The pride of all the vale;
+     And then she sang:&mdash;she would have been
+     A very nightingale.
+
+     "Six feet in earth my Emma lay;
+     And yet I loved her more&mdash;
+     For so it seem'd,&mdash;than till that day
+     I e'er had loved before.
+
+     "And, turning from her grave, I met,
+     Beside the church-yard yew,
+     A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet
+     With points of morning dew.
+
+     "A basket on her head she bare;
+     Her brow was smooth and white:
+     To see a child so very fair,
+     It was a pure delight!
+
+     "No fountain from its rocky cave
+     E'er tripped with foot so free;
+     She seem'd as happy as a wave
+     That dances on the sea.
+
+     "There came from me a sigh of pain
+     Which I could ill confine;
+     I looked at her, and looked again
+     And did not wish her mine!"
+
+     &mdash;Matthew is in his grave, yet now,
+     Methinks I see him stand
+     As at that moment, with a bough
+     Of wilding in his hand.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     282. THE FOUNTAIN.
+
+               <i>A Conversation.</i>
+
+     We talk'd with open heart, and tongue
+     Affectionate and true,
+     A pair of friends, though I was young,
+     And Matthew seventy-two.
+
+     We lay beneath a spreading oak,
+     Beside a mossy seat;
+     And from the turf a fountain broke
+     And gurgled at our feet.
+
+     "Now, Matthew!" said I "let us match
+     This water's pleasant tune
+     With some old border song, or catch
+     That suits a summer's noon.
+
+     "Or of the church-clock and the chimes
+     Sing here beneath the shade
+     That half-mad thing of witty rhymes
+     Which you last April made!"
+
+     In silence Matthew lay, and eyed
+     The spring beneath the tree;
+     And thus the dear old man replied,
+     The gray-hair'd man of glee:
+
+     "No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears,
+     How merrily it goes!
+     'Twill murmur on a thousand years
+     And flow as now it flows.
+
+     "And here, on this delightful day
+     I cannot choose but think
+     How oft, a vigorous man, I lay
+     Beside this fountain's brink.
+
+     "My eyes are dim with childish tears,
+     My heart is idly stirr'd,
+     For the same sound is in my ears
+     Which in those days I heard.
+
+     "Thus fares it still in our decay:
+     And yet the wiser mind
+     Mourns less for what Age takes away,
+     Than what it leaves behind.
+
+     "The blackbird amid leafy trees&mdash;
+     The lark above the hill,
+     Let loose their carols when they please,
+     Are quiet when they will.
+
+     "With Nature never do they wage
+     A foolish strife; they see
+     A happy youth, and their old age
+     Is beautiful and free:
+
+     "But we are press'd by heavy laws;
+     And often, glad no more,
+     We wear a face of joy, because
+     We have been glad of yore.
+
+     "If there be one who need bemoan
+     His kindred laid in earth,
+     The household hearts that were his own,&mdash;
+     It is the man of mirth.
+
+     "My days, my friend, are almost gone,
+     My life has been approved,
+     And many love me; but by none
+     Am I enough beloved."
+
+     "Now both himself and me he wrongs,
+     The man who thus complains!
+     I live and sing my idle songs
+     Upon these happy plains:
+
+     "And Matthew, for thy children dead
+     I'll be a son to thee!"
+     At this he grasp'd my hand and said,
+     "Alas! that cannot be."
+
+     We rose up from the fountain-side;
+     And down the smooth descent
+     Of the green sheep-track did we glide
+     And through the wood we went;
+
+     And, ere we came to Leonard's Rock,
+     He sang those witty rhymes
+     About the crazy old church-clock,
+     And the bewilder'd chimes.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     283. THE RIVER OF LIFE.
+
+     The more we live, more brief appear
+       Our life's succeeding stages:
+     A day to childhood seems a year,
+       And years like passing ages.
+
+     The gladsome current of our youth
+       Ere passion yet disorders,
+     Steals lingering like a river smooth
+       Along its grassy borders.
+
+     But as the careworn cheek grows wan,
+       And sorrow's shafts fly thicker,
+     Ye Stars, that measure life to man,
+       Why seem your courses quicker?
+
+     When joys have lost their bloom and breath
+       And life itself is vapid,
+     Why, as we reach the Falls of Death,
+       Feel we its tide more rapid?
+
+     It may be strange&mdash;yet who would change
+       Time's course to lower speeding,
+     When one by one our friends have gone
+       And left our bosoms bleeding?
+
+     Heaven gives our years of fading strength
+       Indemnifying fleetness;
+     And those of youth, a seeming length,
+       Proportion'd to their sweetness.
+
+     T. CAMPBELL.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     284. THE HUMAN SEASONS.
+
+     Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;
+     There are four seasons in the mind of Man:
+     He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
+     Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
+
+     He has his summer, when luxuriously
+     Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves
+     To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
+     Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves
+
+     His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
+     He furleth close; contented so to look
+     On mists in idleness&mdash;to let fair things
+     Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook:&mdash;
+
+     He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
+     Or else he would forego his mortal nature.
+
+     J. KEATS.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     285. A LAMENT.
+
+     O World! O Life! O Time!
+     On whose last steps I climb,
+       Trembling at that where I had stood before;
+     When will return the glory of your prime?
+       No more&mdash;O never more!
+
+     Out of the day and night
+     A joy has taken flight:
+       Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar
+     Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight
+       No more&mdash;O never more!
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     286.
+
+     My heart leaps up when I behold
+       A rainbow in the sky:
+     So was it when my life began,
+     So is it now I am a man;
+     So be it when I shall grow old
+        Or let me die!
+     The Child is father of the Man:
+     I could wish my days to be
+     Bound each to each by natural piety.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     287. ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF
+     EARLY CHILDHOOD.
+
+     There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
+     The earth, and every common sight
+                 To me did seem
+             Apparell'd in celestial light,
+     The glory and the freshness of a dream.
+     It is not now as it hath been of yore;&mdash;
+             Turn wheresoe'er I may,
+                 By night or day,
+     The things which I have seen I now can see no more!
+
+             The rainbow comes and goes,
+             And lovely is the rose;
+             The moon doth with delight
+        Look round her when the heavens are bare;
+             Waters on a starry night
+             Are beautiful and fair;
+        The sunshine is a glorious birth;
+        But yet I know, where'er I go,
+     That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth.
+
+     Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
+        And while the young lambs bound
+             As to the tabor's sound,
+     To me alone there came a thought of grief:
+     A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
+             And I again am strong.
+     The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,&mdash;
+     No more shall grief of mine the season wrong:
+     I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,
+     The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
+             And all the earth is gay;
+                 Land and sea
+        Give themselves up to jollity,
+             And with the heart of May
+        Doth every beast keep holiday;&mdash;
+                 Thou child of joy,
+     Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy
+           Shepherd boy!
+
+     Ye blesséd creatures, I have heard the call
+        Ye to each other make; I see
+     The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
+        My heart is at your festival,
+        My head hath its coronal,
+     The fulness of your bliss, I feel&mdash;I feel it all.
+             O evil day! if I were sullen
+             While Earth herself is adorning
+                 This sweet May morning,
+             And the children are pulling
+                 On every side
+             In a thousand valleys far and wide
+             Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,
+     And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm:&mdash;
+             I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!
+             &mdash;But there's a tree, of many, one,
+     A single field which I have look'd upon,
+     Both of them speak of something that is gone:
+                 The pansy at my feet
+                 Doth the same tale repeat:
+     Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
+     Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
+
+     Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;
+     The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
+             Hath had elsewhere its setting
+                 And cometh from afar;
+             Not in entire forgetfulness
+             And not in utter nakedness
+     But trailing clouds of glory do we come
+                 From God, who is our home:
+     Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
+     Shades of the prison-house begin to close
+                 Upon the growing boy,
+     But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
+                 He sees it in his joy,
+     The youth, who daily farther from the east
+         Must travel, still is Nature's priest,
+             And by the vision splendid
+             Is on his way attended;
+     At length the man perceives it die away,
+     And fade into the light of common day.
+
+     Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;
+     Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
+     And, even with something of a mother's mind,
+                 And no unworthy aim,
+             The homely nurse doth all she can
+     To make her foster-child, her inmate, Man,
+                 Forget the glories he hath known
+     And that imperial palace whence he came.
+
+     Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,
+     A six years' darling of a pigmy size!
+     See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,
+     Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,
+     With light upon him from his father's eyes!
+     See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
+     Some fragment from his dream of human life,
+     Shaped by himself with newly-learnéd art;
+             A wedding or a festival,
+             A mourning or a funeral;
+                 And this hath now his heart,
+             And unto this he frames his song:
+                 Then will he fit his tongue
+     To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
+             But it will not be long
+             Ere this be thrown aside,
+             And with new joy and pride
+     The little actor cons another part;
+     Filling from time to time his "humorous stage"
+     With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,
+     That life brings with her in her equipage;
+             As if his whole vocation
+             Were endless imitation.
+
+     Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
+             Thy soul's immensity;
+     Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep
+     Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind,
+     That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,
+     Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,&mdash;
+                 Mighty prophet! Seer blest!
+                 On whom those truths do rest
+     Which we are toiling all our lives to find;
+     In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;
+     Thou, over whom thy immortality
+     Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave,
+     A presence which is not to be put by;
+     Thou little child, yet glorious in the might
+     Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,
+     Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
+     The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
+     Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
+     Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,
+     And custom lie upon thee with a weight
+     Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!
+
+             O joy! that in our embers
+             Is something that doth live,
+             That nature yet remembers
+             What was so fugitive!
+     The thought of our past years in me doth breed
+     Perpetual benediction: not indeed
+     For that which is most worthy to be blest,
+     Delight and liberty, the simple creed
+     Of childhood, whether busy or at rest,
+     With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:
+             &mdash;Not for these I raise
+             The song of thanks and praise;
+        But for those obstinate questionings
+        Of sense and outward things,
+        Fallings from us, vanishings,
+        Blank misgivings of a creature
+     Moving about in worlds not realised,
+     High instincts, before which our mortal nature
+     Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised:
+        But for those first affections,
+        Those shadowy recollections,
+             Which, be they what they may,
+     Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,
+     Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;
+        Uphold us&mdash;cherish&mdash;and have power to make
+     Our noisy years seem moments in the being
+     Of the eternal silence: truths that wake,
+                 To perish never;
+     Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour
+                 Nor man nor boy
+     Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
+     Can utterly abolish or destroy!
+        Hence, in a season of calm weather
+             Though inland far we be,
+     Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
+                 Which brought us hither;
+             Can in a moment travel thither&mdash;
+     And see the children sport upon the shore,
+     And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.
+
+     Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
+             And let the young lambs bound
+             As to the tabor's sound!
+        We, in thought, will join your throng
+             Ye that pipe and ye that play,
+             Ye that through your hearts to-day
+             Feel the gladness of the May!
+     What though the radiance which was once so bright
+     Be now for ever taken from my sight,
+        Though nothing can bring back the hour
+     Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
+             We will grieve not, rather find
+             Strength in what remains behind,
+             In the primal sympathy
+             Which having been must ever be,
+             In the soothing thoughts that spring
+             Out of human suffering,
+             In the faith that looks through death,
+     In years that bring the philosophic mind.
+
+     And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
+     Forebode not any severing of our loves!
+     Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
+     I only have relinquish'd one delight
+     To live beneath your more habitual sway;
+     I love the brooks which down their channels fret
+     Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they;
+     The innocent brightness of a new-born day
+                 Is lovely yet;
+     The clouds that gather round the setting sun
+     Do take a sober colouring from an eye
+     That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
+     Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
+     Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
+     Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
+     To me the meanest flower that blows can give
+     Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+     288.
+
+        Music, when soft voices die,
+        Vibrates in the memory&mdash;
+        Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
+        Live within the sense they quicken.
+
+        Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
+        Are heap'd for the beloved's bed;
+        And so thy thoughts, when Thou art gone,
+        Love itself shall slumber on.
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+</pre>
+<a name="2H_4_0012"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>
+
+<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>
+
+<h2>
+    PALGRAVE'S NOTES.
+</h2>
+<p>
+Poem 2.
+<i>Rouse Memnon's mother</i>: Awaken the Dawn from the dark Earth and the
+clouds where she is resting. Aurora in the old mythology is mother of
+Memnon (the East), and wife of Tithonus (the appearances of Earth and
+Sky during the last hours of Night). She leaves him every morning in
+renewed youth, to prepare the way for Phoebus (the Sun), whilst Tithonus
+remains in perpetual old age and grayness.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>by Peneus' streams</i>: Phoebus loved the Nymph Daphne whom he met by the
+river Peneus in the vale of Tempe. This legend expressed the attachment
+of the Laurel (Daphne) to the Sun, under whose heat the tree both fades
+and flourishes. It has been thought worth while to explain these
+allusions, because they illustrate the character of the Grecian
+Mythology, which arose in the Personification of natural phenomena, and
+was totally free from those debasing and ludicrous ideas with which,
+through Roman and later misunderstanding or perversion, it has been
+associated.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Amphion's lyre</i>: He was said to have built the walls of Thebes to the
+sound of his music.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Night like a drunkard reels</i>: Compare Romeo and Juliet, Act II. Scene
+3: "The gray-eyed morn smiles," etc.&mdash;It should be added that three
+lines, which appeared hopelessly misprinted, have been omitted in this
+Poem.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 4.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Time's chest</i>: in which he is figuratively supposed to lay up past
+treasures. So in Troilus, Act III. Scene 3, "Time hath a wallet at his
+back," etc.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 5.
+</p>
+<p>
+A fine example of the high-wrought and conventional Elizabethan
+Pastoralism, which it would be ludicrous to criticise on the ground of
+the unshepherdlike or unreal character of some images suggested. Stanza
+6 was probably inserted by Izaak Walton.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 9.
+This Poem, with 25 and 94, is taken from Davison's "Rhapsody," first
+published in 1602. One stanza has been here omitted, in accordance with
+the principle noticed in the Preface. Similar omissions occur in 45, 87,
+100, 128, 160, 165, 227, 235. The more serious abbreviation by which it
+has been attempted to bring Crashaw's "Wishes" and Shelley's "Euganean
+Hills" within the limits of lyrical unity, is commended with much
+diffidence to the judgment of readers acquainted with the original
+pieces.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Presence</i> in line 12 is here conjecturally printed for <i>present</i>. A
+very few similar corrections of (it is presumed) misprints have been
+made:&mdash;as <i>thy</i> for <i>my</i>, 22, line 9: <i>men</i> for <i>me</i>, 41, line 3: <i>viol</i>
+for <i>idol</i>, 252, line 43, and <i>one</i> for <i>our</i>, line 90: <i>locks</i> for
+<i>looks</i>, 271, line 5: <i>dome</i> for <i>doom</i>, 275, line 25:&mdash;with two or
+three more less important.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 15.
+</p>
+<p>
+This charming little poem, truly "old and plain, and dallying with the
+innocence of love" like that spoken of in Twelfth Night, is taken with
+5, 17, 20, 34, and 40, from the most characteristic collection of
+Elizabeth's reign, "England's Helicon," first published in 1600.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 16.
+</p>
+<p>
+Readers who have visited Italy will be reminded of more than one picture
+by this gorgeous Vision of Beauty, equally sublime and pure in its
+Paradisaical naturalness. Lodge wrote it on a voyage to "the Islands of
+Terceras and the Canaries"; and he seems to have caught, in those
+southern seas, no small portion of the qualities which marked the almost
+contemporary Art of Venice,&mdash;the glory and the glow of Veronese, or
+Titian, or Tintoret, when he most resembles Titian, and all but
+surpasses him.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>The clear</i>: is the crystalline or outermost heaven of the old
+cosmography. For <i>resembling</i> other copies give <i>refining</i>: the correct
+reading is perhaps <i>revealing</i>.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>For a fair there's fairer none</i>: If you desire a Beauty, there is none
+more beautiful than Rosaline.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 18.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>that fair thou owest</i>: that beauty thou ownest.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 23.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>the star Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken</i>:
+apparently, Whose stellar influence is uncalculated, although his
+angular altitude from the plane of the astrolabe or artificial horizon
+used by astrologers has been determined.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 27.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>keel</i>: skim.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 29.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>expense</i>: waste.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 30.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Nativity once in the main of light</i>: when a star has risen and entered
+on the full stream of light;&mdash;another of the astrological phrases no
+longer familiar.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Crooked eclipses</i>: as coming athwart the Sun's apparent course.
+</p>
+<p>
+Wordsworth, thinking probably of the "Venus" and the "Lucrece," said
+finely of Shakespeare "Shakespeare <i>could</i> not have written an Epic; he
+would have died of plethora of thought." This prodigality of nature is
+exemplified equally in his Sonnets. The copious selection here given
+(which from the wealth of the material, required greater consideration
+than any other portion of the Editor's task) contains many that will not
+be fully felt and understood without some earnestness of thought on the
+reader's part. But he is not likely to regret the labour.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 31.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>upon misprision growing</i>: either, granted in error, or, on the growth
+of contempt.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 32.
+</p>
+<p>
+With the tone of this Sonnet compare Hamlet's "Give me that man That is
+not passion's slave," etc. Shakespeare's writings show the deepest
+sensitiveness to passion:&mdash;hence the attraction he felt in the
+contrasting effects of apathy.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 33.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>grame</i>: sorrow. It was long before English Poetry returned to the
+charming simplicity of this and a few other poems by Wyat.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 34.
+</p>
+<p>
+Pandion in the ancient fable was father to Philomela.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 38.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>ramage</i>: confused noise.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 39.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>censures</i>: judges.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 40.
+</p>
+<p>
+By its style this beautiful example of old simplicity and feeling may be
+referred to the early years of Elizabeth. <i>Late forgot</i>: lately.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 41.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>haggards</i>: the least tameable hawks.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 44.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>cypres</i> or cyprus,&mdash;used by the old writers for <i>crape</i>: whether from
+the French <i>crespe</i> or from the Island whence it was imported. Its
+accidental similarity in spelling to <i>cypress</i> has, here and in Milton's
+Penseroso, probably confused readers.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poems 46, 47.
+</p>
+<p>
+"I never saw anything like this funeral dirge," says Charles Lamb,
+"except the ditty which reminds Ferdinand of his drowned father in the
+Tempest. As that is of the water, watery; so this is of the earth,
+earthy. Both have that intenseness of feeling, which seems to resolve
+itself into the element which it contemplates."
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 51.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>crystal</i>: fairness.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 53.
+</p>
+<p>
+This "Spousal Verse" was written in honour of the Ladies Elizabeth and
+Katherine Somerset. Although beautiful, it is inferior to the
+"Epithalamion" on Spenser's own marriage,&mdash;omitted with great reluctance
+as not in harmony with modern manners.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>feateously</i>: elegantly.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>shend</i>: put out.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>a noble peer</i>: Robert Devereux, second Lord Essex, then at the height
+of his brief triumph after taking Cadiz: hence the allusion following to
+the Pillars of Hercules, placed near Gades by ancient legend.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Eliza</i>: Elizabeth; <i>twins of Jove</i>: the stars Castor and Pollux;
+<i>baldric</i>: belt, the zodiac.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 57.
+</p>
+<p>
+A fine example of a peculiar class of Poetry;&mdash;that written by
+thoughtful men who practised this Art but little. Wotton's, 72, is
+another. Jeremy Taylor, Bishop Berkeley, Dr. Johnson, Lord Macaulay,
+have left similar specimens.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 62.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>whist</i>: hushed; <i>Pan</i>: used here for the Lord of all; <i>Lars and
+Lemures</i>: household Gods and spirits of relations dead; <i>Flamens</i>: Roman
+priests; <i>That twice-batter'd god</i>: Dagon.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Osiris</i>, the Egyptian god of Agriculture (here, perhaps by confusion
+with Apis, figured as a Bull), was torn to pieces by Typho and embalmed
+after death in a sacred chest. This myth, reproduced in Syria and Greece
+in the legends of Thammuz, Adonis, and perhaps Absyrtus, represents the
+annual death of the Sun or the Year under the influences of the winter
+darkness. Horus, the son of Osiris, as the New Year, in his turn
+overcomes Typho.&mdash;It suited the genius of Milton's time to regard this
+primaeval poetry and philosophy of the seasons, which has a further
+reference to the contest of Good and Evil in Creation, as a malignant
+idolatry. Shelley's Chorus in <i>Hellas</i>, "Worlds on worlds," treats the
+subject in a larger and sweeter spirit.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>unshower'd grass</i>: as watered by the Nile only.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 64.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>The Late Massacre</i>: the Vaudois persecution, carried on in 1655 by the
+Duke of Savoy. This "collect in verse," as it has been justly named, is
+the most mighty Sonnet in any language known to the Editor. Readers
+should observe that, unlike our sonnets of the sixteenth century, it is
+constructed , on the original Italian or Provençal model,&mdash;unquestionably
+far superior to the imperfect form employed by Shakespeare and Drummond.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 65.
+</p>
+<p>
+Cromwell returned from Ireland in 1650. Hence the prophecies, not
+strictly fulfilled, of his deference to the Parliament, in stanzas
+21-24.
+</p>
+<p>
+This Ode, beyond doubt one of the finest in our language, and more in
+Milton's style than has been reached by any other poet, is occasionally
+obscure from imitation of the condensed Latin syntax. The meaning of st.
+5 is "rivalry or hostility are the same to a lofty spirit, and
+limitation more hateful than opposition." The allusion in st. 11 is to
+the old physical doctrines of the non-existence of a vacuum and the
+impenetrability of matter:&mdash;in st. 17 to the omen traditionally
+connected with the foundation of the Capitol at Rome. The ancient belief
+that certain years in life complete natural periods and are hence
+peculiarly exposed to death, is introduced in stanza 26 by the word
+<i>climacteric</i>.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 66.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Lycidas</i>. The person lamented is Milton's college friend Edward King,
+drowned in 1637 whilst crossing from Chester to Ireland.
+</p>
+<p>
+Strict Pastoral Poetry was first written or perfected by the Dorian
+Greeks settled in Sicily: but the conventional use of it, exhibited more
+magnificently in <i>Lycidas</i> than in any other pastoral, is apparently of
+Roman origin. Milton, employing the noble freedom of a great artist, has
+here united ancient mythology, with what may be called the modern
+mythology of Camus and Saint Peter,&mdash;to direct Christian images.&mdash;The
+metrical structure of this glorious poem is partly derived from Italian
+models.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Sisters of the sacred well</i>: the Muses, said to frequent the fountain
+Helicon on Mount Parnassus.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Mona</i>: Anglesea, called by the Welsh Inis Dowil or the Dark Island,
+from its dense forests.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Deva</i>: the Dee: a river which probably derived its magical character
+from Celtic traditions: it was long the boundary of Briton and
+Saxon.&mdash;These places are introduced, as being near the scene of the
+shipwreck.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Orpheus</i> was torn to pieces by Thracian women; <i>Amaryllis</i> and <i>Neaera</i>
+names used here for the love idols of poets: as <i>Damoetas</i> previously
+for a shepherd.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>the blind Fury</i>: Atropos, fabled to cut the thread of life.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Arethuse</i> and <i>Mincius</i>: Sicilian and Italian waters here alluded to as
+synonymous with the pastoral poetry of Theocritus and Virgil.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>oat</i>: pipe, used here like Collins' <i>oaten stop</i>, No. 146, for <i>Song</i>.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Hippotades</i>: Aeolus, god of the Winds. <i>Panope</i> a Nereid. The names of
+local deities in the Hellenic mythology express generally some feature
+in the natural landscape, which the Greeks studied and analysed with
+their usual unequalled insight and feeling. Panope represents the
+boundlessness of the ocean-horizon when seen from a height, as compared
+with a limited horizon of the land in hilly countries such as Greece or
+Asia Minor.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Camus</i>: the Cam; put for King's University.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>The sanguine flower</i>: the Hyacinth of the ancients; probably our Iris.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>The pilot</i>: Saint Peter, figuratively introduced as the head of the
+Church on earth, to foretell "the ruin of our corrupted clergy, then in
+their heighth" under Laud's primacy.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>the wolf</i>: Popery.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Alpheus</i>: a stream in Southern Greece, supposed to flow underseas to
+meet the Arethuse.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Swart star</i>: the Dogstar, called swarthy because its heliacal rising in
+ancient times occurred soon after mid-summer.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>moist vows</i>: either tearful prayers, or prayers for one at sea.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Bellerus</i>: a giant, apparently created here by Milton to personify
+Bellerium, the ancient title of the Land's End.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>The great Vision</i>:&mdash;The story was that the Archangel Michael had
+appeared on the rock by Marazion in Mount's Bay which bears his name.
+Milton calls on him to turn his eyes from the south homeward, and to
+pity Lycidas, if his body has drifted into the troubled waters of the
+Land's End. Finisterre being the land due south of Marazion, two places
+in that district (then by our trade with Corunna probably less
+unfamiliar to English ears), are named,&mdash;<i>Namancos</i> now Mujio in
+Galicia, <i>Bayona</i> north of the Minho, or, perhaps a fortified rock (one
+of the <i>Cies</i> Islands) not unlike St. Michael's Mount, at the entrance
+of Vigo Bay.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>ore</i>: rays of golden light. <i>Doric lay</i>: Sicilian, pastoral.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 70.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>The assault</i>: was an attack on London expected in 1642, when the troops
+of Charles I. reached Brentford. "Written on his door" was in the
+original title of this sonnet. Milton was then living in Aldersgate
+Street.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Emathian Conqueror</i>: When Thebes was destroyed (B.C. 335) and the
+citizens massacred by thousands, Alexander ordered the house of Pindar
+to be spared. He was as incapable of appreciating the Poet as Lewis XIV.
+of appreciating Racine: but even the narrow and barbarian mind of
+Alexander could understand the advantage of a showy act of homage to
+Poetry.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>the repeated air \Of sad Electra's poet</i>: Amongst Plutarch's vague
+stories, he says that when the Spartan confederacy in 404 B.C. took
+Athens, a proposal to demolish it was rejected through the effect
+produced on the commanders by hearing part of a chorus from the Electra
+of Euripides sung at a feast. There is however no apparent congruity
+between the lines quoted (167, 8 Ed. Dindorf) and the result ascribed to
+them.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 73.
+</p>
+<p>
+This high-toned and lovely Madrigal is quite in the style, and worthy
+of, the "pure Simonides."
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 75.
+</p>
+<p>
+Vaughan's beautiful though quaint verses should be compared with
+Wordsworth's great Ode, No. 287.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 76.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Favonius</i>: the spring wind.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 77.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Themis</i>: the goddess of justice. Skinner was grandson by his mother to
+Sir E. Coke;&mdash;hence, as pointed out by Mr. Keightley, Milton's allusion
+to the <i>bench</i>.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>what the Swede intends, and what the French</i>: Sweden was then at war
+with Poland, and France with the Spanish Netherlands.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 79.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Sydneian showers</i>: either in allusion to the conversations in the
+"Arcadia," or to Sidney himself as a model of "gentleness" in spirit and
+demeanour.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 84.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Elizabeth of Bohemia</i>: Daughter to James I., and ancestor to Sophia of
+Hanover. These lines are a fine specimen of gallant and courtly
+compliment.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 85.
+</p>
+<p>
+Lady M. Ley was daughter to Sir J. Ley, afterwards Earl of Marlborough,
+who died March, 1628-9, coincidently with the dissolution of the third
+Parliament of Charles's reign. Hence Milton poetically compares his
+death to that of the Orator Isocrates of Athens, after Philip's victory
+in 328 B.C.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poems 92, 93.
+</p>
+<p>
+These are quite a Painter's poems.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 99.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>From Prison</i>: to which his active support of Charles I. twice brought
+the high-spirited writer.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 105.
+</p>
+<p>
+Inserted in Book II. as written in the character of a Soldier of Fortune
+in the Seventeenth Century.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 106.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Waly waly</i>: an exclamation of sorrow, the root and the pronunciation of
+which are preserved in the word <i>caterwaul</i>. <i>Brae</i>: hillside; <i>burn</i>:
+brook; <i>busk</i>: adorn. <i>Saint Anton's Well</i>: at the foot of Arthur's Seat
+by Edinburgh. <i>Cramasie</i>: crimson.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 107.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>burd</i>: maiden.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 108.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>corbies</i>: crows; <i>fail</i>: turf; <i>hause</i>: neck; <i>theek</i>: thatch.
+</p>
+<p>
+If not in their origin, in their present form this and the two preceding
+poems appear due to the Seventeenth Century, and have therefore been
+placed in Book II.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 111.
+</p>
+<p>
+The remark quoted in the note to No. 47 applies equally to these truly
+wonderful verses, which, like "Lycidas," may be regarded as a test of
+any reader's insight into the most poetical aspects of Poetry. The
+general differences between them are vast: but in imaginative intensity
+Marvell and Shelley are closely related. This poem is printed as a
+translation in Marvell's works: but the original Latin is obviously his
+own. The most striking verses in it, here quoted as the book is rare,
+answer more or less to stanzas 2 and 6:
+</p>
+<p>
+Alma Quies, teneo te! et te, germana Quietis, Simplicitas! vos ergo diu
+per templa, per urbes Quaesivi, regum perque alta palatia, frustra: Sed
+vos hortorum per opaca silentia, longe Celarunt plantae virides, et
+concolor umbra.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poems 112&amp;113.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>L'Allegro</i> and <i>Il Penseroso</i>. It is a striking proof of Milton's
+astonishing power, that these, the earliest pure Descriptive Lyrics in
+our language, should still remain the best in a style which so many
+great poets have since attempted. The Bright and the Thoughtful aspects
+of Nature are their subjects: but each is preceded by a mythological
+introduction in a mixed Classical and Italian manner. The meaning of the
+first is that Gaiety is the child of Nature; of the second, that
+Pensiveness is the daughter of Sorrow and Genius.
+</p>
+<p>
+112: Perverse ingenuity has conjectured that for <i>Cerberus</i> we should
+read <i>Erebus</i>, who in the Mythology is brother at once and husband of
+Night. But the issue of this union is not Sadness, but Day and
+Aether:&mdash;completing the circle of primary creation, as the parents are
+both children of Chaos, the first-begotten of all things. (Hesiod.)
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>the mountain nymph</i>: compare Wordsworth's Sonnet, No. 210.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>The clouds in thousand liveries dight</i>: is in <i>apposition</i> to the
+preceding, by a grammatical license not uncommon with Milton.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>tells his tale</i>: counts his flock; <i>Cynosure</i>: the Pole Star; <i>Corydon,
+Thyrsis</i>, etc.: Shepherd names from the old Idylls; <i>Jonson's learned
+sock</i>: the gaiety of our age would find little pleasure in his elaborate
+comedies; <i>Lydian airs</i>: a light and festive style of ancient music.
+</p>
+<p>
+113: <i>bestead</i>: avail.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>starr'd Ethiop queen</i>: Cassiopeia, the legendary Queen of Ethiopia, and
+thence translated amongst the constellations.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Cynthia</i>: the Moon: her chariot is drawn by dragons in ancient
+representations.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Hermes</i>: called Trismegistus, a mystical writer of the Neo-Platonist
+school; <i>Thebes</i>, etc.: subjects of Athenian Tragedy; <i>Buskin'd</i>:
+tragic; <i>Musaeus</i>: a poet in Mythology.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>him that left half told</i>: Chaucer, in his incomplete "Squire's Tale."
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>great bards</i>: Ariosto, Tasso, and Spenser, are here intended.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>frounced</i>: curled; <i>The Attic Boy</i>: Cephalus.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 114.
+</p>
+<p>
+Emigrants supposed to be driven towards America by the government of
+Charles I.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>But apples</i>, etc.: A fine example of Marvell's imaginative hyperbole.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 115.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>concent</i>: harmony.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 123.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>The Bard</i>.: This Ode is founded on a fable that Edward I., after
+conquering Wales, put the native Poets to death. After lamenting his
+comrades (st. 2, 3) the Bard prophesies the fate of Edward II. and the
+conquests of Edward III. (4); his death and that of the Black Prince
+(5): of Richard II, with the wars of York and Lancaster, the murder of
+Henry VI. (the <i>meek usurper</i>), and of Edward V. and his brother (6). He
+turns to the glory and prosperity following the accession of the Tudors
+(7), through Elizabeth's reign (8): and concludes with a vision of the
+poetry of Shakespeare and Milton.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Glo'ster</i>: Gilbert de Clare, son-in-law to Edward; <i>Mortimer</i>: one of
+the Lords Marchers of Wales.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Arvon</i>: the shores of Carnarvonshire opposite Anglesey.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>She-wolf</i>: Isabel of France, adulterous Queen of Edward II.; <i>Towers of
+Julius</i>: the Tower of London, built in part, according to tradition, by
+Julius Caesar.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>bristled boar</i>: the badge of Richard III.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Half of thy heart</i>: Queen Eleanor died soon after the conquest of
+Wales.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Arthur</i>: Henry VII. named his eldest son thus, in deference to British
+feeling and legend.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 125.
+</p>
+<p>
+The Highlanders called the battle of Culloden, Drumossie.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 126.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>lilting</i>: singing blithely; <i>loaning</i>: broad lane; <i>bughts</i>: pens;
+<i>scorning</i>: rallying; <i>dowie</i>: dreary; <i>daffin'</i> and <i>gabbin'</i>: joking
+and chatting; <i>leglin</i>: milkpail; <i>shearing</i>: reaping; <i>bandsters</i>:
+sheaf-binders; <i>lyart</i>: grizzled; <i>runkled</i>: wrinkled; <i>fleeching</i>:
+coaxing; <i>gloaming</i>: twilight; <i>bogle</i>: ghost; <i>dool</i>: sorrow.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 128.
+</p>
+<p>
+The Editor has found no authoritative text of this poem, in his judgment
+superior to any other of its class in melody and pathos. Part is
+probably not later than the seventeenth century: in other stanzas a more
+modern hand, much resembling Scott's, is traceable. Logan's poem (127)
+exhibits a knowledge rather of the old legend than of the old verses.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Hecht</i>: promised, the obsolete <i>hight</i>; <i>mavis</i>: thrush; <i>ilka</i>: every;
+<i>lav'rock</i>: lark; <i>haughs</i>: valley-meadows; <i>twined</i>: parted from;
+<i>marrow</i>: mate; <i>syne</i> then.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 129.
+</p>
+<p>
+The <i>Royal George</i>, of 108 guns, whilst undergoing a partial careening
+in Portsmouth Harbour, was overset about 10 A.M. Aug. 29, 1782. The
+total loss was believed to be near 1000 souls.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 131.
+</p>
+<p>
+A little masterpiece in a very difficult style: Catullus himself could
+hardly have bettered it. In grace, tenderness, simplicity, and humour it
+is worthy of the Ancients; and even more so, from the completeness and
+unity of the picture presented.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 136.
+</p>
+<p>
+Perhaps no writer who has given such strong proofs of the poetic nature
+has left less satisfactory poetry than Thomson. Yet he touched little
+which he did not beautify: and this song, with "Rule Britannia" and a
+few others, must make us regret that he did not more seriously apply
+himself to lyrical writing.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 140.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Aeolian lyre</i>: the Greeks ascribed the origin of their Lyrical Poetry
+to the colonies of Aeolis in Asia Minor.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Thracia's hills</i> supposed a favourite resort of Mars.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Feather'd king</i> the Eagle of Jupiter, admirably described by Pindar in
+a passage here imitated by Gray.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Idalia</i>: in Cyprus, where <i>Cytherea</i> (Venus) was especially worshipped.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Hyperion</i>: the Sun. St. 6-8 allude to the Poets of the Islands and
+Mainland of Greece, to those of Rome and of England.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Theban Eagle</i>: Pindar.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 141.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>chaste-eyed Queen</i>: Diana.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 142.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Attic warbler</i>: the nightingale.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 144.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>sleekit</i>: sleek; <i>bickering brattle</i>: flittering flight; <i>laith</i>: loth;
+<i>pattle</i>: ploughstaff; <i>whyles</i>: at times; <i>a daimen icker</i>: a corn-ear
+now and then; <i>thrave</i>: shock; <i>lave</i>: rest; <i>foggage</i>: aftergrass;
+<i>snell</i>: biting; <i>but hald</i>: without dwelling-place; <i>thole</i>: bear;
+<i>cranreuch</i>: hoarfrost; <i>thy lane</i>: alone; <i>a-gley</i>: off the right
+line, awry.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 147.
+</p>
+<p>
+Perhaps the noblest stanzas in our language.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 148.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>stoure</i>: dust-storm; <i>braw</i>: smart.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 149.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>scaith</i>: hurt; <i>tent</i>: guard; <i>steer</i>: molest.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 151.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>drumlie</i>: muddy; <i>birk</i>: birch.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 152.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>greet</i>: cry; <i>daurna</i>: dare not.&mdash;There can hardly exist a poem more
+truly tragic in the highest sense than this: nor, except Sappho, has any
+Poetess known to the Editor equalled it in excellence.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 153.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>fou</i>: merry with drink; <i>coost</i>: carried; <i>unco skeigh</i>: very proud;
+<i>gart</i>: forced; <i>abeigh</i>: aside; <i>Ailsa craig</i>: a rock in the Firth of
+Clyde; <i>grat his een bleert</i>: cried till his eyes were bleared;
+<i>lowpin</i>: leaping; <i>linn</i>: waterfall; <i>sair</i>: sore; <i>smoor'd</i>:
+smothered; <i>crouse and canty</i>: blythe and gay.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 154.
+</p>
+<p>
+Burns justly named this "one of the most beautiful songs in the Scots or
+any other language." One verse, interpolated by Beattie, is here
+omitted:&mdash;it contains two good lines, but is quite out of harmony with
+the original poem.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Bigonet</i>: little cap, probably altered from <i>beguinette</i>; <i>thraw</i>:
+twist; <i>caller</i>: fresh.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 155.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>airts</i>: quarters; <i>row</i>: roll; <i>shaw</i>: small wood in a hollow, spinney;
+<i>knowes</i>: knolls.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 156.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>jo</i>: sweetheart; <i>brent</i>: smooth; <i>pow</i>: head.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 157.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>leal</i>: faithful; <i>fain</i>: happy.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 158.
+</p>
+<p>
+Henry VI. founded Eton.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 161.
+</p>
+<p>
+The Editor knows no Sonnet more remarkable than this, which, with 162,
+records Cowper's gratitude to the Lady whose affectionate care for many
+years gave what sweetness he could enjoy to a life radically wretched.
+Petrarch's sonnets have a more ethereal grace and a more perfect finish;
+Shakespeare's more passion; Milton's stand supreme in stateliness,
+Wordsworth's in depth and delicacy. But Cowper's unites with an
+exquisiteness in the turn of thought which the ancients would have
+called Irony, an intensity of pathetic tenderness peculiar to his loving
+and ingenuous nature. There is much mannerism, much that is unimportant
+or of now exhausted interest in his poems: but where he is great, it is
+with that elementary greatness which rests on the most universal human
+feelings. Cowper is our highest master in simple pathos.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 163.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>fancied green</i>: cherished garden.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 164.
+</p>
+<p>
+Nothing except his surname appears recoverable with regard to the author
+of this truly noble poem: It should be noted as exhibiting a rare
+excellence,&mdash;the climax of simple sublimity.
+</p>
+<p>
+It is a lesson of high instructiveness to examine the essential
+qualities which give first-rate poetical rank to lyrics such as
+"To-morrow" or "Sally in our Alley," when compared with poems written
+(if the phrase may be allowed) in keys so different as the subtle
+sweetness of Shelley, the grandeur of Gray and Milton, or the delightful
+Pastoralism of the Elizabethan verse. Intelligent readers will gain
+hence a clear understanding of the vast imaginative, range of
+Poetry;&mdash;through what wide oscillations the mind and the taste of a
+nation may pass;&mdash;how many are the roads which Truth and Nature open to
+Excellence.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 166.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>stout Cortez</i>: History requires here Balbóa: (A.T.) It may be noticed,
+that to find in Chapman's Homer the "pure serene" of the original, the
+reader must bring with him the imagination of the youthful poet;&mdash;he
+must be "a Greek himself," as Shelley finely said of Keats.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 169.
+</p>
+<p>
+The most tender and true of Byron's smaller poems.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 170.
+</p>
+<p>
+This poem, with 236, exemplifies the peculiar skill with which Scott
+employs proper names: nor is there a surer sign of high poetical genius.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 191.
+</p>
+<p>
+The Editor in this and in other instances has risked the addition (or
+the change) of a Title, that the aim of the verses following may be
+grasped more clearly and immediately.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 198.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Nature's Eremite</i>: refers to the fable of the Wandering Jew.&mdash;This
+beautiful sonnet was the last word of a poet deserving the title
+"marvellous boy" in a much higher sense than Chatterton. If the
+fulfilment may ever safely be prophesied from the promise, England
+appears to have lost in Keats one whose gifts in Poetry have rarely been
+surpassed. Shakespeare, Milton, and Wordsworth, had their lives been
+closed at twenty-five, would (so far as we know) have left poems of less
+excellence and hope than the youth who, from the petty school and the
+London surgery, passed at once to a place with them of "high collateral
+glory."
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 201.
+</p>
+<p>
+It is impossible not to regret that Moore has written so little in this
+sweet and genuinely national style.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 202.
+</p>
+<p>
+A masterly example of Byron's command of strong thought and close
+reasoning in verse:&mdash;as the next is equally characteristic of Shelley's
+wayward intensity, and 204 of the dramatic power, the vital
+identification of the poet with other times and characters, in which
+Scott is second only to Shakespeare.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 209.
+</p>
+<p>
+Bonnivard, a Genevese, was imprisoned by the Duke of Savoy in Chillon on
+the lake of Geneva for his courageous defence of his country against the
+tyranny with which Piedmont threatened it during the first half of the
+seventeenth century. This noble Sonnet is worthy to stand near Milton's
+on the Vaudois massacre.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 210.
+</p>
+<p>
+Switzerland was usurped by the French under Napoleon in 1800: Venice in
+1797 (211).
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 215.
+</p>
+<p>
+This battle was fought Dec. 2, 1800, between the Austrians under
+Archduke John and the French under Moreau, in a forest near Munich.
+<i>Hohen Linden</i> means <i>High Limetrees</i>.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 218.
+</p>
+<p>
+After the capture of Madrid by Napoleon, Sir J. Moore retreated before
+Soult and Ney to Corunna, and was killed whilst covering the embarcation
+of his troops. His tomb, built by Ney, bears this inscription&mdash;"John
+Moore, leader of the English armies, slain in battle, 1809."
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 229.
+</p>
+<p>
+The Mermaid was the club-house of Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, and other
+choice spirits of that age.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 230.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Maisie</i>: Mary. Scott has given us nothing more complete and lovely than
+this little song, which unites simplicity and dramatic power to a
+wild-wood music of the rarest quality. No moral is drawn, far less any
+conscious analysis of feeling attempted:&mdash;the pathetic meaning is left
+to be suggested by the mere presentiment of the situation. Inexperienced
+critics have often named this, which may be called the Homeric manner,
+superficial, from its apparent simple facility: but first-rate
+excellence in it (as shown here, in 196, 156, and 129) is in truth one
+of the least common triumphs of Poetry.&mdash;This style should be compared
+with what is not less perfect in its way, the searching out of inner
+feeling, the expression of hidden meanings, the revelation of the heart
+of Nature and of the Soul within the Soul,&mdash;the analytical method, in
+short,&mdash;most completely represented by Wordsworth and by Shelley.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 234.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>correi</i>: covert on a hillside; <i>Cumber</i>: trouble.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 235.
+</p>
+<p>
+Two intermediate stanzas have been here omitted. They are very
+ingenious, but, of all poetical qualities, ingenuity is least in
+accordance with pathos.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 243.
+</p>
+<p>
+This poem has an exaltation and a glory, joined with an exquisiteness of
+expression, which place it in the highest rank amongst the many
+masterpieces of its illustrious Author.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 252.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>interlunar swoon</i>: interval of the Moon's invisibility.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 256.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Calpe</i>: Gibraltar; <i>Lofoden</i>: the Maelstrom whirlpool off the N.-W.
+coast of Norway.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 257.
+</p>
+<p>
+This lovely poem refers here and there to a ballad by Hamilton on the
+subject better treated in 127 and 128.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 268.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Arcturi</i>: seemingly used for <i>northern stars</i>.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>And wild roses</i>, etc. Our language has no line modulated with more
+subtle sweetness. A good poet <i>might</i> have written <i>And roses
+wild</i>:&mdash;yet this slight change would disenchant the verse of its peculiar
+beauty.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 270.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Ceres' daughter</i>: Proserpine; <i>God of Torment</i>: Pluto.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 271.
+</p>
+<p>
+This impassioned address expresses Shelley's most rapt imaginations, and
+is the direct modern representative of the feeling which led the Greeks
+to the worship of Nature.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 274.
+</p>
+<p>
+The leading idea of this beautiful description of a day's landscape in
+Italy is expressed with an obscurity not unfrequent with its author. It
+appears to be,&mdash;On the voyage of life are many moments of pleasure,
+given by the sight of Nature, who has power to heal even the worldliness
+and the uncharity of man.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Amphitrite</i> was daughter to Ocean.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Sun-girt City</i>: It is difficult not to believe that the correct reading
+is <i>Seagirt</i>. Many of Shelley's poems appear to have been printed in
+England during his residence abroad: others were printed from his
+manuscripts after his death. Hence probably the text of no English Poet
+after 1660 contains so many errors. See the Note on No. 9.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 275.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>Maenad</i>: a frenzied Nymph, attendant on Dionysus in the Greek
+mythology.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>The sea-blooms</i>, etc.: Plants under water sympathise with the seasons
+of the laud, and hence with the winds which affect them.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 276.
+</p>
+<p>
+Written soon after the death, by shipwreck, of Wordsworth's brother
+John. This Poem should be compared with Shelley's following it. Each is
+the most complete expression of the innermost spirit of his art given by
+these great Poets:&mdash;of that Idea which, as in the case of the true
+Painter (to quote the words of Reynolds), "subsists only in the mind:
+The sight never beheld it, nor has the hand expressed it; it is an idea
+residing in the breast of the artist, which he is always labouring to
+impart, and which he dies at last without imparting."
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 278.
+</p>
+<p>
+Proteus represented the everlasting changes united with ever-recurrent
+sameness, of the Sea.
+</p>
+<p>
+Poem 279.
+</p>
+<p>
+<i>the Royal Saint</i>: Henry VI.
+</p>
+<pre>
+
+
+   INDEX OF WRITERS.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+   WITH DATES OF BIRTH AND DEATH.
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+   ALEXANDER, William (1580-1640) 22
+
+   BACON, Francis (1561-1626) 57
+   BARBAULD, Anna Laetitia (1743-1825) 165
+   BARNEFIELD, Richard (16th Century) 34
+   BEAUMONT, Francis (1586-1616) 67
+   BURNS, Robert (1759-1796) 125, 132, 139, 144, 148, 149, 150, 151, 153,
+   155, 156
+   BYRON, George Gordon Noel (1788-1824) 169, 171, 173 190, 202; 209, 222,
+   232
+
+   CAMPBELL, Thomas (1777-1844) 181, 183, 187, 197, 206, 207, 215, 256,
+   262, 267, 283
+   CAREW, Thomas (1589-1639) 87
+   CAREY, Henry (&mdash; -1743) 131
+   CIBBER, Colley (1671-1757) 119
+   COLERIDGE, Hartley (1796-1849) 175
+   COLERIDGE, Samuel Taylor (1772-1834) 168, 280
+   COLLINS, William (1720-1756) 124, 141, 146
+   COLLINS, &mdash;- (18th Century) 164
+   CONSTABLE, Henry (156-?-1604?) 15
+   COWLEY, Abraham (1618-1667) 102
+   COWPER, William (1731-1800) 129, 134, 143, 160, 161, 162
+   CRASHAW, Richard (1615?-1652) 79
+   CUNNINGHAM, Allan (1784-1842) 205
+
+   DANIEL, Samuel (1562-1619) 35
+   DEKKER, Thomas (&mdash; -1638?) 54
+   DRAYTON, Michael (1563-1631) 37
+   DRUMMOND, William (1585-1649) 2, 38, 43, 55, 58, 59, 61
+   DRYDEN, John (1631-1700) 63, 116
+
+   ELLIOTT, Jane (18th Century) 126
+
+   FLETCHER, John (1576-1625) 104
+
+   GAY, John (1688-1732) 130
+   GOLDSMITH, Oliver (1728-1774) 138
+   GRAHAM, &mdash;- (1735-1797) 133
+   GRAY, Thomas (1716-1771) 117, 120, 123, 140, 142, 147, 158, 159
+
+   HERBERT, George (1593-1632) 74
+   HERRICK, Robert (1591-1674?) 82, 88, 92, 93, 96, 109, 110
+   HEYWOOD, Thomas (&mdash; -1649?) 52
+   HOOD, Thomas (1798-1845) 224, 231, 235
+
+   JONSON, Ben (1574-1637) 73, 78, 90
+
+   KEATS, John (1795-1821) 166, 167, 191, 193, 198, 229, 244, 255, 270, 284
+
+   LAMB, Charles (1775-1835) 220, 233, 237
+   LINDSAY, Anne (1750-1825) 152
+   LODGE, Thomas (1556-1625) 16
+   LOGAN, John (1748-1788) 127
+   LOVELACE, Richard (1618-1658) 83, 99, 100
+   LYLYE, John (1554-1600) 51
+
+   MARLOWE, Christopher (1562-1593) 5
+   MARVELL, Andrew (1620-1678) 65, 111, 114
+   MICKLE, William Julius (1734-1788) 154
+   MILTON, John (1608-1674) 62, 64, 66, 70, 71, 76, 77, 85, 112, 113, 115
+   MOORE, Thomas (1780-1852) 185, 201, 217, 221, 225
+
+   NAIRN, Carolina (1766-1845) 157
+   NASH, Thomas (1567-1601?) 1
+
+   PHILIPS, Ambrose (1671-1749) 121
+   POPE, Alexander (1688-1744) 118
+   PRIOR, Matthew (1664-1721) 137
+
+   ROGERS, Samuel (1762-1855) 135, 145
+
+   SCOTT, Walter (1771-1832) 105, 170, 182, 186, 192, 194, 196, 204, 230,
+   234, 236, 239, 263
+   SEDLEY, Charles (1639-1701) 81, 98
+   SEWELL, George (&mdash; -1726) 163
+   SHAKESPEARE, William (1564-1616) 3, 4, 6, 7, 8, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 18,
+   19, 20, 23, 24, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 36, 39, 42, 44, 45, 46, 48, 49
+   50, 56, 60
+   SHELLEY, Percy Bysshe (1792-1822) 172, 176, 184, 188, 195, 203, 226,
+   227, 241, 246, 252, 259, 260, 264, 265, 268, 271, 274, 275, 277, 285,
+   288
+   SHIRLEY, James (1596-1666) 68, 69
+   SIDNEY, Philip (1554-1586) 24
+   SOUTHEY, Robert (1774-1843) 216, 228
+   SPENSER, Edmund (1553-1598/9) 53
+   SUCKLING, John (1608/9-1641) 101
+   SYLVESTER, Joshua (1563-1618) 25
+   THOMSON, James (1700-1748) 122, 136
+
+   VAUGHAN, Henry (1621-1695) 75
+   VERE, Edward (1534-1604) 41
+
+   WALLER, Edmund (1605-1687) 89, 95
+   WEBSTER, John (&mdash; -1638?) 47
+   WITHER, George (1588-1667) 103
+   WOLFE, Charles (1791-1823) 218
+   WORDSWORTH, William (1770-1850) 174, 177, 178, 179, 180, 189, 200, 208,
+   210, 211, 212, 213, 214, 219, 223, 238, 240, 242, 243, 245, 247, 248,
+   249, 250, 251, 253, 254, 257, 258, 261, 266, 269, 272, 273, 276, 278,
+   279, 281, 282, 286, 287
+   WOTTON, Henry (1568-1639) 72, 84
+   WYAT, Thomas (1503-1542) 21, 33
+
+   UNKNOWN: 9, 17, 40, 80, 86, 91, 94, 97, 106, 107, 108, 128
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+   INDEX OF FIRST LINES.
+
+   Absence, hear thou my protestation
+   A Chieftain to the Highlands bound
+   A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by
+   Ah, Chloris! could I now but sit
+   Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh
+   All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd
+   All thoughts, all passions, all delights
+   And are ye sure the news is true?
+   And is this Yarrow?&mdash;This the Stream
+   And thou art dead, as young and fair
+   And wilt thou leave me thus?
+   Ariel to Miranda:&mdash;Take
+   Art thou pale for weariness
+   Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?
+   As it fell upon a day
+   As I was walking all alane
+   A slumber did my spirit seal
+   As slow our ship her foamy track
+   A sweet disorder in the dress
+   At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears
+    At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly
+   Avenge, O Lord! Thy slaughter'd Saints, whose bones
+   Awake, Aeolian lyre, awake
+   Awake, awake, my Lyre!
+   A weary lot is thine, fair maid
+   A wet sheet and a flowing sea
+   A widow bird sate mourning for her Love
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+   Bards of Passion and of Mirth
+   Beauty sat bathing by a spring
+   Behold her, single in the field
+   Being your slave, what should I do but tend
+   Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed
+   Best and brightest, come away
+   Bid me to live, and I will live
+   Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy
+   Blow, blow, thou winter wind
+   Bright Star! would I were steadfast as thou art
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+   Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren
+   Calm was the day, and through the trembling air
+   Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in Arms
+   Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night
+   Come away, come away, death
+   Come live with me and be my Love
+   Crabbed Age and Youth
+   Cupid and my Campaspe play'd
+   Cyriack, whose grandsire, on the royal bench
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+   Daughter of Jove, relentless power
+   Daughter to that good earl, once President
+   Degenerate Douglas! O the unworthy lord!
+   Diaphenia like the daffadowndilly
+   Doth then the world go thus, doth all thus move?
+   Down in yon garden sweet and gay
+   Drink to me only with thine eyes
+   Duncan Gray cam here to woo
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+   Earl March look'd on his dying child
+   Earth has not anything to show more fair
+   Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind!
+   Ethereal Minstrel! Pilgrim of the sky!
+   Ever let the Fancy roam
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+   Fair Daffodils, we weep to see
+   Fair pledges of a fruitful tree
+   Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing
+   Fear no more the heat o' the sun
+   For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove
+   Forget not yet the tried intent
+   Four Seasons fill the measure of the year
+   From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony
+   From Stirling Castle we had seen
+   Full fathom five thy father lies
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+   Gather ye rose-buds while ye may
+   Gem of the crimson-colour'd Even
+   Go fetch to me a pint o' wine
+   Go, lovely Rose!
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+   Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
+   Happy the man, whose wish and care
+   Happy those early days, when I
+   He is gone on the mountain
+   He that loves a rosy cheek
+   Hence, all you vain delights
+   Hence, loathéd Melancholy
+   Hence, vain deluding Joys
+   How delicious is the winning
+   How happy is he born and taught
+   How like a winter hath my absence been
+   How sleep the Brave, who sink to rest
+   How sweet the answer Echo makes
+   How vainly men themselves amaze
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+   I am monarch of all I survey
+   I arise from dreams of thee
+   I dream'd that as I wander'd by the way
+   If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song
+   If doughty deeds my lady please
+   I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden
+   If Thou survive my well-contented day
+   If to be absent were to be
+   If women could be fair, and yet not fond
+   I have had playmates, I have had companions
+   I heard a thousand blended notes
+   I met a traveller from an antique land
+   I'm wearing awa', Jean
+   In a drear-nighted December
+   In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining
+   In the sweet shire of Cardigan
+   I remember, I remember
+   I saw where in the shroud did lurk
+   It is a beauteous evening, calm and free
+   It is not Beauty I demand
+   It is not growing like a tree
+   I travell'd among unknown men
+   It was a lover and his lass
+   It was a summer evening
+   I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking
+   I wander'd lonely as a cloud
+   I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile!
+   I wish I were where Helen lies
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+   John Anderson, my jo, John
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+   Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son
+   Let me not to the marriage of true minds
+   Life! I know not what thou art
+   Life of Life! thy lips enkindle
+   Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore
+   Like to the clear in highest sphere
+   Love not me for comely grace
+   Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+   Many a green isle needs must be
+   Mary! I want a lyre with other strings
+   Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour
+   Mine be a cot beside the hill
+   Mortality, behold and fear
+   Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes
+   Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold
+   Music, when soft voices die
+   My days among the Dead are past
+   My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
+   My heart leaps up when I behold
+   My Love in her attire doth show her wit
+   My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow
+   My thoughts hold mortal strife
+   My true-love hath my heart, and I have his
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+   No longer mourn for me when I am dead
+   Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note
+   Not, Celia, that I juster am
+   Now the golden Morn aloft
+   Now the last day of many days
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+   O blithe new-comer! I have heard
+   O Brignall banks are wild and fair
+   Of all the girls that are so smart
+   Of a' the airts the wind can blaw
+   Of Nelson and the North
+   O Friend! I know not which way I must look
+   Of this fair volume which we World do name
+   Oft in the stilly night
+   O if thou knew'st how thou thyself dost harm
+   Oh, lovers' eyes are sharp to see
+   Oh, snatch'd away in beauty's bloom!
+   O listen, listen, ladies gay!
+   O Mary, at thy window be
+   O me! what eyes hath love put in my head
+   O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
+   O my Luve's like a red, red rose
+   On a day, alack the day!
+   On a Poet's lips I slept
+   Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee
+   One more Unfortunate
+   One word is too often profaned
+   O never say that I was false of heart
+   On Linden, when the sun was low
+   O saw ye bonnie Lesley
+   O say what is that thing call'd Light
+   O talk not to me of a name great in story
+   Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd
+   Over the mountains
+   O waly waly up the bank
+   O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms
+   O Wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being
+   O World! O Life! O Time!
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+   Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day
+   Phoebus, arise!
+   Pibroch of Donuil Dhu
+   Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth
+   Proud Maisie is in the wood
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+   Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+   Rarely, rarely, comest thou
+   Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+   Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness
+   Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
+   Shall I, wasting in despair
+   She dwelt among the untrodden ways
+   She is not fair to outward view
+   She walks in beauty, like the night
+   She was a phantom of delight
+   Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea
+   Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part
+   Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile
+   Souls of Poets dead and gone
+   Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king
+   Star that bringest home the bee
+   Stern Daughter of the voice of God!
+   Surprised by joy&mdash;impatient as the wind
+   Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes
+   Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower
+   Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade
+   Swiftly walk over the western wave
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+   Take, O take those lips away
+   Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense
+   Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind
+   Tell me where is Fancy bred
+   That time of year thou may'st in me behold
+   That which her slender waist confined
+   The curfew tolls the knell of parting day
+   The forward youth that would appear
+   The fountains mingle with the river
+   The glories of our blood and state
+   The last and greatest Herald of Heaven's King
+   The lovely lass o' Inverness
+   The merchant, to secure his treasure
+   The more we live, more brief appear
+   The poplars are fell'd! farewell to the shade
+   The sun is warm, the sky is clear
+   The sun upon the lake is low
+   The twentieth year is well-nigh past
+   The World is too much with us; late and soon
+   The World's a bubble, and the Life of Man
+   There be none of Beauty's daughters
+   There is a flower, the lesser Celandine
+   There is a garden in her face
+   There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away
+   There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream
+   They that have power to hurt, and will do none
+   This is the month, and this the happy morn
+   This life, which seems so fair
+   Three years she grew in sun and shower
+   Thy braes were bonnie, Yarrow stream
+   Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright
+   Timely blossom, Infant fair
+   Tired with all these, for restful death I cry
+   Toll for the brave
+   To me, fair Friend, you never can be old
+   'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won
+   'Twas on a lofty vase's side
+   Two Voices are there, one is of the Sea
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+   Under the greenwood tree
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+   Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying
+   Victorious men of earth, no more
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+   Waken, lords and ladies gay
+   Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie
+   Were I as base as is the lowly plain
+   We talk'd with open heart, and tongue
+   We walk'd along, while bright and red
+   We watch'd her breathing thro' the night
+   Whenas in silks my Julia goes
+   When Britain first at Heaven's command
+   When first the fiery-mantled Sun
+   When God at first made Man
+   When he who adores thee has left but the name
+   When icicles hang by the wall
+   When I consider how my light is spent
+   When I have borne in memory what has tamed
+   When I have fears that I may cease to be
+   When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced
+   When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes
+   When in the chronicle of wasted time
+   When lovely woman stoops to folly
+   When Love with unconfined wings
+   When maidens such as Hester die
+   When Music, heavenly maid, was young
+   When Ruth was left half desolate
+   When the lamp is shatter'd
+   When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame
+   When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
+   When we two parted
+   Where art thou, my beloved Son
+   Where shall the lover rest
+   Where the remote Bermudas ride
+   While that the sun with his beams hot
+   Whoe'er she be
+   Why art thou silent? Is thy love a plant
+   Why, Damon, with the forward day
+   Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
+   Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?
+   With little here to do or see
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+   Ye banks and braes and streams around
+   Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon
+   Ye distant spires, ye antique towers
+   Ye Mariners of England
+   Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!
+   Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more
+   You meaner beauties of the night
+</pre>
+<br><br><pre>
+   Corrections to Collins edition:
+
+   Poem 143&mdash;"W. COUPER" to "W. COWPER"
+   Poem 274&mdash;"like a green see" to "like a green sea"
+   Poem 280&mdash;"woful Ere" to "woeful Ere"
+   Palgrave's Notes&mdash;Poem 62: "mythe" to "myth"
+   Palgrave's Notes&mdash;Poem 85: "Parliamant" to "Parliament"
+   Palgrave's Notes&mdash;Poem 140: "Acolian lyre" to "Aeolian lyre"
+   Palgrave's Notes&mdash;Poem 140: "were Cytheria" to "where Cytheria"
+   Palgrave's Notes&mdash;Poem 275: "Geeek" to "Greek"
+</pre>
+
+<br />
+<br />
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Golden Treasury, by Various
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Golden Treasury, by Various
+
+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: The Golden Treasury
+       Of the Best Songs and Lyrical Poems in the English Language
+
+Author: Various
+
+Release Date: September 9, 2006 [EBook #19221]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GOLDEN TREASURY ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by James Tenison
+
+
+
+
+
+THE GOLDEN TREASURY
+
+Of the best Songs and Lyrical Pieces
+In the English Language
+
+
+Selected by Francis Turner Palgrave
+
+
+Illustrated by  A. Pearse
+
+
+London and Glasgow
+Collins' Clear-Type Press
+
+
+
+
+DEDICATION
+
+To
+
+ALFRED TENNYSON
+
+POET LAUREATE.
+
+
+This book in its progress has recalled often to my memory a man with
+whose friendship we were once honoured, to whom no region of English
+literature was unfamiliar, and who, whilst rich in all the noble gifts
+of nature, was most eminently distinguished by the noblest and the
+rarest,--just judgment and high-hearted patriotism. It would have been
+hence a peculiar pleasure and pride to dedicate what I have endeavoured
+to make a true national Anthology of three centuries to Henry Hallam.
+But he is beyond the reach of any human tokens of love and reverence;
+and I desire therefore to place before it a name united with his by
+associations which, whilst Poetry retains her hold on the minds of
+Englishmen, are not likely to be forgotten.
+
+Your encouragement, given while traversing the wild scenery of Treryn
+Dinas, led me to begin the work; and it has been completed under your
+advice and assistance. For the favour now asked I have thus a second
+reason: and to this I may add, the homage which is your right as Poet,
+and the gratitude due to a Friend, whose regard I rate at no common
+value.
+
+Permit me then to inscribe to yourself a book which, I hope, may be
+found by many a lifelong fountain of innocent and exalted pleasure; a
+source of animation to friends when they meet; and able to sweeten
+solitude itself with best society,--with the companionship of the wise
+and the good, with the beauty which the eye cannot see, and the music
+only heard in silence. If this Collection proves a store-house of
+delight to Labour and to Poverty,--if it teaches those indifferent to
+the Poets to love them, and those who love them to love them more, the
+aim and the desire entertained in framing it will be fully accomplished.
+
+F.T.P.
+May, 1861.
+
+
+
+PREFACE.
+
+This little Collection differs, it is believed, from others in the
+attempt made to include in it all the best original Lyrical pieces and
+Songs in our language, by writers not living,--and none beside the best.
+Many familiar verses will hence be met with; many also which should be
+familiar:--the Editor will regard as his fittest readers those who love
+Poetry so well, that he can offer them nothing not already known and
+valued. For those who take up the book in a serious and scholarly
+spirit, the following remarks on the plan and the execution are added.
+
+The Editor is acquainted with no strict and exhaustive definition of
+Lyrical Poetry; but he has found the task of practical decision increase
+in clearness and in facility as he advanced with the work, whilst
+keeping in view a few simple principles. Lyrical has been here held
+essentially to imply that each Poem shall turn on some single thought,
+feeling, or situation. In accordance with this, narrative, descriptive,
+and didactic poems,--unless accompanied by rapidity of movement,
+brevity, and the colouring of human passion,--have been excluded.
+Humorous poetry, except in the very unfrequent instances where a truly
+poetical tone pervades the whole, with what is strictly personal,
+occasional, and religious, has been considered foreign to the idea of
+the book. Blank verse and the ten-syllable couplet, with all pieces
+markedly dramatic, have been rejected as alien from what is commonly
+understood by Song, and rarely conforming to Lyrical conditions in
+treatment. But it is not anticipated, nor is it possible, that all
+readers shall think the line accurately drawn. Some poems, as Gray's
+_Elegy_, the _Allegro_ and _Penseroso_, Wordsworth's _Ruth_ or
+Campbell's _Lord Ullin_, might be claimed with perhaps equal justice for
+a narrative or descriptive selection: whilst with reference especially
+to Ballads and Sonnets, the Editor can only state that he has taken his
+utmost pains to decide without caprice or partiality.
+
+This also is all he can plead in regard to a point even more liable to
+question;--what degree of merit should give rank among the Best. That a
+Poem shall be worthy of the writer's genius,--that it shall reach a
+perfection commensurate with its aim,--that we should require finish in
+proportion to brevity,--that passion, colour, and originality cannot
+atone for serious imperfections in clearness, unity, or truth,--that a
+few good lines do not make a good poem,--that popular estimate is
+serviceable as a guidepost more than as a compass,--above all, that
+Excellence should be looked for rather in the Whole than in the
+Parts,--such and other such canons have been always steadily regarded.
+He may however add that the pieces chosen, and a far larger number
+rejected, have been carefully and repeatedly considered; and that he has
+been aided throughout by two friends of independent and exercised
+judgment, besides the distinguished person addressed in the Dedication.
+It is hoped that by this procedure the volume has been freed from that
+one-sidedness which must beset individual decisions:--but for the final
+choice the Editor is alone responsible.
+
+Chalmers' vast collection, with the whole works of all accessible poets
+not contained in it, and the best Anthologies of different periods, have
+been twice systematically read through: and it is hence improbable that
+any omissions which may be regretted are due to oversight. The poems are
+printed entire, except in a very few instances (specified in the notes)
+where a stanza has been omitted. The omissions have been risked only
+when the piece could be thus brought to a closer lyrical unity: and, as
+essentially opposed to this unity, extracts, obviously such, are
+excluded. In regard to the text, the purpose of the book has appeared to
+justify the choice of the most poetical version, wherever more than one
+exists: and much labour has been given to present each poem, in
+disposition, spelling, and punctuation, to the greatest advantage.
+
+In the arrangement, the most poetically effective order has been
+attempted. The English mind has passed through phases of thought and
+cultivation so various and so opposed during these three centuries of
+Poetry, that a rapid passage between Old and New, like rapid alteration
+of the eye's focus in looking at the landscape, will always be wearisome
+and hurtful to the sense of Beauty. The poems have been therefore
+distributed into Books corresponding, I. to the ninety years closing
+about 1616, II. thence to 1700, III. to 1800, IV. to the half century
+just ended. Or, looking at the Poets who more or less give each portion
+its distinctive character, they might be called the Books of
+Shakespeare, Milton, Gray, and Wordsworth. The volume, in this respect,
+so far as the limitations of its range allow, accurately reflects the
+natural growth and evolution of our Poetry. A rigidly chronological
+sequence, however, rather fits a collection aiming at instruction than
+at pleasure, and the Wisdom which comes through Pleasure:--within each
+book the pieces have therefore been arranged in gradations of feeling or
+subject. The development of the symphonies of Mozart and Beethoven has
+been here thought of as a model, and nothing placed without careful
+consideration. And it is hoped that the contents of this Anthology will
+thus be found to present a certain unity, "as episodes," in the noble
+language of Shelley, "to that great Poem which all poets, like the
+co-operating thoughts of one great mind, have built up since the
+beginning of the world."
+
+As he closes his long survey, the Editor trusts he may add without
+egotism, that he has found the vague general verdict of popular Fame
+more just than those have thought, who, with too severe a criticism,
+would confine judgments on Poetry to "the selected few of many
+generations." Not many appear to have gained reputation without some
+gift or performance that, in due degree, deserved it: and if no verses
+by certain writers who show less strength than sweetness, or more
+thought than mastery in expression, are printed in this volume, it
+should not be imagined that they have been excluded without much
+hesitation and regret,--far less that they have been slighted.
+Throughout this vast and pathetic array of Singers now silent, few have
+been honoured with the name Poet, and have not possessed a skill in
+words, a sympathy with beauty, a tenderness of feeling, or seriousness
+in reflection, which render their works, although never perhaps
+attaining that loftier and finer excellence here required,--better worth
+reading than much of what fills the scanty hours that most men spare for
+self-improvement, or for pleasure in any of its more elevated and
+permanent forms.
+
+And if this be true of even mediocre poetry, for how much more are we
+indebted to the best! Like the fabled fountain of the Azores, but with a
+more various power, the magic of this Art can confer on each period of
+life its appropriate blessing: on early years Experience, on maturity
+Calm, on age Youthfulness. Poetry gives treasures "more golden than
+gold," leading us in higher and healthier ways than those of the world,
+and interpreting to us the lessons of Nature. But she speaks best for
+herself. Her true accents, if the plan has been executed with success,
+may be heard throughout the following pages:-wherever the Poets of
+England are honoured, wherever the dominant language of the world is
+spoken, it is hoped that they will find fit audience.
+
+F. T. PALGRAVE.
+
+
+
+
+THE GOLDEN TREASURY.
+
+
+
+
+FIRST BOOK.
+
+SUMMARY.
+
+
+The Elizabethan Poetry, as it is rather vaguely termed, forms the
+substance of this Book, which contains pieces from Wyat under Henry
+VIII. to Shakespeare midway through the reign of James I., and Drummond
+who carried on the early manner to a still later period. There is here a
+wide range of style;--from simplicity expressed in a language hardly yet
+broken in to verse,--through the pastoral fancies and Italian conceits
+of the strictly Elizabethan time,--to the passionate reality of
+Shakespeare: yet a general uniformity of tone prevails. Few readers can
+fail to observe the natural sweetness of the verse, the single-hearted
+straightforwardness of the thoughts:--nor less, the limitation of
+subject to the many phases of one passion, which then characterised our
+lyrical poetry,--unless when, as with Drummond and Shakespeare, the
+"purple light of Love" is tempered by a spirit of sterner reflection.
+
+It should be observed that this and the following Summaries apply in the
+main to the Collection here presented, in which (besides its restriction
+to Lyrical Poetry) a strictly representative or historical Anthology has
+not been aimed at. Great Excellence, in human art as in human character,
+has from the beginning of things been even more uniform than Mediocrity,
+by virtue of the closeness of its approach to Nature:--and so far as the
+standard of Excellence kept in view has been attained in this volume, a
+comparative absence of extreme or temporary phases in style, a
+similarity of tone and manner, will be found throughout:--something
+neither modern nor ancient but true in all ages, and like the works of
+Creation perfect as on the first day.
+
+
+
+
+     1. SPRING.
+
+     Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king;
+     Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
+     Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,
+     Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
+
+     The palm and may make country houses gay,
+     Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
+     And we hear aye birds tune their merry lay,
+       Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
+
+     The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
+     Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
+     In every street these tunes our ears do greet,
+       Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
+          Spring, the sweet Spring!
+
+     T. NASH.
+
+
+
+
+     2. SUMMONS TO LOVE.
+
+     Phoebus, arise!
+     And paint the sable skies
+     With azure, white, and red:
+     Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed
+     That she may thy career with roses spread:
+     The nightingales thy coming eachwhere sing:
+     Make an eternal spring!
+     Give life to this dark world which lieth dead;
+     Spread forth thy golden hair
+     In larger locks than thou wast wont before,
+     And emperor-like decore
+     With diadem of pearl thy temples fair:
+     Chase hence the ugly night
+     Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light.
+
+     --This is that happy morn,
+     That day, long wished day
+     Of all my life so dark,
+     (If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn
+     And fates not hope betray),
+     Which, purely white, deserves
+     An everlasting diamond should it mark.
+     This is the morn should bring unto this grove
+     My Love, to hear and recompense my love.
+     Fair King, who all preserves,
+     But show thy blushing beams,
+     And thou two sweeter eyes
+     Shalt see than those which by Peneus' streams
+     Did once thy heart surprize.
+     Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise:
+     If that ye winds would hear
+     A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre,
+     Your furious chiding stay;
+     Let Zephyr only breathe
+     And with her tresses play.
+     --The winds all silent are,
+     And Phoebus in his chair
+     Ensaffroning sea and air
+     Makes vanish every star:
+     Night like a drunkard reels
+     Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels:
+     The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue,
+     The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue;
+     Here is the pleasant place--
+     And nothing wanting is, save She, alas.
+
+     WILLIAM DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN.
+
+
+
+
+     3. TIME AND LOVE.
+
+     When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced
+     The rich proud cost of out-worn buried age;
+     When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed,
+     And brass eternal slave to mortal rage.
+
+     When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
+     Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
+     And the firm soil win of the watery main,
+     Increasing store with loss, and loss with store.
+
+     When I have seen such interchange of state,
+     Or state itself confounded to decay,
+     Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate--
+     That Time will come and take my Love away.
+
+     --This thought is as a death, which cannot choose
+     But weep to have that which it fears to lose.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     4.
+
+     Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
+     But sad mortality o'ersways their power,
+     How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
+     Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
+
+     O how shall summer's honey breath hold out,
+     Against the wreckful siege of battering days,
+     When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
+     Nor gates of steel so strong but time decays?
+
+     O fearful meditation, where, alack!
+     Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?
+     Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back,
+     Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
+
+     O! none, unless this miracle have might,
+     That in black ink my love may still shine bright.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     5. THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.
+
+     Come live with me and be my Love,
+     And we will all the pleasures prove
+     That hills and valleys, dale and field,
+     And all the craggy mountains yield.
+
+     There will we sit upon the rocks
+     And see the shepherds feed their flocks
+     By shallow rivers, to whose falls
+     Melodious birds sing madrigals.
+
+     There will I make thee beds of roses
+     And a thousand fragrant posies,
+     A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
+     Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.
+
+     A gown made of the finest wool,
+     Which from our pretty lambs we pull,
+     Fair-lined slippers for the cold,
+     With buckles of the purest gold.
+
+     A belt of straw and ivy-buds
+     With coral clasps and amber studs:
+     And if these pleasures may thee move,
+     Come live with me and be my Love.
+
+     Thy silver dishes for thy meat
+     As precious as the gods do eat,
+     Shall on an ivory table be
+     Prepared each day for thee and me.
+
+     The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
+     For thy delight each May-morning:
+     If these delights thy mind may move,
+     Then live with me and be my Love.
+
+     C. MARLOWE.
+
+
+
+
+     6. A MADRIGAL.
+
+       Crabbed Age and Youth
+       Cannot live together:
+       Youth is full of pleasance,
+       Age is full of care;
+       Youth like summer morn,
+       Age like winter weather;
+       Youth like summer brave,
+       Age like winter bare:
+       Youth is full of sport,
+       Age's breath is short,
+       Youth is nimble, Age is lame:
+       Youth is hot and bold,
+       Age is weak and cold;
+       Youth is wild, and Age is tame:--
+       Age, I do abhor thee,
+       Youth, I do adore thee;
+       O! my Love, my Love is young!
+       Age, I do defy thee--
+       O, sweet shepherd, hie thee,
+       For methinks thou stay'st too long.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     7.
+
+       Under the greenwood tree
+       Who loves to lie with me,
+       And tune his merry note
+       Unto the sweet bird's throat--
+     Come hither, come hither, come hither!
+          Here shall we see
+          No enemy
+     But winter and rough weather.
+
+       Who doth ambition shun
+       And loves to live i' the sun,
+       Seeking the food he eats
+       And pleased with what he gets--
+     Come hither, come hither, come hither!
+          Here shall he see
+          No enemy
+     But winter and rough weather.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     8.
+
+     It was a lover and his lass
+       With a hey, and a ho, and a hey-nonino!
+     That o'er the green cornfield did pass,
+     In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,
+     When birds do sing hey ding a ding:
+       Sweet lovers love the Spring.
+     Between the acres of the rye
+     These pretty country folks would lie:
+     This carol they began that hour,
+     How that life was but a flower:
+     And therefore take the present time
+       With a hey, and a ho, and a hey-nonino!
+     For love is crowned with the prime
+     In spring time, the only pretty ring time,
+     When birds do sing, hey ding a ding;
+       Sweet lovers love the Spring.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     9. PRESENT IN ABSENCE.
+
+     Absence, hear thou my protestation
+          Against thy strength,
+          Distance, and length:
+     Do what thou canst for alteration:
+       For hearts of truest mettle
+     Absence doth join, and Time doth settle.
+
+     Who loves a mistress of such quality,
+          He soon hath found
+          Affection's ground
+     Beyond time, place, and all mortality.
+       To hearts that cannot vary
+     Absence is Presence, Time doth tarry.
+
+     By absence this good means I gain,
+          That I can catch her,
+          Where none can watch her,
+     In some close corner of my brain:
+       There I embrace and kiss her,
+     And so I both enjoy and miss her.
+
+     ANON.
+
+
+
+
+     10. ABSENCE.
+
+     Being your slave what should I do but tend
+     Upon the hours and times of your desire?
+     I have no precious time at all to spend,
+     Nor services to do, till you require:
+
+     Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour
+     Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
+     Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
+     When you have bid your servant once adieu:
+
+     Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
+     Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
+     But like a sad slave, stay and think of nought
+     Save where you are, how happy you make those;--
+
+     So true a fool is love, that in your will,
+     Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     11.
+
+     How like a winter hath my absence been
+     From Thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
+     What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen,
+     What old December's bareness everywhere!
+
+     And yet this time removed was summer's time:
+     The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
+     Bearing the wanton burden of the prime
+     Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:
+
+     Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me
+     But hope of orphans, and unfather'd fruit;
+     For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
+     And, thou away, the very birds are mute;
+
+     Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer,
+     That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     12. A CONSOLATION.
+
+     When in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes
+     I all alone beweep my outcast state,
+     And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
+     And look upon myself, and curse my fate;
+
+     Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
+     Featured like him, like him with friends possest,
+     Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
+     With what I most enjoy contented least;
+
+     Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising,
+     Haply I think on Thee--and then my state,
+     Like to the lark at break of day arising
+     From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
+
+     For thy sweet love remember'd, such wealth brings
+     That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     13. THE UNCHANGEABLE.
+
+     O never say that I was false of heart,
+     Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify:
+     As easy might I from my self depart
+     As from my soul which in thy breast doth lie;
+
+     That is my home of love, if I have ranged,
+     Like him that travels, I return again,
+     Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,
+     So that myself bring water for my stain.
+
+     Never believe, though in my nature reign'd
+     All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
+     That it could so preposterously be stain'd
+     To leave for nothing all thy sum of good:
+
+     For nothing this wide universe I call,
+     Save thou, my rose, in it thou art my all.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     14.
+
+     To me, fair Friend, you never can be old,
+     For as you were when first your eye I eyed
+     Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold
+     Have from the forests shook three summers' pride;
+
+     Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd,
+     In process of the seasons have I seen,
+     Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,
+     Since first I saw you fresh which yet are green.
+
+     Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial hand,
+     Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived;
+     So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
+     Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived:
+
+     For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred,--
+     Ere you were born, was beauty's summer dead.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     15. DIAPHENIA.
+
+        Diaphenia like the daffadowndilly,
+        White as the sun, fair as the lily,
+      Heigh ho, how do I love thee!
+        I do love thee as my lambs
+        Are beloved of their dams;
+     How blest were I if thou would'st prove me.
+
+        Diaphenia like the spreading roses,
+        That in thy sweets all sweets encloses,
+      Fair sweet, how do I love thee!
+        I do love thee as each flower
+        Loves the sun's life-giving power;
+     For dead, thy breath to life might move me.
+
+        Diaphenia like to all things blessed
+        When all thy praises are expressed,
+      Dear joy, how do I love thee!
+        As the birds do love the spring,
+        Or the bees their careful king:
+     Then in requite, sweet virgin, love me!
+
+     H. CONSTABLE.
+
+
+
+
+     16. ROSALINE.
+
+     Like to the clear in highest sphere
+     Where all imperial glory shines,
+     Of selfsame colour is her hair
+     Whether unfolded, or in twines:
+      Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
+     Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
+     Resembling heaven by every wink;
+     The Gods do fear whenas they glow,
+     And I do tremble when I think
+      Heigh ho, would she were mine!
+
+     Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud
+     That beautifies Aurora's face,
+     Or like the silver crimson shroud
+     That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace;
+      Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
+     Her lips are like two budded roses
+     Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh,
+     Within which bounds she balm encloses
+     Apt to entice a deity:
+      Heigh ho, would she were mine!
+
+     Her neck like to a stately tower
+     Where Love himself imprison'd lies,
+     To watch for glances every hour
+     From her divine and sacred eyes:
+      Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
+     Her paps are centres of delight,
+     Her breasts are orbs of heavenly frame,
+     Where Nature moulds the dew of light
+     To feed perfection with the same:
+      Heigh ho, would she were mine!
+
+     With orient pearl, with ruby red,
+     With marble white, with sapphire blue,
+     Her body every way is fed,
+     Yet soft in touch and sweet in view:
+      Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
+     Nature herself her shape admires;
+     The Gods are wounded in her sight;
+     And Love forsakes his heavenly fires
+     And at her eyes his brand doth light:
+      Heigh ho, would she were mine!
+
+     Then muse not, Nymphs, though I bemoan
+     The absence of fair Rosaline,
+     Since for a fair there's fairer none,
+     Nor for her virtues so divine:
+      Heigh ho, fair Rosaline!
+     Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine!
+
+     T. LODGE.
+
+
+
+
+     17. COLIN.
+
+     Beauty sat bathing by a spring
+      Where fairest shades did hide her;
+     The winds blew calm, the birds did sing,
+      The cool streams ran beside her.
+
+     My wanton thoughts enticed mine eye
+      To see what was forbidden:
+     But better memory said, fie!
+      So vain desire was chidden:--
+          Hey nonny nonny O!
+          Hey nonny nonny!
+
+     Into a slumber then I fell,
+     When fond imagination
+     Seemed to see, but could not tell
+     Her feature or her fashion.
+     But ev'n as babes in dreams do smile,
+     And sometimes fall a-weeping,
+     So I awaked as wise this while
+     As when I fell a-sleeping:--
+          Hey nonny nonny O!
+          Hey nonny nonny!
+
+     THE SHEPHERD TONIE.
+
+
+
+
+     18. TO HIS LOVE.
+
+     Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
+     Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
+     Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
+     And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
+
+     Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
+     And often is his gold complexion dimm'd,
+     And every fair from fair sometime declines,
+     By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd.
+
+     But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
+     Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
+     Nor shall death brag thou wanderest in his shade,
+     When in eternal lines to time thou growest.
+
+     So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
+     So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     19. TO HIS LOVE.
+
+     When in the chronicle of wasted time
+     I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
+     And beauty making beautiful old rhyme
+     In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights;
+
+     Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best
+     Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
+     I see their antique pen would have exprest
+     Ev'n such a beauty as you master now.
+
+     So all their praises are but prophecies
+     Of this our time, all, you prefiguring;
+     And for they look'd but with divining eyes,
+     They had not skill enough your worth to sing:
+
+     For we, which now behold these present days,
+     Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     20. LOVE'S PERJURIES.
+
+     On a day, alack the day!
+     Love, whose month is ever May,
+     Spied a blossom passing fair
+     Playing in the wanton air:
+     Through the velvet leaves the wind
+     All unseen 'gan passage find;
+     That the lover, sick to death,
+     Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
+     Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;
+     Air, would I might triumph so!
+     But, alack, my hand is sworn
+     Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:
+     Vow, alack, for youth unmeet;
+     Youth so apt to pluck a sweet.
+     Do not call it sin in me
+     That I am forsworn for thee:
+     Thou for whom e'en Jove would swear
+     Juno but an Ethiope were,
+     And deny himself for Jove,
+     Turning mortal for thy love.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     21. A SUPPLICATION.
+
+     Forget not yet the tried intent
+     Of such a truth as I have meant;
+     My great travail so gladly spent,
+                       Forget not yet!
+
+     Forget not yet when first began
+     The weary life ye know, since whan
+     The suit, the service, none tell can;
+                       Forget not yet!
+
+     Forget not yet the great assays,
+     The cruel wrong, the scornful ways,
+     The painful patience in delays,
+                       Forget not yet!
+
+     Forget not! O, forget not this,
+     How long ago hath been, and is
+     The mind that never meant amiss--
+                       Forget not yet!
+
+     Forget not then thine own approved
+     The which so long hath thee so loved,
+     Whose steadfast faith yet never moved--
+                       Forget not this!
+
+     SIR T. WYAT.
+
+
+
+
+     22. TO AURORA.
+
+     O if thou knew'st how thou thyself does harm,
+     And dost prejudge thy bliss, and spoil thy rest;
+     Then thou would'st melt the ice out of thy breast
+     And thy relenting heart would kindly warm.
+
+     O if thy pride did not our joys controul,
+     What world of loving wonders should'st thou see!
+     For if I saw thee once transform'd in me,
+     Then in thy bosom I would pour my soul;
+
+     Then all my thoughts should in thy visage shine,
+     And if that aught mischanced thou should'st not moan
+     Nor bear the burthen of thy griefs alone;
+     No, I would have my share in what were thine:
+
+     And whilst we thus should make our sorrows one,
+     This happy harmony would make them none.
+
+     W. ALEXANDER, EARL OF STERLINE.
+
+
+
+
+     23. TRUE LOVE.
+
+     Let me not to the marriage of true minds
+     Admit impediments. Love is not love
+     Which alters when it alteration finds,
+     Or bends with the remover to remove:--
+
+     O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
+     That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
+     It is the star to every wandering bark
+     Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
+
+     Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
+     Within his bending sickle's compass come;
+     Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
+     But bears it out ev'n to the edge of doom:--
+
+     If this be error and upon me proved,
+     I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     24. A DITTY.
+
+     My true love hath my heart, and I have his,
+     By just exchange one to the other given:
+     I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss,
+     There never was a better bargain driven:
+      My true love hath my heart, and I have his.
+
+     His heart in me keeps him and me in one,
+     My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:
+     He loves my heart, for once it was his own,
+     I cherish his because in me it bides:
+      My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.
+
+     SIR P. SIDNEY.
+
+
+
+
+     25. LOVE'S OMNIPRESENCE.
+
+     Were I as base as is the lowly plain,
+     And you, my Love, as high as heaven above,
+     Yet should the thoughts of me your humble swain
+     Ascend to heaven, in honour of my Love.
+
+     Were I as high as heaven above the plain,
+     And you, my Love, as humble and as low
+     As are the deepest bottoms of the main,
+     Whereso'er you were, with you my love should go.
+
+     Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies,
+     My love should shine on you like to the sun,
+     And look upon you with ten thousand eyes
+     Till heaven wax'd blind, and till the world were done.
+
+     Whereso'er I am, below, or else above you,
+     Whereso'er you are, my heart shall truly love you.
+
+     J. SYLVESTER.
+
+
+
+
+     26. CARPE DIEM.
+
+     O Mistress mine, where are you roaming?
+     O, stay and hear! your true-love's coming
+        That can sing both high and low;
+     Trip no further, pretty sweeting,
+     Journeys end in lovers' meeting--
+        Every wise man's son doth know.
+
+     What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
+     Present mirth hath present laughter;
+        What's to come is still unsure:
+     In delay there lies no plenty,--
+     Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty,
+        Youth's a stuff will not endure.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     27. WINTER.
+
+     When icicles hang by the wall
+      And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
+     And Tom bears logs into the hall,
+      And milk comes frozen home in pail;
+     When blood is nipt, and ways be foul,
+     Then nightly sings the staring owl
+                 Tuwhoo!
+     Tuwhit! Tuwhoo! A merry note!
+     While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
+
+     When all around the wind doth blow,
+      And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
+     And birds sit brooding in the snow,
+      And Marian's nose looks red and raw:
+     When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl--
+     Then nightly sings the staring owl
+                 Tuwhoo!
+     Tuwhit! Tuwhoo! A merry note!
+     While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     28.
+
+     That time of year thou may'st in me behold
+     When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang
+     Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
+     Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
+
+     In me thou seest the twilight of such day
+     As after sunset fadeth in the west,
+     Which by and by black night doth take away,
+     Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
+
+     In me thou seest the glowing of such fire,
+     That on the ashes of his youth doth lie
+     As the deathbed whereon it must expire,
+     Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.
+
+     --This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
+     To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     29. REMEMBRANCE.
+
+     When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
+     I summon up remembrance of things past,
+     I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
+     And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste
+
+     Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
+     For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
+     And weep afresh love's long-since-cancell'd woe,
+     And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight.
+
+     Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
+     And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
+     The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
+     Which I new pay as if not paid before:
+
+     --But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
+     All losses are restored, and sorrows end.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     30. REVOLUTIONS.
+
+     Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore
+     So do our minutes hasten to their end;
+     Each changing place with that which goes before,
+     In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
+
+     Nativity once in the main of light
+     Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
+     Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
+     And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound.
+
+     Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
+     And delves the parallels in beauty's brow;
+     Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
+     And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow.
+
+     And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand
+     Praising Thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     31.
+
+     Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
+     And like enough thou know'st thy estimate:
+     The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing,
+     My bonds in thee are all determinate.
+
+     For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?
+     And for that riches where is my deserving?
+     The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
+     And so my patent back again is swerving.
+
+     Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing,
+     Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking;
+     So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
+     Comes home again, on better judgement making.
+
+     Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter;
+     In sleep, a king; but waking, no such matter.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     32. THE LIFE WITHOUT PASSION.
+
+     They that have power to hurt, and will do none,
+     That do not do the thing they most do show,
+     Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
+     Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow,--
+
+     They rightly do inherit Heaven's graces,
+     And husband nature's riches from expense;
+     They are the lords and owners of their faces,
+     Others, but stewards of their excellence.
+
+     The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,
+     Though to itself it only live and die;
+     But if that flower with base infection meet,
+     The basest weed outbraves his dignity:
+
+     For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
+     Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     33. THE LOVER'S APPEAL.
+
+       And wilt thou leave me thus?
+       Say nay! say nay! for shame,
+       To save thee from the blame
+       Of all my grief and grame.
+       And wilt thou leave me thus?
+       Say nay! say nay!
+
+       And wilt thou leave me thus,
+       That hath loved thee so long
+       In wealth and woe among:
+       And is thy heart so strong
+       As for to leave me thus?
+       Say nay! say nay!
+
+       And wilt thou leave me thus,
+       That hath given thee my heart
+       Never for to depart
+       Neither for pain nor smart:
+       And wilt thou leave me thus?
+       Say nay! say nay!
+
+       And wilt thou leave me thus,
+       And have no more pity
+       Of him that loveth thee?
+       Alas! thy cruelty!
+       And wilt thou leave me thus?
+       Say nay! say nay!
+
+     SIR T. WYAT.
+
+
+
+
+     34. THE NIGHTINGALE.
+
+     As it fell upon a day
+     In the merry month of May,
+     Sitting in a pleasant shade
+     Which a grove of myrtles made,
+     Beasts did leap and birds did sing,
+     Trees did grow and plants did spring,
+     Every thing did banish moan
+     Save the Nightingale alone.
+     She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
+     Lean'd her breast against a thorn,
+     And there sung the dolefullest ditty,
+     That to hear it was great pity.
+     Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry;
+     Tereu, tereu, by and by:
+     That to hear her so complain
+     Scarce I could from tears refrain;
+     For her griefs so lively shown
+     Made me think upon mine own.
+     --Ah! thought I, thou mourn'st in vain,
+     None takes pity on thy pain:
+     Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee,
+     Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee;
+     King Pandion, he is dead,
+     All thy friends are lapp'd in lead:
+     All thy fellow birds do sing
+     Careless of thy sorrowing:
+     Even so, poor bird, like thee,
+     None alive will pity me.
+
+     R. BARNEFIELD.
+
+
+
+
+     35.
+
+     Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night,
+     Brother to Death, in silent darkness born,
+     Relieve my anguish, and restore the light;
+     With dark forgetting of my care return.
+
+     And let the day be time enough to mourn
+     The shipwreck of my ill adventured youth:
+     Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn,
+     Without the torment of the night's untruth.
+
+     Cease, dreams, the images of day-desires,
+     To model forth the passions of the morrow;
+     Never let rising Sun approve you liars
+     To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow:
+
+     Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain,
+     And never wake to feel the day's disdain.
+
+     S. DANIEL.
+
+
+
+
+     36. MADRIGAL.
+
+        Take O take those lips away
+        That so sweetly were forsworn,
+        And those eyes, the break of day,
+        Lights that do mislead the morn:
+        But my kisses bring again,
+                  Bring again--
+        Seals of love, but seal'd in vain,
+                  Seal'd in vain!
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     37. LOVE'S FAREWELL.
+
+     Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part,--
+     Nay, I have done, you get no more of me;
+     And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart,
+     That thus so cleanly I myself can free;
+
+     Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,
+     And when we meet at any time again,
+     Be it not seen in either of our brows
+     That we one jot of former love retain.
+
+     Now at the last gasp of love's latest breath,
+     When his pulse failing, passion speechless lies,
+     When faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
+     And innocence is closing up his eyes,
+
+     --Now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over,
+     From death to life thou might'st him yet recover!
+
+     M. DRAYTON.
+
+
+
+
+     38. TO HIS LUTE.
+
+     My lute, be as thou wert when thou did'st grow
+     With thy green mother in some shady grove,
+     When immelodious winds but made thee move,
+     And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.
+
+     Since that dear Voice which did thy sounds approve,
+     Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,
+     Is reft from Earth to tune those spheres above,
+     What art thou but a harbinger of woe?
+
+     Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,
+     But orphan's wailings to the fainting ear;
+     Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear;
+     For which be silent as in woods before:
+
+     Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,
+     Like widow'd turtle still her loss complain.
+
+     W. DRUMMOND.
+
+
+
+
+     39. BLIND LOVE.
+
+     O me! what eyes hath love put in my head
+     Which have no correspondence with true sight:
+     Or if they have, where is my judgment fled
+     That censures falsely what they see aright?
+
+     If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,
+     What means the world to say it is not so?
+     If it be not, then love doth well denote,
+     Love's eye is not so true as all men's: No,
+
+     How can it? O how can love's eye be true,
+     That is so vex'd with watching and with tears?
+     No marvel then though I mistake my view:
+     The sun itself sees not till heaven clears.
+
+     O cunning Love! with tears thou keep'st me blind,
+     Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find!
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     40. THE UNFAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS.
+
+     While that the sun with his beams hot
+     Scorched the fruits in vale and mountain,
+     Philon the shepherd, late forgot,
+     Sitting beside a crystal fountain,
+       In shadow of a green oak tree
+       Upon his pipe this song play'd he:
+     Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love,
+     Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love;
+     Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
+
+     So long as I was in your sight
+     I was your heart, your soul, and treasure;
+     And evermore you sobb'd and sigh'd
+     Burning in flames beyond all measure:
+       --Three days endured your love to me,
+       And it was lost in other three!
+     Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love,
+     Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love;
+     Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
+
+     Another Shepherd you did see
+     To whom your heart was soon enchained;
+     Full soon your love was leapt from me,
+     Full soon my place he had obtained.
+       Soon came a third, your love to win,
+       And we were out and he was in.
+     Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love,
+     Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love;
+     Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
+
+     Sure you have made me passing glad
+     That you your mind so soon removed,
+     Before that I the leisure had
+     To choose you for my best beloved:
+       For all your love was past and done
+       Two days before it was begun:--
+     Adieu Love, adieu Love, untrue Love,
+     Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu Love;
+     Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.
+
+     ANON.
+
+
+
+
+     41. A RENUNCIATION.
+
+     If women could be fair, and yet not fond,
+     Or that their love were firm, not fickle still,
+     I would not marvel that they make men bond
+     By service long to purchase their good will;
+     But when I see how frail those creatures are,
+     I muse that men forget themselves so far.
+
+     To mark the choice they make, and how they change,
+     How oft from Phoebus they do flee to Pan;
+     Unsettled still, like haggards wild they range,
+     These gentle birds that fly from man to man;
+     Who would not scorn and shake them from the fist,
+     And let them fly, fair fools, which way they list?
+
+     Yet for disport we fawn and flatter both,
+     To pass the time when nothing else can please,
+     And train them to our lure with subtle oath,
+     Till, weary of their wiles, ourselves we ease;
+     And then we say when we their fancy try,
+     To play with fools, O what a fool was I!
+
+     E. VERE, EARL OF OXFORD.
+
+
+
+
+     42.
+
+          Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
+          Thou art not so unkind
+          As man's ingratitude;
+          Thy tooth is not so keen,
+          Because thou art not seen,
+          Although thy breath be rude.
+     Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:
+     Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
+          Then, heigh ho! the holly!
+          This life is most jolly.
+
+          Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
+          That dost not bite so nigh
+          As benefits forgot:
+          Though thou the waters warp,
+          Thy sting is not so sharp
+          As friend remember'd not.
+     Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly:
+     Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:
+          Then heigh ho, the holly!
+          This life is most jolly.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     43. MADRIGAL.
+
+          My thoughts hold mortal strife;
+          I do detest my life,
+          And with lamenting cries
+          Peace to my soul to bring
+     Oft call that prince which here doth monarchise:
+     --But he, grim grinning King,
+     Who caitiffs scorns, and doth the blest surprise,
+     Late having deck'd with beauty's rose his tomb,
+     Disdains to crop a weed, and will not come.
+
+     W. DRUMMOND.
+
+
+
+
+     44. DIRGE OF LOVE.
+
+       Come away, come away, Death,
+     And in sad cypres let me be laid;
+       Fly away, fly away, breath;
+     I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
+     My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
+          O prepare it!
+     My part of death no one so true
+          Did share it.
+
+       Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
+     On my black coffin let there be strown;
+       Not a friend, not a friend greet
+     My poor corpse, where my bones shall thrown:
+     A thousand thousand sighs to save,
+          Lay me, O where
+     Sad true lover never find my grave,
+          To weep there.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     45. FIDELE.
+
+     Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
+        Nor the furious winter's rages:
+     Thou thy worldly task hast done,
+        Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages:
+     Golden lads and girls all must,
+     As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
+
+     Fear no more the frown o' the great,
+        Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
+     Care no more to clothe and eat;
+        To thee the reed is as the oak:
+     The sceptre, learning, physic, must
+     All follow this, and come to dust.
+
+     Fear no more the lightning flash
+        Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
+     Fear not slander, censure rash;
+        Thou hast finish'd joy and moan:
+     All lovers young, all lovers must
+     Consign to thee, and come to dust.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     46. A SEA DIRGE.
+
+     Full fathom five thy father lies:
+        Of his bones are coral made;
+     Those are pearls that were his eyes:
+        Nothing of him that doth fade,
+     But doth suffer a sea-change
+     Into something rich and strange;
+     Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
+     Hark! now I hear them,--
+        Ding, dong, Bell.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     47. A LAND DIRGE.
+
+     Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren,
+     Since o'er shady groves they hover
+     And with leaves and flowers do cover
+     The friendless bodies of unburied men.
+     Call unto his funeral dole
+     The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole
+     To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm
+     And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm;
+     But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men,
+     For with his nails he'll dig them up again.
+
+     J. WEBSTER.
+
+
+
+
+     48. POST MORTEM.
+
+     If Thou survive my well-contented day
+     When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,
+     And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
+     These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover:
+
+     Compare them with the bettering of the time,
+     And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,
+     Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme
+     Exceeded by the height of happier men.
+
+     O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought--
+     "Had my friend's muse grown with this growing age,
+     A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
+     To march in ranks of better equipage:
+
+     But since he died, and poets better prove,
+     Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love."
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     49. THE TRIUMPH OF DEATH.
+
+     No longer mourn for me when I am dead
+     Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
+     Give warning to the world, that I am fled
+     From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell;
+
+     Nay, if you read this line, remember not
+     The hand that writ it; for I love you so,
+     That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot
+     If thinking on me then should make you woe.
+
+     O if, I say, you look upon this verse
+     When I perhaps compounded am with clay
+     Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,
+     But let your love even with my life decay;
+
+     Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
+     And mock you with me after I am gone.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     50. MADRIGAL.
+
+     Tell me where is Fancy bred,
+     Or in the heart or in the head?
+     How begot, how nourished?
+          Reply, reply.
+     It is engender'd in the eyes,
+     With gazing fed; and Fancy dies
+     In the cradle where it lies:
+     Let us all ring fancy's knell;
+     I'll begin it,--Ding, dong, bell.
+               --Ding, dong, bell.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     51. CUPID AND CAMPASPE.
+
+     Cupid and my Campaspe play'd
+     At cards for kisses; Cupid paid:
+     He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
+     His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;
+     Loses them too; then down he throws
+     The coral of his lip, the rose
+     Growing on's cheek (but none knows how);
+     With these, the crystal of his brow,
+     And then the dimple on his chin;
+     All these did my Campaspe win:
+     At last he set her both his eyes--
+     She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
+        O Love! has she done this to thee?
+        What shall, alas! become of me?
+
+     J. LYLYE.
+
+
+
+
+     52.
+
+     Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day,
+      With night we banish sorrow;
+     Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft
+      To give my Love good-morrow!
+     Wings from the wind to please her mind,
+      Notes from the lark I'll borrow;
+     Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale sing,
+      To give my Love good-morrow;
+        To give my Love good-morrow
+        Notes from them both I'll borrow.
+
+     Wake from thy nest, Robin-redbreast!
+      Sing, birds, in every furrow;
+     And from each hill, let music shrill
+      Give my fair Love good-morrow!
+     Blackbird and thrush in every bush,
+      Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow!
+     You pretty elves, amongst yourselves
+      Sing my fair Love good-morrow;
+        To give my Love good-morrow
+        Sing birds, in every furrow!
+
+     T. HEYWOOD.
+
+
+
+
+     53. PROTHALAMION.
+
+     Calm was the day, and through the trembling air
+     Sweet-breathing Zephyrus did softly play--
+     A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay
+     Hot Titan's beams, which then did glister fair;
+     When I, (whom sullen care,
+     Through discontent of my long fruitless stay
+     In princes' court, and expectation vain
+     Of idle hopes, which still do fly away
+     Like empty shadows, did afflict my brain)
+     Walk'd forth to ease my pain
+     Along the shore of silver-streaming Thames;
+     Whose rutty bank, the which his river hems,
+     Was painted all with variable flowers,
+     And all the meads adorn'd with dainty gems
+     Fit to deck maidens' bowers,
+     And crown their paramours
+     Against the bridal day, which is not long:
+       Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+     There in a meadow by the river's side,
+     A flock of nymphs I chanced to espy,
+     All lovely daughters of the flood thereby,
+     With goodly greenish locks all loose untied
+     As each had been a bride;
+     And each one had a little wicker basket
+     Made of fine twigs, entrailed curiously,
+     In which they gather'd flowers to fill their flasket,
+     And with fine fingers cropt full feateously
+     The tender stalks on high.
+     Of every sort which in that meadow grew
+     They gather'd some; the violet, pallid blue,
+     The little daisy that at evening closes,
+     The virgin lily and the primrose true:
+     With store of vermeil roses,
+     To deck their bridegrooms' posies
+     Against the bridal day, which was not long:
+       Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+     With that I saw two swans of goodly hue
+     Come softly swimming down along the lee;
+     Two fairer birds I yet did never see;
+     The snow which doth the top of Pindus strow,
+     Did never whiter show,
+     Nor Jove himself, when he a swan would be
+     For love of Leda, whiter did appear;
+     Yet Leda was (they say) as white as he,
+     Yet not so white as these, nor nothing near;
+     So purely white they were,
+     That even the gentle stream, the which them bare,
+     Seem'd foul to them, and bade his billows spare
+     To wet their silken feathers, lest they might
+     Soil their fair plumes with water not so fair,
+     And mar their beauties bright
+     That shone as Heaven's light
+     Against their bridal day, which was not long:
+       Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+     Eftsoons the nymphs, which now had flowers their fill,
+     Ran all in haste to see that silver brood
+     As they came floating on the crystal flood;
+     Whom when they saw, they stood amazed still
+     Their wondering eyes to fill;
+     Them seem'd they never saw a sight so fair
+     Of fowls, so lovely, that they sure did deem
+     Them heavenly born, or to be that same pair
+     Which through the sky draw Venus' silver team;
+     For sure they did not seem
+     To be begot of any earthly seed,
+     But rather angels, or of angels' breed;
+     Yet were they bred of summer's heat, they say,
+     In sweetest season, when each flower and weed
+     The earth did fresh array;
+     So fresh they seem'd as day,
+     Even as their bridal day, which was not long:
+       Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+     Then forth they all out of their baskets drew
+     Great store of flowers, the honour of the field,
+     That to the sense did fragrant odours yield,
+     All which upon those goodly birds they threw
+     And all the waves did strew,
+     That like old Peneus' waters they did seem
+     When down along by pleasant Tempe's shore
+     Scatter'd with flowers, through Thessaly they stream,
+     That they appear, through lilies' plenteous store,
+     Like a bride's chamber-floor.
+     Two of those nymphs meanwhile two garlands bound
+     Of freshest flowers which in that mead they found,
+     The which presenting all in trim array,
+     Their snowy foreheads therewithal they crown'd
+     Whilst one did sing this lay
+     Prepar'd against that day,
+     Against their bridal day, which was not long:
+       Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+     "Ye gentle birds! the world's fair ornament,
+     And Heaven's glory, whom this happy hour
+     Doth lead unto your lovers' blissful bower,
+     Joy may you have, and gentle hearts content
+     Of your loves complement;
+     And let fair Venus, that is queen of love,
+     With her heart-quelling son upon you smile,
+     Whose smile, they say, hath virtue to remove
+     All love's dislike, and friendship's faulty guile
+     For ever to assoil.
+     Let endless peace your steadfast hearts accord,
+     And blessed plenty wait upon your board;
+     And let your bed with pleasures chaste abound,
+     That fruitful issue may to you afford
+     Which may your foes confound,
+     And make your joys redound
+     Upon your bridal day, which is not long:
+       Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song."
+
+     So ended she; and all the rest around
+     To her redoubled that her undersong,
+     Which said their bridal day should not be long:
+     And gentle Echo from the neighbour ground
+     Their accents did resound.
+     So forth those joyous birds did pass along
+     Adown the lee that to them murmur'd low,
+     As he would speak but that he lack'd a tongue,
+     Yet did by signs his glad affection show,
+     Making his stream run slow.
+     And all the fowl which in his flood did dwell
+     'Gan flock about these twain, that did excel
+     The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shend
+     The lesser stars. So they, enranged well,
+     Did on those two attend,
+     And their best service lend
+     Against their wedding day, which was not long:
+       Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+     At length they all to merry London came,
+     To merry London, my most kindly nurse,
+     That to me gave this life's first native source,
+     Though from another place I take my name,
+     An house of ancient fame:
+     There when they came whereas those bricky towers
+     The which on Thames' broad aged back do ride,
+     Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers,
+     There whilome wont the Templar-knights to bide,
+     Till they decay'd through pride:
+     Next whereunto there stands a stately place,
+     Where oft I gained gifts and goodly grace
+     Of that great lord, which therein wont to dwell,
+     Whose want too well now feels my friendless case;
+     But ah! here fits not well
+     Old woes, but joys to tell
+     Against the bridal day, which is not long:
+       Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+     Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer,
+     Great England's glory and the world's wide wonder,
+     Whose dreadful name late thro' all Spain did thunder,
+     And Hercules' two pillars standing near
+     Did make to quake and fear:
+     Fair branch of honour, flower of chivalry!
+     That fillest England with thy triumphs' fame
+     Joy have thou of thy noble victory,
+     And endless happiness of thine own name
+     That promiseth the same;
+     That through thy prowess and victorious arms,
+     Thy country may be freed from foreign harms,
+     And great Eliza's glorious name may ring
+     Through all the world, fill'd with thy wide alarms
+     Which some brave Muse may sing
+     To ages following,
+     Upon the bridal day, which is not long:
+       Sweet Thames! run softly till I end my song.
+
+     From those high towers this noble lord issuing,
+     Like radiant Hesper, when his golden hair
+     In th' ocean billows he hath bathed fair,
+     Descended to the river's open viewing
+     With a great train ensuing.
+     Above the rest were goodly to be seen
+     Two gentle knights of lovely face and feature,
+     Beseeming well the bower of any queen,
+     With gifts of wit and ornaments of nature,
+     Fit for so goodly stature,
+     That like the twins of Jove they seem'd in sight
+     Which deck the baldric of the Heavens bright;
+     They two, forth pacing to the river's side,
+     Received those two fair brides, their love's delight;
+     Which, at th' appointed tide,
+     Each one did make his bride
+     Against their bridal day, which is not long:
+       Sweet Thames! run softly, till I end my song.
+
+     E. SPENSER.
+
+
+
+
+     54. THE HAPPY HEART.
+
+     Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?
+          O sweet content!
+     Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed?
+          O punishment!
+     Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed
+     To add to golden numbers, golden numbers?
+     O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
+     Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
+     Honest labour bears a lovely face;
+     Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!
+
+     Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring?
+          O sweet content!
+     Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears?
+          O punishment!
+     Then he that patiently want's burden bears,
+     No burden bears, but is a king, a king!
+     O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
+     Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
+     Honest labour bears a lovely face;
+     Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!
+
+     T. DEKKER.
+
+
+
+
+     55.
+
+     This Life, which seems so fair,
+     Is like a bubble blown up in the air
+     By sporting children's breath,
+     Who chase it everywhere
+     And strive who can most motion it bequeath.
+     And though it sometimes seem of its own might
+     Like to an eye of gold to be fix'd there,
+     And firm to hover in that empty height,
+     That only is because it is so light.
+     --But in that pomp it doth not long appear;
+     For when 'tis most admired, in a thought,
+     Because it erst was nought, it turns to nought.
+
+     W. DRUMMOND.
+
+
+
+
+     56. SOUL AND BODY.
+
+     Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
+     Fool'd by those rebel powers that thee array,
+     Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth,
+     Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
+
+     Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
+     Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
+     Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
+     Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end?
+
+     Then, Soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,
+     And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
+     Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
+     Within be fed, without be rich no more:--
+
+     So shall thou feed on death, that feeds on men,
+     And death once dead, there's no more dying then.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     57. LIFE.
+
+     The World's a bubble, and the Life of Man
+            Less than a span:
+     In his conception wretched, from the womb
+            So to the tomb;
+     Curst from his cradle, and brought up to years
+            With cares and fears.
+     Who then to frail mortality shall trust,
+     But limns on water, or but writes in dust.
+
+     Yet whilst with sorrow here we live opprest,
+            What life is best?
+     Courts are but only superficial schools
+            To dandle fools:
+     The rural parts are turn'd into a den
+            Of savage men:
+     And where's a city from foul vice so free,
+     But may be term'd the worst of all the three?
+
+     Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed,
+            Or pains his head:
+     Those that live single, take it for a curse,
+            Or do things worse:
+     Some would have children: those that have them, moan
+            Or wish them gone:
+     What is it, then, to have, or have no wife,
+     But single thraldom, or a double strife?
+
+     Our own affections still at home to please
+            Is a disease:
+     To cross the seas to any foreign soil,
+            Peril and toil:
+     Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease,
+            We are worse in peace;--
+     What then remains, but that we still should cry
+     For being born, or, being born, to die
+
+     LORD BACON
+
+
+
+
+     58. THE LESSONS OF NATURE.
+
+     Of this fair volume which we World do name
+     If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care,
+     Of Him who it corrects, and did it frame,
+     We clear might read the art and wisdom rare:
+
+     Find out His power which wildest powers doth tame,
+     His providence extending everywhere,
+     His justice which proud rebels doth not spare,
+     In every page, no period of the same.
+
+     But silly we, like foolish children, rest
+     Well pleased with colour'd vellum, leaves of gold,
+     Fair dangling ribbands, leaving what is best,
+     On the great Writer's sense ne'er taking hold;
+
+     Or if by chance we stay our minds on aught,
+     It is some picture on the margin wrought.
+
+     W. DRUMMOND.
+
+
+
+
+     59.
+
+     Doth then the world go thus, doth all thus move?
+     Is this the justice which on Earth we find?
+     Is this that firm decree which all doth bind?
+     Are these your influences, Powers above?
+
+     Those souls which vice's moody mists most blind,
+     Blind Fortune, blindly, most their friend doth prove;
+     And they who thee, poor idle Virtue! love,
+     Ply like a feather toss'd by storm and wind.
+
+     Ah! if a Providence doth sway this all,
+     Why should best minds groan under most distress?
+     Or why should pride humility make thrall,
+     And injuries the innocent oppress?
+
+     Heavens! hinder, stop this fate; or grant a time
+     When good may have, as well as bad, their prime!
+
+     W. DRUMMOND.
+
+
+
+
+     60. THE WORLD'S WAY.
+
+     Tired with all these, for restful death I cry--
+     As, to behold desert a beggar born,
+     And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
+     And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
+
+     And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,
+     And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
+     And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
+     And strength by limping sway disabled
+
+     And art made tongue-tied by authority,
+     And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill,
+     And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,
+     And captive Good attending captain Ill:--
+
+     --Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
+     Save that, to die, I leave my Love alone.
+
+     W. SHAKESPEARE.
+
+
+
+
+     61. SAINT JOHN BAPTIST.
+
+     The last and greatest Herald of Heaven's King
+     Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild,
+     Among that savage brood the woods forth bring,
+     Which he more harmless found than man, and mild.
+
+     His food was locusts, and what there doth spring
+     With honey that from virgin hives distill'd;
+     Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing
+     Made him appear, long since from earth exiled.
+
+     There burst he forth: All ye whose hopes rely
+     On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn,
+     Repent, repent, and from old errors turn!
+     --Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry?
+
+     Only the echoes, which he made relent,
+     Rung from their flinty caves, Repent! Repent!
+
+     W. DRUMMOND.
+
+
+
+
+
+SECOND BOOK.
+
+SUMMARY.
+
+
+This division, embracing the latter eighty years of the seventeenth
+century, contains the close of our Early poetical style and the
+commencement of the Modern. In Dryden we see the first master of the
+new: in Milton, whose genius dominates here as Shakespeare's in the
+former book,--the crown and consummation of the early period. Their
+splendid Odes are far in advance of any prior attempts, Spenser's
+excepted: they exhibit the wider and grander range which years and
+experience and the struggles of the time conferred on Poetry. Poetry now
+gave expression to political feeling, to religious thought, to a high
+philosophic statesmanship in writers such as Marvell, Herbert, and
+Wotton: whilst in Marvell and Milton, again, we find the first noble
+attempts at pure description of nature, destined in our own ages to be
+continued and equalled. Meanwhile the poetry of simple passion, although
+before 1660 often deformed by verbal fancies and conceits of thought,
+and afterward by levity and an artificial tone,--produced in Herrick and
+Waller some charming pieces of more finished art than the Elizabethan:
+until in the courtly compliments of Sedley it seems to exhaust itself,
+and lie almost dormant for the hundred years between the days of Wither
+and Suckling and the days of Burns and Cowper.--That the change from our
+early style to the modern brought with it at first a loss of nature and
+simplicity is undeniable: yet the far bolder and wider scope which
+Poetry took between 1620 and 1700, and the successful efforts then made
+to gain greater clearness in expression, in their results have been no
+slight compensation.
+
+
+
+
+
+     62. ODE ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY.
+
+     This is the month, and this the happy morn
+     Wherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King
+     Of wedded maid and virgin mother born,
+     Our great redemption from above did bring;
+     For so the holy sages once did sing
+     That He our deadly forfeit should release,
+     And with His Father work us a perpetual peace.
+
+     That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable,
+     And that far-beaming blaze of Majesty
+     Wherewith He wont at Heaven's high council-table
+     To sit the midst of Trinal Unity,
+     He laid aside; and, here with us to be,
+     Forsook the courts of everlasting day,
+     And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.
+
+     Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein
+     Afford a present to the Infant God?
+     Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain
+     To welcome Him to this His new abode,
+     Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod,
+     Hath took no print of the approaching light,
+     And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?
+
+     See how from far, upon the eastern road,
+     The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet:
+     O run, prevent them with thy humble ode
+     And lay it lowly at his blessed feet;
+     Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet,
+     And join thy voice unto the angel quire
+     From out His secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire.
+
+                 THE HYMN.
+
+     It was the Winter wild
+     While the heaven-born Child
+     All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies
+     Nature in awe to Him
+     Had doff'd her gaudy trim,
+     With her great Master so to sympathise:
+     It was no season then for her
+     To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour.
+
+     Only with speeches fair
+     She woos the gentle air
+     To hide her guilty front with innocent snow;
+     And on her naked shame,
+     Pollute with sinful blame,
+     The saintly veil of maiden white to throw;
+     Confounded, that her Maker's eyes
+     Should look so near upon her foul deformities.
+
+     But He, her fears to cease,
+     Sent down the meek-eyed Peace,
+     She crown'd with olive green, came softly sliding
+     Down through the turning sphere
+     His ready harbinger,
+     With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing;
+     And waving wide her myrtle wand,
+     She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.
+
+     No war, or battle's sound
+     Was heard the world around:
+     The idle spear and shield were high up hung;
+     The hooked Chariot stood
+     Unstain'd with hostile blood;
+     The trumpet spake not to the armed throng;
+     And kings sat still with awful eye,
+     As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.
+
+     But peaceful was the night
+     Wherin the Prince of Light
+     His reign of peace upon the earth began:
+     The winds, with wonder whist,
+     Smoothly the waters kist
+     Whispering new joys to the mild ocean--
+     Who now hath quite forgot to rave,
+     While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.
+
+     The stars with deep amaze
+     Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze,
+     Bending one way their precious influence;
+     And will not take their flight
+     For all the morning light,
+     Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence;
+     But in their glimmering orbs did glow,
+     Until their Lord Himself bespake, and bid them go.
+
+     And though the shady gloom
+     Had given day her room,
+     The sun himself withheld his wonted speed,
+     And hid his head for shame,
+     As his inferior flame
+     The new-enlightn'd world no more should need:
+     He saw a greater Sun appear
+     Then his bright throne, or burning axletree, could bear.
+
+     The shepherds on the lawn
+     Or ere the point of dawn
+     Sate simply chatting in a rustic row;
+     Full little thought they then
+     That the mighty Pan
+     Was kindly come to live with them below;
+     Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep
+     Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.
+
+     When such music sweet
+     Their hearts and ears did greet
+     As never was by mortal finger strook--
+     Divinely-warbled voice
+     Answering the stringed noise,
+     As all their souls in blissful rapture took:
+     The air, such pleasure loth to lose,
+     With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.
+
+     Nature that heard such sound
+     Beneath the hollow round
+     Of Cynthia's seat the airy region thrilling,
+     Now was almost won
+     To think her part was done,
+     And that her reign had here its last fulfilling;
+     She knew such harmony alone
+     Could hold all heaven and earth in happier union.
+
+     At last surrounds their sight
+     A globe of circular light
+     That with long beams the shamefaced night array'd;
+     The helmed Cherubim
+     And sworded Seraphim,
+     Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd,
+     Harping in loud and solemn quire
+     With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born Heir.
+
+     Such music (as 'tis said)
+     Before was never made
+     But when of old the sons of morning sung,
+     While the Creator great
+     His constellations set
+     And the well-balanced world on hinges hung;
+     And cast the dark foundations deep,
+     And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep.
+
+     Ring out, ye crystal spheres!
+     Once bless our human ears,
+     If ye have power to touch our senses so;
+     And let your silver chime
+     Move in melodious time;
+     And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow;
+     And with your ninefold harmony
+     Make up full concert to the angelic symphony.
+
+     For if such holy Song
+     Enwrap our fancy long,
+     Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold;
+     And speckled vanity
+     Will sicken soon and die,
+     And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould;
+     And Hell itself will pass away,
+     And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.
+
+     Yea, Truth and Justice then
+     Will down return to men,
+     Orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing,
+     Mercy will sit between
+     Throned in celestial sheen,
+     With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering;
+     And Heaven, as at some festival,
+     Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall.
+
+     But wisest Fate says No;
+     This must not yet be so;
+     The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy
+     That on the bitter cross
+     Must redeem our loss;
+     So both Himself and us to glorify:
+     Yet first to those ychain'd in sleep
+     The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep;
+
+     With such a horrid clang
+     As on mount Sinai rang
+     While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake:
+     The aged Earth agast
+     With terrour of that blast
+     Shall from the surface to the centre shake,
+     When at the worlds last session,
+     The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread His throne.
+
+     And then at last our bliss
+     Full and perfect is,
+     But now begins; for from this happy day
+     The old Dragon, under ground
+     In straiter limits bound,
+     Not half so far casts his usurped sway;
+     And, wroth to see his Kingdom fail,
+     Swinges the scaly horrour of his folded tail.
+
+     The oracles are dumb;
+     No voice or hideous hum
+     Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving:
+     Apollo from his shrine
+     Can no more divine,
+     With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving:
+     No nightly trance or breathed spell
+     Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
+
+     The lonely mountains o'er
+     And the resounding shore
+     A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament;
+     From haunted spring, and dale
+     Edged with poplar pale
+     The parting Genius is with sighing sent;
+     With flower-inwoven tresses torn
+     The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.
+
+     In consecrated earth
+     And on the holy hearth,
+     The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint;
+     In urns, and altars round
+     A drear and dying sound
+     Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint;
+     And the chill marble seems to sweat,
+     While each peculiar Power forgoes his wonted seat.
+
+     Peor and Baalim
+     Forsake their temples dim,
+     With that twice-batter'd god of Palestine
+     And mooned Ashtaroth
+     Heaven's queen and mother both,
+     Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine;
+     The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn,
+     In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.
+
+     And sullen Moloch, fled,
+     Hath left in shadows dread
+     His burning idol all of blackest hue;
+     In vain with cymbals' ring
+     They call the grisly king,
+     In dismal dance about the furnace blue;
+     The brutish gods of Nile as fast
+     Isis and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.
+
+     Nor is Osiris seen
+     In Memphian grove, or green,
+     Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings loud:
+     Nor can he be at rest
+     Within his sacred chest;
+     Naught but profoundest hell can be his shroud;
+     In vain with timbrell'd anthems dark
+     The sable stoled sorcerers bear his worshipt ark.
+
+     He feels from Juda's land
+     The dreaded infant's hand;
+     The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;
+     Nor all the gods beside
+     Longer dare abide,
+     Nor Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:
+     Our Babe, to shew his Godhead true,
+     Can in his swaddling bands control the damned crew.
+
+     So, when the sun in bed
+     Curtain'd with cloudy red
+     Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,
+     The flocking shadows pale
+     Troop to the infernal jail,
+     Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave;
+     And the yellow-skirted fays
+     Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.
+
+     But see, the Virgin blest
+     Hath laid her Babe to rest;
+     Time is, our tedious song should here have ending:
+     Heavens youngest-teemed star,
+     Hath fixed her polish'd car,
+     Her sleeping Lord with hand-maid lamp attending:
+     And all about the courtly stable
+     Bright-harness'd angels sit in order serviceable.
+
+     J. MILTON.
+
+
+
+
+     63. SONG FOR ST CECILIA'S DAY,
+
+                  1687.
+
+     From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony
+       This universal frame began:
+      When nature underneath a heap
+       Of jarring atoms lay
+      And could not heave her head,
+     The tuneful voice was heard from high
+       Arise, ye more than dead!
+     Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry
+     In order to their stations leap,
+       And Music's power obey.
+     From harmony, from heavenly harmony
+       This universal frame began:
+       From harmony to harmony
+     Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
+     The diapason closing full in Man.
+
+     What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
+       When Jubal struck the chorded shell
+      His listening brethren stood around,
+      And, wondering, on their faces fell
+      To worship that celestial sound.
+     Less than a God they thought there could not dwell
+       Within the hollow of that shell,
+       That spoke so sweetly and so well.
+     What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
+
+      The trumpet's loud clangor
+       Excites us to arms,
+      With shrill notes of anger,
+       And mortal alarms.
+      The double double double beat
+       Of the thundering drum
+       Cries "Hark! the foes come;
+     Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!"
+
+      The soft complaining flute
+      In dying notes discovers
+      The woes of hopeless lovers,
+     Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.
+
+      Sharp violins proclaim
+     Their jealous pangs and desperation,
+     Fury, frantic indignation,
+     Depth of pains, and height of passion
+      For the fair, disdainful dame.
+
+     But oh! what art can teach,
+     What human voice can reach
+      The sacred organ's praise?
+     Notes inspiring holy love,
+     Notes that wing their heavenly ways
+      To mend the choirs above.
+     Orpheus could lead the savage race,
+     And trees uprooted left their place
+      Sequacious of the lyre:
+     But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher:
+     When to her Organ vocal breath was given
+     An angel heard, and straight appear'd--
+      Mistaking Earth for Heaven!
+
+              _Grand Chorus_:
+
+     As from the power of sacred lays
+      The spheres began to move,
+     And sung the great Creator's praise
+      To all the blest above;
+     So when the last and dreadful hour
+     This crumbling pageant shall devour,
+     The trumpet shall be heard on high,
+     The dead shall live, the living die,
+     And Music shall untune the sky.
+
+     J. DRYDEN.
+
+
+
+
+     64. ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEMONT.
+
+     Avenge, O Lord! Thy slaughter'd Saints, whose bones
+     Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold;
+     Even them who kept Thy truth so pure of old
+     When all our fathers worshipt stocks and stones.
+
+     Forget not: In Thy book record their groans
+     Who were Thy sheep, and in their ancient fold
+     Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that roll'd
+     Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans
+
+     The vales redoubled to the hills, and they
+     To Heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow
+     O'er all the Italian field, where still doth sway
+     The triple tyrant, that from these may grow
+     A hundred-fold, who, having learnt Thy way,
+     Early may fly the Babylonian woe.
+
+     J. MILTON.
+
+
+
+
+     65. HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S RETURN FROM IRELAND.
+
+       The forward youth that would appear,
+       Must now forsake his Muses dear,
+          Nor in the shadows sing
+          His numbers languishing.
+
+       'Tis time to leave the books in dust,
+       And oil the unused armour's rust,
+          Removing from the wall
+          The corslet of the hall.
+
+       So restless Cromwell could not cease
+       In the inglorious arts of peace,
+          But through adventurous war
+          Urged his active star:
+
+       And like the three-fork'd lightning first
+       Breaking the clouds where it was nurst,
+          Did thorough his own side
+          His fiery way divide:
+
+       For 'tis all one to courage high
+       The emulous, or enemy;
+          And with such, to enclose
+          Is more than to oppose;
+
+       Then burning through the air he went
+       And palaces and temples rent;
+          And Caesar's head at last
+          Did through his laurels blast.
+
+       'Tis madness to resist or blame
+       The face of angry heaven's flame;
+          And if we would speak true,
+          Much to the Man is due
+
+       Who, from his private gardens, where
+       He lived reserved and austere
+          (As if he his highest plot
+          To plant the bergamot)
+
+       Could by industrious valour climb
+       To ruin the great work of time,
+          And cast the Kingdoms old
+          Into another mould.
+
+       Though Justice against Fate complain,
+       And plead the ancient Rights in vain--
+          But those do hold or break
+          As men are strong or weak;
+
+       Nature, that hateth emptiness,
+       Allows of penetration less,
+          And therefore must make room
+          Where greater spirits come.
+
+       What field of all the civil war
+       Where his were not the deepest scar?
+          And Hampton shows what part
+          He had of wiser art,
+
+       Where, twining subtle fears with hope,
+       He wove a net of such a scope
+          That Charles himself might chase
+          To Carisbrook's narrow case;
+
+       That thence the Royal actor borne
+       The tragic scaffold might adorn:
+          While round the armed bands
+          Did clap their bloody hands;
+
+       He nothing common did or mean
+       Upon that memorable scene,
+          But with his keener eye
+          The axe's edge did try;
+
+       Nor call'd the Gods, with vulgar spite,
+       To vindicate his helpless right;
+          But bow'd his comely head
+          Down, as upon a bed.
+
+       --This was that memorable hour
+       Which first assured the forced power:
+          So when they did design
+          The Capitol's first line,
+
+       A Bleeding Head, where they begun,
+       Did fright the architects to run;
+          And yet in that the State
+          Foresaw its happy fate!
+
+       And now the Irish are ashamed
+       To see themselves in one year tamed:
+          So much one man can do
+          That does both act and know.
+
+       They can affirm his praises best,
+       And have, though overcome, confest
+          How good he is, how just
+          And fit for highest trust;
+
+       Nor yet grown stiffer with command,
+       But still in the Republic's hand--
+          How fit he is to sway
+          That can so well obey!
+
+       He to the Commons' feet presents
+       A Kingdom for his first year's rents,
+          And (what he may) forbears
+          His fame, to make it theirs:
+
+       And has his sword and spoils ungirt
+       To lay them at the Public's skirt.
+          So when the falcon high
+          Falls heavy from the sky,
+
+       She, having kill'd, no more doth search
+       But on the next green bough to perch,
+          Where, when he first does lure,
+          The falconer has her sure.
+
+       --What may not then our Isle presume
+       While victory his crest does plume?
+          What may not others fear
+          If thus he crowns each year!
+
+       As Caesar he, ere long, to Gaul,
+       To Italy an Hannibal,
+          And to all states not free
+          Shall climacteric be.
+
+       The Pict no shelter now shall find
+       Within his parti-colour'd mind,
+          But, from this valour, sad
+          Shrink underneath the plaid--
+
+       Happy, if in the tufted brake
+       The English hunter him mistake,
+          Nor lay his hounds in near
+          The Caledonian deer.
+
+       But Thou, the War's and Fortune's son,
+       March indefatigably on;
+          And for the last effect
+          Still keep the sword erect:
+
+       Besides the force it has to fright
+       The spirits of the shady night,
+          The same arts that did gain
+          A power, must it maintain.
+
+     A. MARVELL.
+
+
+
+
+     66. LYCIDAS
+
+     _Elegy on a Friend drowned in the Irish Channel._
+
+     Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more
+     Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
+     I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
+     And with forced fingers rude
+     Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
+     Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear
+     Compels me to disturb your season due:
+     For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
+     Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:
+     Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew
+     Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
+     He must not float upon his watery bier
+     Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
+     Without the meed of some melodious tear.
+
+       Begin, then, Sisters of the sacred well
+     That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring;
+     Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string;
+     Hence with denial vain and coy excuse:
+     So may some gentle Muse
+     With lucky words favour my destined urn:
+     And as he passes, turn
+     And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.
+
+       For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,
+     Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill:
+     Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd
+     Under the opening eye-lids of the morn,
+     We drove a-field, and both together heard
+     What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,
+     Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
+     Oft till the star that rose at evening bright
+     Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel.
+     Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute;
+     Temper'd to the oaten flute,
+     Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel
+     From the glad sound would not be absent long;
+     And old Damoetas loved to hear our song.
+
+       But, O the heavy change, now thou art gone,
+     Now thou art gone and never must return!
+     Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves,
+     With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,
+     And all their echoes, mourn.
+     The willows and the hazel copses green
+     Shall now no more be seen
+     Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays:--
+     As killing as the canker to the rose,
+     Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,
+     Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear,
+     When first the white-thorn blows;
+     Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherds' ear.
+
+       Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep
+     Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas?
+     For neither were ye playing on the steep
+     Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,
+     Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,
+     Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream.
+     Ay me! I fondly dream--
+     Had ye been there--for what could that have done?
+     What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,
+     The Muse herself, for her enchanting son,
+     Whom universal nature did lament,
+     When by the rout that made the hideous roar
+     His gory visage down the stream was sent,
+     Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?
+
+       Alas! what boots it with incessant care
+     To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's trade
+     And strictly meditate the thankless Muse?
+     Were it not better done, as others use,
+     To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,
+     Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair?
+     Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise
+     (That last infirmity of noble mind)
+     To scorn delights and live laborious days;
+     But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
+     And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
+     Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears
+     And slits the thin-spun life. "But not the praise,"
+     Phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears;
+     "Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
+     Nor in the glistering foil
+     Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies:
+     But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes
+     And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;
+     As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
+     Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed."
+
+       O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd flood
+     Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds!
+     That strain I heard was of a higher mood:
+     But now my oat proceeds,
+     And listens to the herald of the sea
+     That came in Neptune's plea;
+     He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds,
+     What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain?
+     And question'd every gust of rugged wings
+     That blows from off each beaked promontory:
+     They knew not of his story;
+     And sage Hippotades their answer brings,
+     That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd;
+     The air was calm, and on the level brine
+     Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd.
+     It was that fatal and perfidious bark
+     Built in the eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark,
+     That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.
+
+       Next, Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,
+     His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge
+     Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge
+     Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe:
+     "Ah! who hath reft," quoth he, "my dearest pledge!"
+     Last came, and last did go
+     The pilot of the Galilean Lake;
+     Two massy keys he bore of metals twain
+     (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain);
+     He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake:
+     "How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,
+     Enow of such, as for their bellies' sake
+     Creep and intrude and climb into the fold!
+     Of other care they little reckoning make
+     Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast,
+     And shove away the worthy bidden guest;
+     Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold
+     A sheep-hook, or have learn'd aught else the least
+     That to the faithful herdman's art belongs!
+     What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;
+     And, when they list, their lean and flashy songs
+     Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;
+     The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,
+     But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw
+     Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:
+     Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw
+     Daily devours apace, and nothing said:
+     --But that two-handed engine at the door
+     Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more."
+
+       Return, Alpheus; the dread voice is past
+     That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse,
+     And call the vales, and bid them hither cast
+     Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues.
+     Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use
+     Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks
+     On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks;
+     Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes
+     That on the green turf suck the honey'd showers
+     And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
+     Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
+     The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,
+     The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet,
+     The glowing violet,
+     The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,
+     With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
+     And every flower that sad embroidery wears:
+     Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,
+     And daffodillies fill their cups with tears
+     To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.
+     For so to interpose a little ease,
+     Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise;
+     Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas
+     Wash far away,--where'er thy bones are hurl'd;
+     Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides
+     Where thou perhaps, under the whelming tide
+     Visitest the bottom of the monstrous world;
+     Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,
+     Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,
+     Where the great Vision of the guarded mount
+     Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold,
+     --Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth:
+     --And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth!
+
+       Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more,
+     For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,
+     Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor;
+     So sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed,
+     And yet anon repairs his drooping head
+     And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore
+     Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:
+     So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high
+     Through the dear might of Him that walk'd the waves;
+     Where, other groves and other streams along,
+     With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,
+     And hears the unexpressive nuptial song
+     In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.
+     There entertain him all the saints above
+     In solemn troops, and sweet societies,
+     That sing, and singing, in their glory move,
+     And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
+     Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;
+     Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore,
+     In thy large recompense, and shalt be good
+     To all that wander in that perilous flood.
+
+       Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills,
+     While the still morn went out with sandals gray;
+     He touch'd the tender stops of various quills,
+     With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:
+     And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills,
+     And now was dropt into the western bay:
+     At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue:
+     To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.
+
+     J. MILTON.
+
+
+
+
+     67. THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
+
+     Mortality, behold and fear
+     What a change of flesh is here!
+     Think how many royal bones
+     Sleep within these heaps of stones;
+     Here they lie, had realms and lands,
+     Who now want strength to stir their hands,
+     Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust
+     They preach, "In greatness is no trust."
+     Here's an acre sown indeed
+     With the richest royallest seed
+     That the earth did e'er suck in
+     Since the first man died for sin:
+     Here the bones of birth have cried
+     "Though gods they were, as men they died!"
+     Here are sands, ignoble things,
+     Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings
+     Here's a world of pomp and state
+     Buried in dust, once dead by fate.
+
+     F. BEAUMONT.
+
+
+
+
+     68. THE LAST CONQUEROR.
+
+     Victorious men of earth, no more
+       Proclaim how wide your empires are;
+     Though you bind-in every shore
+       And your triumphs reach as far
+          As night and day,
+       Yet you, proud monarchs, must obey
+     And mingle with forgotten ashes, when
+     Death calls ye to the crowd of common men.
+
+     Devouring Famine, Plague, and War,
+       Each able to undo mankind,
+     Death's servile emissaries are;
+       Nor to these alone confined,
+          He hath at will
+       More quaint and subtle ways to kill;
+     A smile or kiss, as he will use the art,
+     Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart.
+
+     J. SHIRLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     69. DEATH THE LEVELLER.
+
+     The glories of our blood and state
+        Are shadows, not substantial things;
+     There is no armour against fate;
+        Death lays his icy hand on kings:
+          Sceptre and Crown
+          Must tumble down,
+     And in the dust be equal made
+     With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
+
+     Some men with swords may reap the field,
+        And plant fresh laurels where they kill:
+     But their strong nerves at last must yield;
+        They tame but one another still:
+          Early or late
+          They stoop to fate,
+     And must give up their murmuring breath
+     When they, pale captives, creep to death.
+
+     The garlands wither on your brow;
+        Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
+     Upon Death's purple altar now
+        See where the victor-victim bleeds:
+          Your heads must come
+          To the cold tomb;
+     Only the actions of the just
+     Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.
+
+     J. SHIRLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     70. WHEN THE ASSAULT WAS INTENDED TO THE CITY.
+
+     Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in arms,
+     Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize,
+     If deed of honour did thee ever please;
+     Guard them, and him within protect from harms.
+
+     He can requite thee; for he knows the charms
+     That call fame on such gentle acts as these.
+     And he can spread thy name o'er lands and seas,
+     Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms.
+
+     Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower:
+     The great Emathian conqueror bid spare
+     The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower
+     Went to the ground: and the repeated air
+     Of sad Electra's poet had the power
+     To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare.
+
+     J. MILTON.
+
+
+
+
+     71. ON HIS BLINDNESS.
+
+     When I consider how my light is spent
+     Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
+     And that one talent which is death to hide
+     Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
+
+     To serve therewith my Maker, and present
+     My true account, lest He returning chide,--
+     Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?
+     I fondly ask:--But Patience, to prevent
+
+     That murmur, soon replies; God doth not need
+     Either man's work, or His own gifts: who best
+     Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His state
+
+     Is kingly; thousands at His bidding speed
+     And post o'er land and ocean without rest:--
+     They also serve who only stand and wait.
+
+     J. MILTON.
+
+
+
+
+     72. CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE.
+
+     How happy is he born and taught
+     That serveth not another's will;
+     Whose armour is his honest thought
+     And simple truth his utmost skill!
+
+     Whose passions not his masters are,
+     Whose soul is still prepared for death,
+     Not tied unto the world by care
+     Of public fame, or private breath;
+
+     Who envies none that chance doth raise
+     Or vice; Who never understood
+     How deepest wounds are given by praise;
+     Nor rules of state, but rules of good:
+
+     Who hath his life from rumours freed,
+     Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
+     Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
+     Nor ruin make accusers great;
+
+     Who God doth late and early pray
+     More of His grace than gifts to lend;
+     And entertains the harmless day
+     With a well-chosen book or friend;
+
+     --This man is freed from servile bands
+     Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
+     Lord of himself, though not of lands,
+     And having nothing, yet hath all.
+
+     SIR H. WOTTON.
+
+
+
+
+     73. THE NOBLE NATURE.
+
+        It is not growing like a tree
+        In bulk, doth make Man better be;
+     Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
+     To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:
+          A lily of a day
+          Is fairer far in May,
+        Although it fall and die that night--
+        It was the plant and flower of Light.
+     In small proportions we just beauties see;
+     And in short measures life may perfect be.
+
+     B. JONSON
+
+
+
+
+     74. THE GIFTS OF GOD.
+
+         When God at first made Man,
+     Having a glass of blessings standing by;
+     Let us (said he) pour on him all we can:
+     Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie,
+         Contract into a span.
+
+         So strength first made a way;
+     Then beauty flow'd, then wisdom, honour, pleasure:
+     When almost all was out, God made a stay,
+     Perceiving that alone, of all his treasure,
+         Rest in the bottom lay.
+
+         For if I should (said he)
+     Bestow this jewel also on my creature,
+     He would adore My gifts instead of Me,
+     And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature:
+         So both should losers be.
+
+         Yet let him keep the rest,
+     But keep them with repining restlessness:
+     Let him be rich and weary, that at least,
+     If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
+         May toss him to my breast.
+
+     G. HERBERT.
+
+
+
+
+     75. THE RETREAT.
+
+     Happy those early days, when I
+     Shined in my Angel-infancy!
+     Before I understood this place
+     Appointed for my second race,
+     Or taught my soul to fancy aught
+     But a white, celestial thought;
+     When yet I had not walk'd above
+     A mile or two from my first Love,
+
+     And looking back, at that short space
+     Could see a glimpse of his bright face;
+     When on some gilded cloud or flower
+     My gazing soul would dwell an hour,
+     And in those weaker glories spy
+     Some shadows of eternity;
+     Before I taught my tongue to wound
+     My conscience with a sinful sound,
+     Or had the black art to dispense
+     A several sin to every sense,
+     But felt through all this fleshly dress
+     Bright shoots of everlastingness.
+
+     O how I long to travel back,
+     And tread again that ancient track!
+     That I might once more reach that plain,
+     Where first I left my glorious train;
+     From whence th' enlighten'd spirit sees
+     That shady City of Palm trees!
+     But ah! my soul with too much stay
+     Is drunk, and staggers in the way:--
+     Some men a forward motion love,
+     But I by backward steps would move;
+     And when this dust falls to the urn,
+     In that state I came, return.
+
+     H. VAUGHAN.
+
+
+
+
+     76. TO MR. LAWRENCE.
+
+     Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son,
+     Now that the fields are dank and ways are mire,
+     Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire
+     Help waste a sullen day, what may be won
+
+     From the hard season gaining? Time will run
+     On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire
+     The frozen earth, and cloth in fresh attire
+     The lily and rose, that neither sow'd nor spun.
+
+     What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,
+     Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise
+     To hear the lute well touch'd, or artful voice
+
+     Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air?
+     He who of those delights can judge, and spare
+     To interpose them oft, is not unwise.
+
+     J. MILTON.
+
+
+
+
+     77. TO CYRIACK SKINNER.
+
+     Cyriack, whose grandsire on the royal bench
+     Of British Themis, with no mean applause
+     Pronounced, and in his volumes taught, our laws,
+     Which others at their bar so often wrench;
+
+     To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench
+     In mirth, that after no repenting draws;
+     Let Euclid rest and Archimedes pause,
+     And what the Swede intends, and what the French.
+
+     To measure life learn thou betimes, and know
+     Toward solid good what leads the nearest way;
+     For other things mild Heaven a time ordains,
+
+     And disapproves that care, though wise in show,
+     That with superfluous burden loads the day,
+     And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.
+
+     J. MILTON.
+
+
+
+
+     78. HYMN TO DIANA.
+
+     Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair,
+        Now the sun is laid to sleep,
+     Seated in thy silver chair
+        State in wonted manner keep:
+          Hesperus entreats thy light,
+          Goddess excellently bright.
+
+     Earth, let not thy envious shade
+        Dare itself to interpose;
+     Cynthia's shining orb was made
+        Heaven to clear when day did close;
+          Bless us then with wished sight,
+          Goddess excellently bright.
+
+     Lay thy bow of pearl apart
+        And thy crystal-shining quiver;
+     Give unto the flying hart
+        Space to breathe, how short soever;
+          Thou that mak'st a day of night,
+          Goddess excellently bright.
+
+     B. JONSON.
+
+
+
+
+     79. WISHES FOR THE SUPPOSED MISTRESS.
+
+     Whoe'er she be,
+     That not impossible She
+     That shall command my heart and me;
+
+     Where'er she lie,
+     Lock'd up from mortal eye
+     In shady leaves of destiny:
+
+     Till that ripe birth
+     Of studied Fate stand forth,
+     And teach her fair steps to our earth;
+
+     Till that divine
+     Idea take a shrine
+     Of crystal flesh, through which to shine:
+
+     --Meet you her, my Wishes,
+     Bespeak her to my blisses,
+     And be ye call'd, my absent kisses.
+
+     I wish her beauty,
+     That owes not all its duty
+     To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie:
+
+     Something more than
+     Taffata or tissue can,
+     Or rampant feather, or rich fan.
+
+     A face that's best
+     By its own beauty drest,
+     And can alone command the rest:
+
+     A face made up
+     Out of no other shop
+     Than what Nature's white hand sets ope.
+
+     Sydneian showers
+     Of sweet discourse, whose powers
+     Can crown old Winter's head with flowers.
+
+     Whate'er delight
+     Can make day's forehead bright
+     Or give down to the wings of night.
+
+     Soft silken hours,
+     Open suns, shady bowers;
+     'Bove all, nothing within that lowers.
+
+     Days, that need borrow
+     No part of their good morrow
+     From a fore-spent night of sorrow:
+
+     Days, that in spite
+     Of darkness, by the light
+     Of a clear mind are day all night.
+
+     Life, that dares send
+     A challenge to his end,
+     And when it comes, say, "Welcome friend."
+
+     I wish her store
+     Of worth may leave her poor
+     Of wishes; and I wish--no more.
+
+     --Now, if Time knows
+     That Her, whose radiant brows
+     Weave them a garland of my vows;
+
+     Her that dares be
+     What these lines wish to see;
+     I seek no further, it is She.
+
+     'Tis She, and here
+     Lo! I unclothe and clear
+     My wishes' cloudy character.
+
+     Such worth as this is
+     Shall fix my flying wishes,
+     And determine them to kisses.
+
+     Let her full glory,
+     My fancies, fly before ye;
+     Be ye my fictions:--but her story.
+
+     R. CRASHAW.
+
+
+
+
+     80. THE GREAT ADVENTURER.
+
+        Over the mountains
+        And over the waves,
+        Under the fountains
+        And under the graves;
+        Under floods that are deepest,
+        Which Neptune obey;
+        Over rocks that are steepest
+        Love will find out the way.
+
+        When there is no place
+        For the glow-worm to lie;
+        When there is no space
+        For receipt of a fly;
+        When the midge dares not venture
+        Lest herself fast she lay;
+        If Love come, he will enter
+        And will find out his way.
+
+        You may esteem him
+        A child for his might;
+        Or you may deem him
+        A coward from his flight;
+        But if she whom love doth honour
+        Be conceal'd from the day,
+        Set a thousand guards upon her,
+        Love will find out the way.
+
+        Some think to lose him
+        By having him confined;
+        And some do suppose him,
+        Poor thing, to be blind;
+        But if ne'er so close ye wall him,
+        Do the best that you may,
+        Blind love, if so ye call him,
+        Will find out his way.
+
+        You may train the eagle
+        To stoop to your fist;
+        Or you may inveigle
+        The phoenix of the east;
+        The lioness, ye may move her
+        To give o'er her prey;
+        But you'll ne'er stop a lover:
+        He will find out his way.
+
+     ANON.
+
+
+
+
+     81. CHILD AND MAIDEN.
+
+     Ah, Chloris! could I now but sit
+       As unconcern'd as when
+     Your infant beauty could beget
+       No happiness or pain!
+     When I the dawn used to admire,
+       And praised the coming day,
+     I little thought the rising fire
+       Would take my rest away.
+
+     Your charms in harmless childhood lay
+       Like metals in a mine;
+     Age from no face takes more away
+       Than youth conceal'd in thine.
+     But as your charms insensibly
+       To their perfection prest,
+     So love as unperceived did fly,
+       And center'd in my breast.
+
+     My passion with your beauty grew,
+       While Cupid at my heart
+     Still as his mother favour'd you,
+       Threw a new flaming dart:
+     Each gloried in their wanton part;
+       To make a lover, he
+     Employ'd the utmost of his art--
+       To make a beauty, she.
+
+     SIR C. SEDLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     82. COUNSEL TO GIRLS.
+
+     Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,
+       Old Time is still a-flying:
+     And this same flower that smiles to-day,
+       To-morrow will be dying.
+
+     The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun,
+       The higher he's a-getting
+     The sooner will his race be run,
+       And nearer he's to setting.
+
+     That age is best which is the first,
+       When youth and blood are warmer,
+     But being spent, the worse, and worst
+       Times, still succeed the former.
+
+     Then be not coy, but use your time;
+       And while ye may, go marry:
+     For having lost but once your prime,
+       You may for ever tarry.
+
+     R. HERRICK.
+
+
+
+
+     83. TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS.
+
+     Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind
+       That from the nunnery
+     Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,
+       To war and arms I fly.
+
+     True, a new mistress now I chase,
+       The first foe in the field;
+     And with a stronger faith embrace
+       A sword, a horse, a shield.
+
+     Yet this inconstancy is such
+       As you too shalt adore;
+     I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
+       Loved I not Honour more.
+
+     COLONEL LOVELACE.
+
+
+
+
+     84. ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA.
+
+     You meaner beauties of the night,
+       Which poorly satisfy our eyes
+     More by your number than your light,
+       You common people of the skies,
+     What are you, when the Moon shall rise?
+
+     Ye violets that first appear,
+       By your pure purple mantles known
+     Like the proud virgins of the year
+       As if the spring were all your own,--
+     What are you, when the Rose is blown?
+
+     You curious chanters of the wood
+       That warble forth dame Nature's lays,
+     Thinking your passions understood
+       By your weak accents; what's your praise
+     When Philomel her voice doth raise?
+
+     So, when my Mistress shall be seen
+       In sweetness of her looks and mind,
+     By virtue first, then choice, a Queen,
+       Tell me, if she were not design'd
+     Th' eclipse and glory of her kind?
+
+     SIR H. WOTTON.
+
+
+
+
+     85. TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY.
+
+     Daughter to that good earl, once President
+     Of England's council and her treasury,
+     Who lived in both, unstain'd with gold or fee,
+     And left them both, more in himself content.
+
+     Till the sad breaking of that parliament
+     Broke him, as that dishonest victory
+     At Chaeronia, fatal to liberty,
+     Kill'd with report that old man eloquent;--
+
+     Though later born than to have known the days
+     Wherein your father flourish'd, yet by you,
+     Madam, methinks I see him living yet;
+
+     So well your words his noble virtues praise,
+     That all both judge you to relate them true,
+     And to possess them, honour'd Margaret.
+
+     J. MILTON.
+
+
+
+
+     86. THE LOVELINESS OF LOVE.
+
+     It is not Beauty I demand,
+     A crystal brow, the moon's despair,
+     Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand,
+     Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair:
+
+     Tell me not of your starry eyes,
+     Your lips that seem on roses fed,
+     Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies,
+     Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed:--
+
+     A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks
+     Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours,
+     A breath that softer music speaks
+     Than summer winds a-wooing flowers,
+
+     These are but gauds: nay what are lips?
+     Coral beneath the ocean-stream,
+     Whose brink when your adventurer slips
+     Full oft he perisheth on them.
+
+     And what are cheeks, but ensigns oft
+     That wave hot youth to fields of blood?
+     Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft,
+     Do Greece or Ilium any good?
+
+     Eyes can with baleful ardour burn;
+     Poison can breathe, that erst perfumed;
+     There's many a white hand holds an urn
+     With lovers hearts to dust consumed.
+
+     For crystal brows there's nought within;
+     They are but empty cells for pride;
+     He who the Syren's hair would win
+     Is mostly strangled in the tide.
+
+     Give me, instead of Beauty's bust,
+     A tender heart, a loyal mind
+     Which with temptation I would trust,
+     Yet never link'd with error find,--
+
+     One in whose gentle bosom I
+     Could pour my secret heart of woes,
+     Like the care-burthen'd honey-fly
+     That hides his murmurs in the rose,--
+
+     My earthly Comforter! whose love
+     So indefeasible might be
+     That, when my spirit wonn'd above,
+     Hers could not stay, for sympathy.
+
+     ANON.
+
+
+
+
+     87. THE TRUE BEAUTY.
+
+        He that loves a rosy cheek
+         Or a coral lip admires,
+        Or from star-like eyes doth seek
+         Fuel to maintain his fires;
+        As old Time makes these decay,
+        So his flames must waste away.
+
+        But a smooth and steadfast mind,
+         Gentle thoughts, and calm desires,
+        Hearts with equal love combined,
+         Kindle never-dying fires:--
+        Where these are not, I despise
+        Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes.
+
+     T. CAREW.
+
+
+
+
+     88. TO DIANEME.
+
+     Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes
+     Which starlike sparkle in their skies;
+     Nor be you proud, that you can see
+     All hearts your captives; yours yet free:
+     Be you not proud of that rich hair
+     Which wantons with the lovesick air;
+     Whenas that ruby which you wear,
+     Sunk from the tip of your soft ear,
+     Will last to be a precious stone,
+     When all your world of beauty's gone.
+
+     R. HERRICK.
+
+
+
+
+     89.
+
+       Go, lovely Rose!
+     Tell her, that wastes her time and me,
+       That now she knows,
+     When I resemble her to thee,
+     How sweet and fair she seems to be.
+
+       Tell her that's young,
+     And shuns to have her graces spied,
+       That hadst thou sprung
+     In deserts, where no men abide,
+     Thou must have uncommended died.
+
+       Small is the worth
+     Of beauty from the light retired:
+       Bid her come forth,
+     Suffer herself to be desired,
+     And not blush so to be admired.
+
+       Then die! that she
+     The common fate of all things rare
+       May read in thee:
+     How small a part of time they share
+     That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
+
+     E. WALLER.
+
+
+
+
+     90. TO CELIA.
+
+     Drink to me only with thine eyes,
+       And I will pledge with mine;
+     Or leave a kiss but in the cup
+       And I'll not look for wine.
+     The thirst that from the soul doth rise
+       Doth ask a drink divine;
+     But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
+       I would not change for thine.
+
+     I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
+       Not so much honouring thee
+     As giving it a hope that there
+       It could not wither'd be;
+     But thou thereon didst only breathe
+       And sent'st it back to me;
+     Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
+       Not of itself but thee!
+
+     B. JONSON.
+
+
+
+
+     91. CHERRY-RIPE.
+
+     There is a garden in her face
+       Where roses and white lilies blow;
+     A heavenly paradise is that place,
+       Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow;
+     There cherries grow that none may buy,
+     Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.
+
+     Those cherries fairly do enclose
+       Of orient pearl a double row,
+     Which when her lovely laughter shows,
+       They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow:
+     Yet them no peer nor prince can buy
+     Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.
+
+     Her eyes like angels watch them still;
+       Her brows like bended bows do stand,
+     Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill
+       All that approach with eye or hand
+     These sacred cherries to come nigh,
+     --Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry!
+
+     ANON.
+
+
+
+
+     92. THE POETRY OF DRESS.
+
+     I.
+
+     A sweet disorder in the dress
+     Kindles in clothes a wantonness:--
+     A lawn about the shoulders thrown
+     Into a fine distraction,--
+     An erring lace, which here and there
+     Enthrals the crimson stomacher,--
+     A cuff neglectful, and thereby
+     Ribbands to flow confusedly,--
+     A winning wave, deserving note,
+     In the tempestuous petticoat,--
+     A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
+     I see a wild civility;--
+     Do more bewitch me, than when art
+     Is too precise in every part.
+
+     R. HERRICK.
+
+
+
+
+     93.--II.
+
+     Whenas in silks my Julia goes
+     Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows
+     That liquefaction of her clothes.
+
+     Next, when I cast mine eyes and see
+     That brave vibration each way free;
+     O how that glittering taketh me!
+
+     R. HERRICK.
+
+
+
+
+     94.--III.
+
+     My Love in her attire doth shew her wit,
+      It doth so well become her;
+     For every season she hath dressings fit,
+      For Winter, Spring, and Summer.
+      No beauty she doth miss
+      When all her robes are on
+      But Beauty's self she is
+      When all her robes are gone.
+
+     ANON.
+
+
+
+
+     95. ON A GIRDLE.
+
+     That which her slender waist confined
+     Shall now my joyful temples bind:
+     No monarch but would give his crown
+     His arms might do what this has done.
+
+     It was my Heaven's extremest sphere,
+     The pale which held that lovely deer:
+     My joy, my grief, my hope, my love
+     Did all within this circle move.
+
+     A narrow compass! and yet there
+     Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair:
+     Give me but what this ribband bound,
+     Take all the rest the Sun goes round.
+
+     E. WALLER.
+
+
+
+
+     96. TO ANTHEA WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANY THING.
+
+     Bid me to live, and I will live
+       Thy Protestant to be;
+     Or bid me love, and I will give
+       A loving heart to thee.
+
+     A heart as soft, a heart as kind,
+       A heart as sound and free
+     As in the whole world thou canst find,
+       That heart I'll give to thee.
+
+     Bid that heart stay, and it will stay,
+       To honour thy decree:
+     Or bid it languish quite away,
+       And 't shall do so for thee.
+
+     Bid me to weep, and I will weep,
+       While I have eyes to see:
+     And having none, yet I will keep
+       A heart to weep for thee.
+
+     Bid me despair, and I'll despair,
+       Under that cypress tree:
+     Or bid me die, and I will dare
+       E'en Death, to die for thee.
+
+     Thou art my life, my love, my heart,
+       The very eyes of me,
+     And hast command of every part,
+       To live and die for thee.
+
+     R. HERRICK.
+
+
+
+
+     97.
+
+     Love not me for comely grace,
+     For my pleasing eye or face,
+     Nor for any outward part,
+     No, nor for a constant heart,--
+      For these may fail, or turn to ill,
+       So thou and I shall sever:
+     Keep, therefore, a true woman's eye,
+     And love me still, but know not why--
+      So hast thou the same reason still
+       To doat upon me ever!
+
+     ANON.
+
+
+
+
+     98.
+
+     Not, Celia, that I juster am
+      Or better than the rest;
+     For I would change each hour, like them,
+      Were not my heart at rest.
+
+     But I am tied to very thee
+      By every thought I have;
+     Thy face I only care to see,
+      Thy heart I only crave.
+
+     All that in woman is adored
+      In thy dear self I find--
+     For the whole sex can but afford
+      The handsome and the kind.
+
+     Why then should I seek further store,
+      And still make love anew?
+     When change itself can give no more,
+      'Tis easy to be true.
+
+     SIR C. SEDLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     99. TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON.
+
+     When Love with unconfined wings
+      Hovers within my gates,
+     And my divine Althea brings
+      To whisper at the grates;
+     When I lie tangled in her hair
+      And fetter'd to her eye,
+     The birds that wanton in the air
+      Know no such liberty.
+
+     When flowing cups run swiftly round
+      With no allaying Thames,
+     Our careless heads with roses crown'd,
+      Our hearts with loyal flames;
+     When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
+      When healths and draughts go free--
+     Fishes that tipple in the deep
+      Know no such liberty.
+
+     When, linnet-like confined, I
+      With shriller throat shall sing
+     The sweetness, mercy, majesty,
+      And glories of my King;
+     When I shall voice aloud how good
+      He is, how great should be,
+     Enlarged winds, that curl the flood,
+      Know no such liberty.
+
+     Stone walls do not a prison make,
+      Nor iron bars a cage;
+     Minds innocent and quiet take
+      That for an hermitage:
+     If I have freedom in my love
+      And in my soul am free,
+     Angels alone, that soar above,
+      Enjoy such liberty.
+
+     COLONEL LOVELACE.
+
+
+
+
+     100. TO LUCASTA, ON GOING BEYOND THE SEAS.
+
+       If to be absent were to be
+          Away from thee;
+        Or that when I am gone
+        You or I were alone;
+       Then, my Lucasta, might I crave
+     Pity from blustering wind, or swallowing wave.
+
+       Though seas and land betwixt us both,
+          Our faith and troth,
+          Like separated souls,
+        All time and space controls:
+       Above the highest sphere we meet
+     Unseen, unknown; and greet as Angels greet.
+
+       So then we do anticipate
+          Our after-fate,
+        And are alive i' the skies,
+        If thus our lips and eyes
+       Can speak like spirits unconfined
+     In Heaven, their earthy bodies left behind.
+
+     COLONEL LOVELACE.
+
+
+
+
+     101. ENCOURAGEMENTS TO A LOVER.
+
+     Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
+        Prythee, why so pale?
+     Will, if looking well can't move her,
+        Looking ill prevail?
+        Prythee, why so pale?
+
+     Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
+        Prythee, why so mute?
+     Will, when speaking well can't win her,
+        Saying nothing do't?
+        Prythee, why so mute?
+
+     Quit, quit for shame! This will not move,
+        This cannot take her;
+     If of herself she will not love,
+        Nothing can make her:
+        The D----l take her!
+
+     SIR J. SUCKLING.
+
+
+
+
+     102. A SUPPLICATION.
+
+         Awake, awake, my Lyre!
+     And tell thy silent master's humble tale
+         In sounds that may prevail;
+       Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire:
+         Though so exalted she
+         And I so lowly be
+     Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony.
+
+         Hark! how the strings awake:
+     And, though the moving hand approach not near,
+         Themselves with awful fear
+       A kind of numerous trembling make.
+         Now all thy forces try;
+         Now all thy charms apply;
+     Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye.
+
+         Weak Lyre! thy virtue sure
+     Is useless here, since thou art only found
+         To cure, but not to wound,
+       And she to wound, but not to cure.
+         Too weak too wilt thou prove
+         My passion to remove;
+     Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to love.
+
+         Sleep, sleep again my Lyre!
+     For thou canst never tell my humble tale
+         In sounds that will prevail,
+       Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire;
+         All thy vain mirth lay by,
+         Bid thy strings silent lie,
+     Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die.
+
+     A. COWLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     103. THE MANLY HEART.
+
+     Shall I, wasting in despair,
+     Die because a woman's fair?
+     Or my cheeks make pale with care
+     'Cause another's rosy are?
+     Be she fairer than the day,
+     Or the flowery meads in May--
+       If she be not so to me,
+       What care I how fair she be?
+
+     Shall my foolish heart be pined
+     'Cause I see a woman kind;
+     Or a well disposed nature
+     Joined with a lovely feature?
+     Be she meeker, kinder, than
+     Turtle-dove or pelican,
+       If she be not so to me,
+       What care I how kind she be?
+
+     Shall a woman's virtues move
+     Me to perish for her love?
+     Or her merit's value known
+     Make me quite forget my own?
+     Be she with that goodness blest
+     Which may gain her name of Best;
+       If she be not such to me,
+       What care I how good she be?
+
+     'Cause her fortune seems too high,
+     Shall I play the fool and die?
+     Those that bear a noble mind
+     Where they want of riches find,
+     Think what with them they would do
+     Who without them dare to woo;
+       And unless that mind I see,
+       What care I how great she be?
+
+     Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
+     I will ne'er the more despair;
+     If she love me, this believe,
+     I will die ere she shall grieve;
+     If she slight me when I woo,
+     I can scorn and let her go;
+       For if she be not for me,
+       What care I for whom she be?
+
+     G. WITHER.
+
+
+
+
+     104. MELANCHOLY.
+
+     Hence, all you vain delights,
+     As short as are the nights
+     Wherein you spend your folly
+     There's naught in this life sweet
+     If men were wise to see't,
+     But only melancholy,
+     O sweetest Melancholy!
+     Welcome, folded arms and fixed eyes,
+     A sigh that piercing mortifies,
+     A look that's fasten'd to the ground,
+     A tongue chain'd up without a sound!
+     Fountain-heads and pathless groves,
+     Places which pale passion loves!
+     Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
+     Are warmly housed save bats and owls!
+       A midnight bell, a parting groan!
+       These are the sounds we feed upon;
+     Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley;
+     Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.
+
+     J. FLETCHER.
+
+
+
+
+     105. TO A LOCK OF HAIR.
+
+     Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright
+     As in that well-remember'd night
+     When first thy mystic braid was wove,
+     And first my Agnes whisper'd love.
+
+       Since then how often hast thou prest
+     The torrid zone of this wild breast,
+     Whose wrath and hate have sworn to dwell
+     With the first sin that peopled hell;
+     A breast whose blood's a troubled ocean,
+     Each throb the earthquake's wild commotion!
+     O if such clime thou canst endure
+     Yet keep thy hue unstain'd and pure,
+     What conquest o'er each erring thought
+     Of that fierce realm had Agnes wrought!
+     I had not wander'd far and wide
+     With such an angel for my guide;
+     Nor heaven nor earth could then reprove me
+     If she had lived, and lived to love me.
+
+     Not then this world's wild joys had been
+     To me one savage hunting scene,
+     My sole delight the headlong race,
+     And frantic hurry of the chase;
+     To start, pursue, and bring to bay,
+     Rush in, drag down, and rend my prey,
+     Then--from the carcase turn away!
+     Mine ireful mood had sweetness tamed,
+     And soothed each wound which pride inflamed:--
+     Yes, God and man might now approve me
+     If thou hadst lived, and lived to love me!
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT.
+
+
+
+
+     106. THE FORSAKEN BRIDE.
+
+     O waly waly, up the bank,
+       And waly waly down the brae,
+     And waly waly yon burn-side
+       Where I and my Love wont to gae!
+     I leant my back unto an aik,
+       I thought it was a trusty tree;
+     But first it bow'd, and syne it brak,
+       Sae my true Love did lichtly me.
+
+     O waly waly, but love be bonny
+       A little time while it is new;
+     But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld,
+       And fades awa' like morning dew.
+     O wherefore should I busk my head?
+       Or wherefore should I kame my hair?
+     For my true Love has me forsook,
+       And says he'll never loe me mair.
+
+     Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed;
+       The sheets sall ne'er be prest by me:
+     Saint Anton's well sall be my drink,
+       Since my true Love has forsaken me.
+     Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw
+       And shake the green leaves aff the tree?
+     O gentle Death, when wilt thou come?
+       For of my life I am wearie.
+
+     'Tis not the frost, that freezes fell,
+       Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie,
+     'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,
+       But my Love's heart grown cauld to me.
+     When we came in by Glasgow town
+       We were a comely sight to see;
+     My Love was clad in the black velvet,
+       And I mysell in cramasie.
+
+     But had I wist, before I kist,
+       That love had been sae ill to win,
+     I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd
+       And pinn'd it wi' a siller pin.
+     And O! if my young babe were born,
+       And set upon the nurse's knee,
+     And I mysell were dead and gane,
+       And the green grass growing over me!
+
+     ANON.
+
+
+
+
+     107. FAIR HELEN.
+
+     I wish I were where Helen lies;
+     Night and day on me she cries;
+     O that I were where Helen lies
+        On fair Kirconnell lea.
+
+     Curst be the heart that thought the thought,
+     And curst the hand that fired the shot,
+     When in my arms burd Helen dropt,
+        And died to succour me!
+
+     O think na but my heart was sair,
+     When my Love dropt down and spak nae mair!
+     I laid her down wi' meikle care,
+        On fair Kirconnell lea.
+
+     As I went down the water side,
+     None but my foe to be my guide,
+     None but my foe to be my guide,
+        On fair Kirconnell lea;
+
+     I lighted down my sword to draw,
+     I hacked him in pieces sma',
+     I hacked him in pieces sma',
+        For her sake that died for me.
+
+     O Helen fair, beyond compare!
+     I'll make a garland of thy hair
+     Shall bind my heart for evermair
+        Until the day I die.
+
+     O that I were where Helen lies!
+     Night and day on me she cries;
+     Out of my bed she bids me rise,
+        Says, "Haste, and come to me!"
+
+     O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!
+     If I were with thee, I were blest,
+     Where thou lies low and takes thy rest
+        On fair Kirconnell lea.
+
+     I wish my grave were growing green,
+     A winding-sheet drawn ower my een,
+     And I in Helen's arms lying,
+        On fair Kirconnell lea.
+
+     I wish I were where Helen lies;
+     Night and day on me she cries;
+     And I am weary of the skies,
+        Since my Love died for me.
+
+     ANON.
+
+
+
+
+     108. THE TWA CORBIES.
+
+     As I was walking all alane
+     I heard twa corbies making a mane;
+     The tane unto the t'other say,
+     "Where sall we gang and dine to-day?"
+
+     "--In behint yon auld fail dyke,
+     I wot there lies a new-slain Knight;
+     And naebody kens that he lies there,
+     But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.
+
+     "His hound is to the hunting gane,
+     His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,
+     His lady's ta'en another mate,
+     So we may mak our dinner sweet.
+
+     "Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,
+     And I'll pick out his bonny blue een:
+     Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair
+     We'll theek our nest when it grows bare.
+
+     "Mony a one for him makes mane,
+     But nane sall ken where he is gane;
+     O'er his white banes, when they are bare,
+     The wind sall blaw for evermair."
+
+     ANON.
+
+
+
+
+     109. TO BLOSSOMS.
+
+     Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,
+        Why do ye fall so fast?
+        Your date is not so past,
+     But you may stay yet here awhile
+        To blush and gently smile,
+          And go at last.
+
+     What, were ye born to be
+        An hour or half's delight;
+        And so to bid good-night?
+     'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth,
+        Merely to show your worth,
+          And lose you quite.
+
+     But you are lovely leaves, where we
+        May read how soon things have
+        Their end, though ne'er so brave:
+     And after they have shown their pride
+        Like you, awhile, they glide
+          Into the grave.
+
+     R. HERRICK.
+
+
+
+
+     110. TO DAFFODILS.
+
+     Fair Daffodils, we weep to see
+          You haste away so soon
+     As yet the early-rising Sun
+          Has not attain'd his noon.
+               Stay, stay,
+          Until the hasting day
+               Has run
+          But to the even-song;
+     And, having pray'd together, we
+          Will go with you along.
+
+     We have short time to stay, as you,
+          We have as short a Spring;
+     As quick a growth to meet decay
+          As you, or any thing.
+               We die
+          As your hours do, and dry
+               Away
+          Like to the summer's rain;
+     Or as the pearls of morning's dew
+          Ne'er to be found again.
+
+     R. HERRICK.
+
+
+
+
+     111. THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN.
+
+     How vainly men themselves amaze
+     To win the palm, the oak, or bays,
+     And their incessant labours see
+     Crown'd from some single herb or tree,
+     Whose short and narrow-verged shade
+     Does prudently their toils upbraid;
+     While all the flowers and trees do close
+     To weave the garlands of Repose.
+
+     Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
+     And Innocence thy sister dear?
+     Mistaken long, I sought you then
+     In busy companies of men:
+     Your sacred plants, if here below,
+     Only among the plants will grow:
+     Society is all but rude
+     To this delicious solitude.
+
+     No white nor red was ever seen
+     So amorous as this lovely green.
+     Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,
+     Cut in these trees their mistress' name:
+     Little, alas! they know or heed
+     How far these beauties hers exceed!
+     Fair trees! where'er your barks I wound,
+     No name shall but your own be found.
+
+     When we have run our passions' heat,
+     Love hither makes his best retreat:
+     The gods, who mortal beauty chase,
+     Still in a tree did end their race:
+     Apollo hunted Daphne so
+     Only that she might laurel grow;
+     And Pan did after Syrinx speed
+     Not as a nymph, but for a reed.
+
+     What wondrous life in this I lead!
+     Ripe apples drop about my head;
+     The luscious clusters of the vine
+     Upon my mouth do crush their wine;
+     The nectarine and curious peach
+     Into my hands themselves do reach;
+     Stumbling on melons, as I pass,
+     Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.
+
+     Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less
+     Withdraws into its happiness;
+     The mind, that ocean where each kind
+     Does straight its own resemblance find;
+     Yet it creates, transcending these,
+     Far other worlds, and other seas;
+     Annihilating all that's made
+     To a green thought in a green shade.
+
+     Here at the fountain's sliding foot
+     Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root,
+     Casting the body's vest aside
+     My soul into the boughs does glide;
+     There, like a bird, it sits and sings,
+     Then whets and claps its silver wings,
+     And, till prepared for longer flight,
+     Waves in its plumes the various light.
+
+     Such was that happy Garden-state
+     While man there walk'd without a mate:
+     After a place so pure and sweet,
+     What other help could yet be meet!
+     But 'twas beyond a mortal's share
+     To wander solitary there:
+     Two paradises are in one,
+     To live in Paradise alone.
+
+     How well the skilful gardener drew
+     Of flowers and herbs this dial new!
+     Where, from above, the milder sun
+     Does through a fragrant zodiac run:
+     And, as it works, th' industrious bee
+     Computes its time as well as we.
+     How could such sweet and wholesome hours
+     Be reckon'd, but with herbs and flowers!
+
+     A. MARVELL.
+
+
+
+
+     112. L'ALLEGRO.
+
+     Hence, loathed Melancholy,
+       Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born
+     In Stygian cave forlorn
+       'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy!
+     Find out some uncouth cell
+       Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings
+     And the night-raven sings;
+       There, under ebon shades and low-browed rocks
+     As ragged as thy locks,
+       In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.
+
+         But come, thou Goddess fair and free,
+         In heaven yclept Euphrosyne,
+         And by men, heart-easing Mirth,
+         Whom lovely Venus at a birth
+         With two sister Graces more
+         To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore:
+         Or whether (as some sager sing)
+         The frolic wind that breathes the spring
+         Zephyr, with Aurora playing,
+         As he met her once a-Maying--
+         There, on beds of violets blue
+         And fresh-blown roses wash'd in dew
+         Fill'd her with thee, a daughter fair,
+         So buxom, blithe, and debonair.
+           Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee
+         Jest, and youthful jollity,
+         Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,
+         Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles
+         Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,
+         And love to live in dimple sleek;
+         Sport that wrinkled Care derides,
+         And Laughter holding both his sides:--
+         Come, and trip it as you go
+         On the light fantastic toe;
+         And in thy right hand lead with thee
+         The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty;
+         And if I give thee honour due,
+         Mirth, admit me of thy crew,
+         To live with her, and live with thee,
+         In unreproved pleasures free;
+         To hear the lark begin his flight
+         And singing startle the dull night
+         From his watch-tower in the skies,
+         Till the dappled dawn doth rise:
+         Then to come, in spite of sorrow,
+         And at my window bid good-morrow,
+         Through the sweetbriar, or the vine,
+         Or the twisted eglantine:
+         While the cock with lively din,
+         Scatters the rear of darkness thin,
+         And to the stack, or the barn-door,
+         Stoutly struts his dames before:
+         Oft listening how the hounds and horn
+         Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn,
+         From the side of some hoar hill,
+         Through the high wood echoing shrill:
+         Sometime walking, not unseen,
+         By hedgerow elms, on hillocks green,
+         Right against the eastern gate
+         Where the great Sun begins his state
+         Robed in flames and amber light,
+         The clouds in thousand liveries dight;
+         While the ploughman, near at hand,
+         Whistles o'er the furrow'd land,
+         And the milkmaid singeth blithe,
+         And the mower whets his scythe,
+         And every shepherd tells his tale
+         Under the hawthorn in the dale.
+           Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures
+         Whilst the landscape round it measures;
+         Russet lawns, and fallows gray,
+         Where the nibbling flocks do stray;
+         Mountains, on whose barren breast
+         The labouring clouds do often rest;
+         Meadows trim with daisies pied;
+         Shallow brooks, and rivers wide;
+         Towers and battlements it sees
+         Bosom'd high in tufted trees,
+         Where perhaps some Beauty lies,
+         The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes.
+           Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes
+         From betwixt two aged oaks,
+         Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met
+         Are at their savoury dinner set
+         Of herbs, and other country messes,
+         Which the neat-handed Phyllis dresses;
+         And then in haste her bower she leaves
+         With Thestylis to bind the sheaves;
+         Or, if the earlier season lead,
+         To the tann'd haycock in the mead.
+           Sometimes with secure delight
+         The upland hamlets will invite,
+         When the merry bells ring round,
+         And the jocund rebecks sound
+         To many a youth and many a maid,
+         Dancing in the chequer'd shade;
+         And young and old come forth to play
+         On a sun-shine holy-day,
+         Till the live-long day-light fail:
+         Then to the spicy nut-brown ale,
+         With stories told of many a feat,
+         How faery Mab the junkets eat;
+         She was pinch'd and pull'd, she said;
+         And he, by friar's lantern led,
+         Tells how the drudging Goblin sweat
+         To earn his cream-bowl duly set,
+         When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,
+         His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the corn
+         That ten day-labourers could not end;
+         Then lies him down the lubber fiend,
+         And, stretch'd out all the chimney's length,
+         Basks at the fire his hairy strength;
+         And crop-full out of doors he flings,
+         Ere the first cock his matin rings.
+           Thus done the tales, to bed they creep,
+         By whispering winds soon lull'd asleep.
+           Tower'd cities please us then,
+         And the busy hum of men,
+         Where throngs of knights and barons bold,
+         In weeds of peace high triumphs hold,
+         With store of ladies, whose bright eyes
+         Rain influence, and judge the prize
+         Of wit or arms, while both contend
+         To win her grace whom all commend.
+         There let Hymen oft appear
+         In saffron robe, with taper clear,
+         And pomp, and feast, and revelry,
+         With mask, and antique pageantry;
+         Such sights as youthful poets dream
+         On summer eves by haunted stream.
+         Then to the well-trod stage anon,
+         If Jonson's learned sock be on,
+         Or sweetest Shakspeare, Fancy's child,
+         Warble his native wood-notes wild.
+           And ever against eating cares,
+         Lap me in soft Lydian airs
+         Married to immortal verse,
+         Such as the meeting soul may pierce
+         In notes, with many a winding bout
+         Of linked sweetness long drawn out,
+         With wanton heed and giddy cunning
+         The melting voice through mazes running,
+         Untwisting all the chains that tie
+         The hidden soul of harmony;
+         That Orpheus' self may heave his head
+         From golden slumber, on a bed
+         Of heap'd Elysian flowers, and hear
+         Such strains as would have won the ear
+         Of Pluto, to have quite set free
+         His half-regain'd Eurydice.
+           These delights if thou canst give,
+         Mirth, with thee I mean to live.
+
+     J. MILTON.
+
+
+
+
+     113. IL PENSEROSO.
+
+     Hence, vain deluding Joys,
+       The brood of Folly without father bred!
+     How little you bestead
+       Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys!
+     Dwell in some idle brain,
+       And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess
+     As thick and numberless
+       As the gay motes that people the sunbeams,
+     Or likest hovering dreams
+       The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train.
+
+           But hail, thou goddess sage and holy,
+         Hail, divinest Melancholy!
+         Whose saintly visage is too bright
+         To hit the sense of human sight,
+         And therefore to our weaker view
+         O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue;
+         Black, but such as in esteem
+         Prince Memnon's sister might beseem.
+         Or that starr'd Ethiop queen that strove
+         To set her beauty's praise above
+         The sea-nymphs, and their powers offended.
+         Yet thou art higher far descended:
+         Thee bright-hair'd Vesta, long of yore,
+         To solitary Saturn bore;
+         His daughter she; in Saturn's reign
+         Such mixture was not held a stain:
+         Oft in glimmering bowers and glades
+         He met her, and in secret shades
+         Of woody Ida's inmost grove,
+         Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove.
+           Come, pensive nun, devout and pure,
+         Sober, steadfast, and demure,
+         All in a robe of darkest grain
+         Flowing with majestic train,
+         And sable stole of cypres lawn
+         Over thy decent shoulders drawn:
+         Come, but keep thy wonted state,
+         With even step, and musing gait,
+         And looks commercing with the skies,
+         Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:
+         There, held in holy passion still,
+         Forget thyself to marble, till
+         With a sad leaden downward cast
+         Thou fix them on the earth as fast:
+         And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,
+         Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,
+         And hears the Muses in a ring
+         Aye round about Jove's altar sing:
+         And add to these retired Leisure
+         That in trim gardens takes his pleasure:--
+         But first, and chiefest, with thee bring
+         Him that yon soars on golden wing,
+         Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,
+         The cherub Contemplation;
+         And the mute Silence hist along,
+         'Less Philomel will deign a song,
+         In her sweetest saddest plight,
+         Smoothing the rugged brow of Night,
+         While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke
+         Gently o'er the accustom'd oak.
+         --Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly,
+         Most musical, most melancholy!
+         Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among
+         I woo, to hear thy even-song;
+         And, missing thee, I walk unseen
+         On the dry smooth-shaven green,
+         To behold the wandering moon,
+         Riding near her highest noon,
+         Like one that had been led astray
+         Through the heaven's wide pathless way,
+         And oft, as if her head she bow'd,
+         Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
+           Oft, on a plat of rising ground
+         I hear the far-off curfeu sound,
+         Over some wide-water'd shore,
+         Swinging slow with sullen roar;
+         Or, if the air will not permit,
+         Some still removed place will fit,
+         Where glowing embers through the room
+         Teach light to counterfeit a gloom;
+         Far from all resort of mirth,
+         Save the cricket on the hearth,
+         Or the bellman's drowsy charm
+         To bless the doors from nightly harm.
+           Or let my lamp at midnight hour
+         Be seen in some high lonely tower,
+         Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,
+         With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere
+         The spirit of Plato, to unfold
+         What worlds or what vast regions hold
+         The immortal mind that hath forsook
+         Her mansion in this fleshy nook:
+         And of those demons that are found
+         In fire, air, flood, or under ground,
+         Whose power hath a true consent
+         With planet, or with element.
+         Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy
+         In sceptr'd pall come sweeping by
+         Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line,
+         Or the tale of Troy divine;
+         Or what (though rare) of later age
+         Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage.
+           But, O sad Virgin, that thy power
+         Might raise Musaeus from his bower,
+         Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
+         Such notes as, warbled to the string,
+         Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek
+         And made Hell grant what Love did seek!
+         Or call up him that left half-told
+         The story of Cambuscan bold,
+         Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
+         And who had Canace to wife
+         That own'd the virtuous ring and glass;
+         And of the wondrous horse of brass
+         On which the Tartar king did ride;
+         And if aught else great bards beside
+         In sage and solemn tunes have sung
+         Of tourneys, and of trophies hung,
+         Of forests, and enchantments drear,
+         Where more is meant than meets the ear.
+           Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career,
+         Till civil-suited Morn appear,
+         Not trick'd and frounced as she was wont
+         With the Attic Boy to hunt,
+         But kercheft in a comely cloud
+         While rocking winds are piping loud,
+         Or usher'd with a shower still,
+         When the gust hath blown his fill,
+         Ending on the rustling leaves
+         With minute drops from off the eaves.
+         And when the sun begins to fling
+         His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring
+         To arched walks of twilight groves,
+         And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,
+         Of pine, or monumental oak,
+         Where the rude axe, with heaved stroke,
+         Was never heard the nymphs to daunt
+         Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
+         There in close covert by some brook
+         Where no profaner eye may look,
+         Hide me from day's garish eye,
+         While the bee with honey'd thigh,
+         That at her flowery work doth sing,
+         And the waters murmuring,
+         With such consort as they keep
+         Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep.
+         And let some strange mysterious dream
+         Wave at his wings in aery stream
+         Of lively portraiture display'd,
+         Softly on my eyelids laid:
+         And, as I wake, sweet music breathe
+         Above, about, or underneath,
+         Sent by some spirit to mortals good,
+         Or the unseen Genius of the wood.
+           But let my due feet never fail
+         To walk the studious cloister's pale,
+         And love the high-embowed roof,
+         With antique pillars massy proof,
+         And storied windows richly dight
+         Casting a dim religious light:
+         There let the pealing organ blow
+         To the full-voiced quire below
+         In service high and anthems clear,
+         As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
+         Dissolve me into ecstasies,
+         And bring all Heaven before mine eyes.
+           And may at last my weary age
+         Find out the peaceful hermitage,
+         The hairy gown and mossy cell,
+         Where I may sit and rightly spell
+         Of every star that heaven doth show,
+         And every herb that sips the dew;
+         Till old experience do attain
+         To something like prophetic strain.
+
+           These pleasures, Melancholy, give,
+         And I with thee will choose to live.
+
+     J. MILTON.
+
+
+
+
+     114. SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA.
+
+     Where the remote Bermudas ride
+     In the ocean's bosom unespied,
+     From a small boat that row'd along
+     The listening woods received this song.
+
+       "What should we do but sing His praise
+     That led us through the watery maze
+     Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks,
+     That lift the deep upon their backs,
+     Unto an isle so long unknown,
+     And yet far kinder than our own?
+     He lands us on a grassy stage,
+     Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage:
+     He gave us this eternal spring
+     Which here enamels everything,
+     And sends the fowls to us in care
+     On daily visits through the air.
+     He hangs in shades the orange bright
+     Like golden lamps in a green night,
+     And does in the pomegranates close
+     Jewels more rich than Ormus shows:
+     He makes the figs our mouths to meet,
+     And throws the melons at our feet;
+     But apples plants of such a price,
+     No tree could ever bear them twice.
+     With cedars chosen by His hand
+     From Lebanon He stores the land;
+     And makes the hollow seas that roar
+     Proclaim the ambergris on shore.
+     He cast (of which we rather boast)
+     The Gospel's pearl upon our coast;
+     And in these rocks for us did frame
+     A temple where to sound His name.
+     O let our voice His praise exalt
+     Till it arrive at Heaven's vault,
+     Which then perhaps rebounding may
+     Echo beyond the Mexique bay!"
+     --Thus sung they in the English boat
+     A holy and a cheerful note:
+     And all the way, to guide their chime,
+     With falling oars they kept the time.
+
+     A. MARVELL.
+
+
+
+
+     115. AT A SOLEMN MUSIC.
+
+     Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy,
+     Sphere-born harmonious Sisters, Voice, and Verse,
+     Wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employ
+     Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce,
+     And to our high-raised phantasy present
+     That undisturbed Song of pure concent,
+     Ay sung before the sapphire-colour'd throne
+        To Him that sits thereon,
+     With saintly shout and solemn jubilee;
+     Where the bright Seraphim in burning row
+     Their loud uplifted angel-trumpets blow;
+     And the Cherubic host in thousand quires
+     Touch their immortal harps of golden wires,
+     With those just Spirits that wear victorious palms
+        Hymns devout and holy psalms
+        Singing everlastingly:
+     That we on earth, with undiscording voice
+     May rightly answer that melodious noise;
+     As once we did, till disproportion'd sin
+     Jarr'd against nature's chime, and with harsh din
+     Broke the fair music that all creatures made
+     To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway'd
+     In perfect diapason, whilst they stood
+     In first obedience, and their state of good.
+     O may we soon again renew that Song,
+     And keep in tune with Heaven, till God ere long
+     To His celestial consort us unite,
+     To live with Him, and sing in endless morn of light!
+
+     J. MILTON.
+
+
+
+
+     116. ALEXANDER'S FEAST, OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC.
+
+     'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won
+     By Philip's warlike son--
+     Aloft in awful state
+     The godlike hero sate
+     On his imperial throne;
+     His valiant peers were placed around;
+     Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound
+     (So should desert in arms be crown'd).
+     The lovely Thais by his side
+     Sate like a blooming eastern bride
+     In flower of youth and beauty's pride:--
+     Happy, happy, happy pair!
+     None but the brave
+     None but the brave
+     None but the brave deserves the fair.
+
+       Timotheus placed on high
+     Amid the tuneful quire
+     With flying fingers touch'd the lyre:
+     The trembling notes ascend the sky
+     And heavenly joys inspire.
+     The song began from Jove
+     Who left his blissful seats above--
+     Such is the power of mighty love!
+     A dragon's fiery form belied the god;
+     Sublime on radiant spires he rode
+     When he to fair Olympia prest,
+     And while he sought her snowy breast;
+     Then round her slender waist he curl'd,
+     And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the world.
+     --The listening crowd admire the lofty sound!
+     A present deity! they shout around:
+     A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound!
+     With ravish'd ears
+     The monarch hears,
+     Assumes the god;
+     Affects to nod
+     And seems to shake the spheres.
+
+       The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung:
+     Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young:
+     The jolly god in triumph comes!
+     Sound the trumpets, beat the drums!
+     Flush'd with a purple grace
+     He shows his honest face:
+     Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes!
+     Bacchus, ever fair and young,
+     Drinking joys did first ordain;
+     Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,
+     Drinking is the soldier's pleasure:
+     Rich the treasure,
+     Sweet the pleasure,
+     Sweet is pleasure after pain.
+
+       Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain;
+     Fought all his battles o'er again,
+     And thrice he routed all his foes; and thrice he slew the slain!
+     The master saw the madness rise,
+     His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;
+     And while he Heaven and Earth defied
+     Changed his hand and check'd his pride.
+     He chose a mournful Muse
+     Soft pity to infuse:
+     He sung Darius great and good,
+     By too severe a fate
+     Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,
+     Fallen from his high estate,
+     And weltering in his blood;
+     Deserted, at his utmost need,
+     By those his former bounty fed;
+     On the bare earth exposed he lies
+     With not a friend to close his eyes.
+     --With downcast looks the joyless victor sate,
+     Revolving in his alter'd soul
+     The various turns of Chance below;
+     And now and then a sigh he stole;
+     And tears began to flow.
+
+       The mighty master smiled to see
+     That love was in the next degree;
+     'Twas but a kindred-sound to move,
+     For pity melts the mind to love.
+     Softly sweet, in Lydian measures,
+     Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures.
+     War, he sung, is toil and trouble,
+     Honour but an empty bubble,
+     Never ending, still beginning;
+     Fighting still, and still destroying;
+     If the world be worth thy winning,
+     Think, O think, it worth enjoying:
+     Lovely Thais sits beside thee,
+     Take the good the gods provide thee!
+     --The many rend the skies with loud applause;
+     So Love was crown'd, but Music won the cause.
+     The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
+     Gazed on the fair
+     Who caused his care,
+     And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd,
+     Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again:
+     At length, with love and wine at once opprest
+     The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast.
+
+       Now strike the golden lyre again:
+     A louder yet, and yet a louder strain!
+     Break his bands of sleep asunder,
+     And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder.
+     Hark, hark! the horrid sound
+     Has raised up his head:
+     As awaked from the dead,
+     And amazed he stares around.
+     Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries,
+     See the Furies arise!
+     See the snakes that they rear
+     How they hiss in their hair,
+     And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!
+     Behold a ghastly band
+     Each a torch in his hand!
+     Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain
+     And unburied remain
+     Inglorious on the plain:
+     Give the vengeance due
+     To the valiant crew!
+     Behold how they toss their torches on high,
+     How they point to the Persian abodes
+     And glittering temples of their hostile gods.
+     --The princes applaud with a furious joy:
+     And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy;
+     Thais led the way,
+     To light him to his prey,
+     And like another Helen, fired another Troy!
+
+     --Thus, long ago,
+     Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow,
+     While organs yet were mute,
+     Timotheus, to his breathing flute
+     And sounding lyre
+     Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.
+     At last divine Cecilia came,
+     Inventress of the vocal frame;
+     The sweet enthusiast from her sacred store
+     Enlarged the former narrow bounds,
+     And added length to solemn sounds,
+     With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before.
+     --Let old Timotheus yield the prize
+     Or both divide the crown;
+     He raised a mortal to the skies;
+     She drew an angel down!
+
+     J. DRYDEN.
+
+
+
+
+
+THIRD BOOK.
+
+
+SUMMARY.
+
+
+It is more difficult to characterise the English Poetry of the
+eighteenth century than that of any other. For it was an age not only of
+spontaneous transition, but of bold experiment: it includes not only
+such divergences of thought as distinguished the "Rape of the Lock" from
+the "Parish Register," but such vast contemporaneous differences as lie
+between Pope and Collins, Burns and Cowper. Yet we may clearly trace
+three leading moods or tendencies:--the aspects of courtly or educated
+life represented by Pope and carried to exhaustion by his followers; the
+poetry of Nature and of Man, viewed through a cultivated, and at the
+same time an impassioned frame of mind by Collins and Gray:--lastly, the
+study of vivid and simple narrative, including natural description,
+begun by Gay and Thomson, pursued by Burns and others in the north, and
+established in England by Goldsmith, Percy, Crabbe, and Cowper. Great
+varieties in style accompanied these diversities in aim: poets could not
+always distinguish the manner suitable for subjects so far apart; and
+the union of the language of courtly and of common life, exhibited most
+conspicuously by Burns, has given a tone to the poetry of that century
+which is better explained by reference to its historical origin than by
+naming it, in the common criticism of our day, artificial. There is
+again, a nobleness of thought, a courageous aim at high and, in a strict
+sense manly, excellence in many of the writers:--nor can that period be
+justly termed tame and wanting in originality, which produced poems such
+as Pope's Satires, Gray's Odes and Elegy, the ballads of Gay and Carey,
+the songs of Burns and Cowper. In truth Poetry at this as at all times
+was a more or less unconscious mirror of the genius of the age; and the
+brave and admirable spirit of Enquiry which made the eighteenth century
+the turning-time in European civilisation is reflected faithfully in its
+verse. An intelligent reader will find the influence of Newton as
+markedly in the poems of Pope, as of Elizabeth in the plays of
+Shakespeare. On this great subject, however, these indications must here
+be sufficient.
+
+
+
+
+     117. ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE.
+
+     Now the golden Morn aloft
+       Waves her dew-bespangled wing,
+     With vermeil cheek and whisper soft
+       She woos 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.
+
+     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 lour
+     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 tost
+       On the thorny bed of pain,
+     At length repair his vigour lost
+       And breathe and walk again:
+     The meanest floweret of the vale,
+     The simplest note that swells the gale,
+     The common sun, the air, the skies,
+     To him are opening Paradise.
+
+     T. GRAY.
+
+
+
+
+     118. SOLITUDE.
+
+     Happy the man, whose wish and care
+     A few paternal acres bound,
+     Content to breathe his native air
+                    In his own ground.
+
+     Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
+     Whose flocks supply him with attire;
+     Whose trees in summer yield him shade
+                    In winter, fire.
+
+     Blest, who can unconcern'dly find
+     Hours, days, and years, slide soft away
+     In health of body, peace of mind,
+                    Quiet by day,
+
+     Sound sleep by night; study and ease
+     Together mix'd; sweet recreation,
+     And innocence, which most does please
+                    With meditation.
+
+     Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
+     Thus unlamented let me die;
+     Steal from the world, and not a stone
+                    Tell where I lie.
+
+     A. POPE.
+
+
+
+
+     119. THE BLIND BOY.
+
+     O say what is that thing call'd Light,
+       Which I must ne'er enjoy;
+     What are the blessings of the sight,
+       O tell your poor blind boy!
+
+     You talk of wondrous things you see,
+       You say the sun shines bright;
+     I feel him warm, but how can he
+       Or make it day or night?
+
+     My day or night myself I make
+       Whene'er I sleep or play;
+     And could I ever keep awake
+       With me 'twere always day.
+
+     With heavy sighs I often hear
+       You mourn my hapless woe;
+     But sure with patience I can bear
+       A loss I ne'er can know.
+
+     Then let not what I cannot have
+       My cheer of mind destroy:
+     Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,
+       Although a poor blind boy.
+
+     C. CIBBER.
+
+
+
+
+     120. ON A FAVOURITE CAT, DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES.
+
+     'Twas on a lofty vase's side
+     Where China's gayest art had dyed
+     The azure flowers that blow,
+     Demurest of the tabby kind
+     The pensive Selima, reclined,
+     Gazed on the lake below.
+
+     Her conscious tail her joy declared:
+     The fair round face, the snowy beard,
+     The velvet of her paws,
+     Her coat that with the tortoise vies,
+     Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes--
+     She saw, and purr'd applause.
+
+     Still had she gazed, but 'midst the tide
+     Two angel forms were seen to glide,
+     The Genii of the stream:
+     Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue
+     Through richest purple, to the view
+     Betray'd a golden gleam.
+
+     The hapless Nymph with wonder saw;
+     A whisker first, and then a claw
+     With many an ardent wish
+     She stretch'd, in vain, to reach the prize--
+     What female heart can gold despise?
+     What cat's averse to fish?
+
+     Presumptuous maid! with looks intent
+     Again she stretch'd, again she bent,
+     Nor knew the gulf between--
+     Malignant Fate sat by and smiled--
+     The slippery verge her feet beguiled;
+     She tumbled headlong in!
+
+     Eight times emerging from the flood,
+     She mew'd to every watery God
+     Some speedy aid to send:--
+     No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd,
+     Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard--
+     A favourite has no friend!
+
+     From hence, ye Beauties! undeceived
+     Know one false step is ne'er retrieved,
+     And be with caution bold:
+     Not all that tempts your wandering eyes
+     And heedless hearts, is lawful prize,
+     Nor all that glisters, gold!
+
+     T. GRAY.
+
+
+
+
+     121. TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY.
+
+        Timely blossom, Infant fair,
+        Fondling 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 abandon'd 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 petty 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.
+
+     A. PHILIPS.
+
+
+
+
+     122. RULE BRITANNIA.
+
+       When Britain first at Heaven's command
+         Arose from out the azure main,
+       This was the charter of her land,
+         And guardian angels sung the strain:
+     Rule Brittania! Brittania rules the waves!
+           Britons never shall be slaves.
+
+       The nations not so blest as thee
+         Must in their turn to tyrants fall,
+       Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free
+         The dread and envy of them all.
+
+       Still more majestic shalt thou rise,
+         More dreadful from each foreign stroke;
+       As the loud blast that tears the skies
+         Serves but to root thy native oak.
+
+       Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame;
+         All their attempts to bend thee down
+       Will but arouse thy generous flame,
+         And work their woe and thy renown.
+
+       To thee belongs the rural reign;
+         Thy cities shall with commerce shine;
+       All thine shall be the subject main,
+         And every shore it circles thine!
+
+       The Muses, still with Freedom found,
+         Shall to thy happy coast repair;
+       Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crown'd,
+         And manly hearts to guard the fair:--
+     Rule Britannia! Brittania rules the waves!
+           Britons never shall be slaves!
+
+     J. THOMSON.
+
+
+
+
+     123. THE BARD.
+
+     _Pindaric Ode._
+
+     "Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!
+      Confusion on thy banners wait!
+     Tho' fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing
+      They mock the air with idle state.
+     Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail
+     Nor e'en 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 scatter'd wild dismay,
+     As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side
+      He wound with toilsome march his long array:--
+     Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance;
+     "To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couch'd quivering lance.
+
+      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 beard and hoary hair
+     Stream'd 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, O 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.
+
+      "Cold is Cadwallo's tongue
+      That hush'd 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-topt head.
+      On dreary Arvon's shore they lie
+     Smear'd with gore and ghastly pale:
+     Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail;
+      The famish'd 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 griesly 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.
+
+     "Weave the warp and weave the woof
+      The winding-sheet of Edward's race:
+     Give ample room and verge enough
+      The characters of hell to trace.
+     Mark the year and mark the night
+     When Severn shall re-echo with affright
+     The shrieks of death thro' Berkley's roof that ring,
+     Shrieks of an agonising 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.
+
+     "Mighty Victor, mighty lord,
+      Low on his funeral couch he lies!
+     No pitying heart, no eye, afford
+      A tear to grace his obsequies.
+     Is the sable warrior fled?
+     Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.
+     The swarm that in thy noon-tide beam were born?
+     --Gone to salute the rising morn.
+     Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr blows,
+      While proudly riding o'er the azure realm
+     In gallant trim the gilded Vessel goes:
+      Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm:
+     Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway,
+     That hush'd in grim repose expects his evening prey.
+
+      "Fill high the sparkling bowl,
+     The rich repast prepare;
+      Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast.
+     Close by the regal chair
+      Fell Thirst and Famine scowl
+      A baleful smile upon their baffled guest.
+     Heard ye the din of battle bray,
+      Lance to lance, and horse to horse?
+      Long years of havock urge their destined course,
+     And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way.
+      Ye Towers of Julius! London's lasting shame,
+     With many a foul and midnight murder fed,
+      Revere his Consort's faith, his Father's fame,
+     And spare the meek usurper's holy head!
+     Above, below, the rose of snow,
+      Twined with her blushing foe, we spread:
+     The bristled boar in infant gore
+      Wallows beneath the thorny shade.
+     Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom,
+     Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.
+
+     "Edward, lo! to sudden fate
+      (Weave we the woof; the thread is spun;)
+     Half of thy heart we consecrate.
+      (The web is wove; the work is done;)
+     Stay, O stay! nor thus forlorn
+     Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn:
+     In yon bright track that fires the western skies
+     They melt, they vanish from my eyes.
+     But O! 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!
+
+      "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
+     Attemper'd 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-colour'd wings.
+
+     "The verse adorn again,
+      Fierce War and faithful Love,
+     And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest.
+      In buskin'd 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 quench'd 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.
+
+     T. GRAY.
+
+
+
+
+     124. ODE WRITTEN IN MDCCXLVI.
+
+     How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
+     By all their Country's wishes blest!
+     When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
+     Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,
+     She there shall dress a sweeter sod
+     Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
+
+     By fairy hands their knell is rung,
+     By forms unseen their dirge is sung:
+     There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
+     To bless the turf that wraps their clay,
+     And Freedom shall awhile repair
+     To dwell a weeping hermit, there!
+
+     W. COLLINS.
+
+
+
+
+     125. LAMENT FOR CULLODEN.
+
+     The lovely lass o' Inverness,
+     Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;
+     For e'en and morn she cries, Alas!
+     And aye the saut tear blink's her ee:
+     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 ee!
+     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 wrong to thine or thee.
+
+     R. BURNS.
+
+
+
+
+     126. LAMENT FOR FLODDEN.
+
+     I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking,
+       Lasses a' lilting before dawn o' day;
+     But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning--
+       The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
+
+     At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning,
+       Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae;
+     Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing,
+       Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away.
+
+     In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
+       Bandsters are lyart, and runkled and gray;
+     At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching--
+       The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
+
+     At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming
+       'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play;
+     But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie--
+       The Flowers of the Forest are weded away.
+
+     Dool and wae for the order, sent out lads to the border!
+       The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;
+     The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,
+       The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay.
+
+     We'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe-milking;
+       Women and bairns are heartless and wae;
+     Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning--
+       The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
+
+     J. ELLIOTT.
+
+
+
+
+     127. THE BRAES OF YARROW.
+
+     Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream,
+     When first on them I met my lover;
+     Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream,
+     When now thy waves his body cover!
+     For ever now, O Yarrow stream!
+     Thou art to me a stream of sorrow;
+     For never on thy banks shall I
+     Behold my Love, the flower of Yarrow!
+
+     He promised me a milk-white steed
+     To bear me to his father's bowers;
+     He promised me a little page
+     To squire me to his father's towers;
+     He promised me a wedding-ring,--
+     The wedding-day was fix'd to-morrow;--
+     Now he is wedded to his grave,
+     Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow!
+
+     Sweet were his words when last we met;
+     My passion I as freely told him;
+     Clasp'd in his arms, I little thought
+     That I should never more behold him!
+     Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost;
+     It vanish'd with a shriek of sorrow;
+     Thrice did the water-wraith ascend,
+     And gave a doleful groan thro' Yarrow.
+
+     His mother from the window look'd
+     With all the longing of a mother;
+     His little sister weeping walk'd
+     The green-wood path to meet her brother;
+     They sought him east, they sought him west,
+     They sought him all the forest thorough;
+     They only saw the cloud of night,
+     They only heard the roar of Yarrow.
+
+     No longer from thy window look--
+     Thou hast no son, thou tender mother!
+     No longer walk, thou lovely maid;
+     Alas, thou hast no more a brother!
+     No longer seek him east or west
+     And search no more the forest thorough;
+     For, wandering in the night so dark,
+     He fell a lifeless corpse in Yarrow.
+
+     The tear shall never leave my cheek,
+     No other youth shall be my marrow--
+     I'll seek thy body in the stream,
+     And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow.
+     --The tear did never leave her cheek,
+     No other youth became her marrow;
+     She found his body in the stream,
+     And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow.
+
+     J. LOGAN.
+
+
+
+
+     128. WILLIE DROWNED IN YARROW.
+
+     Down in yon garden sweet and gay
+       Where bonnie grows the lily,
+     I heard a fair maid sighing say
+       "My wish be wi' sweet Willie!
+
+     "Willie's rare, and Willie's fair,
+       And Willie's wondrous bonny;
+     And Willie hecht to marry me
+       Gin e'er he married ony.
+
+     "O gentle wind, that bloweth south,
+       From where my Love repaireth,
+     Convey a kiss frae his dear mouth
+       And tell me how he fareth!
+
+     "O tell sweet Willie to come doon
+       And hear the mavis singing,
+     And see the birds on ilka bush
+       And leaves around them hinging.
+
+     "The lav'rock there, wi' her white breast
+       And gentle throat sae narrow;
+     There's sport eneuch for gentlemen
+       On Leader haughs and Yarrow.
+
+     "O Leader haughs are wide and braid
+       And Yarrow haughs are bonny;
+     There Willie hecht to marry me
+       If e'er he married ony.
+
+     "But Willie's gone, whom I thought on,
+       And does not hear me weeping;
+     Draws many a tear frae true love's e'e
+       When other maids are sleeping.
+
+     "Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid,
+       The night I'll mak' it narrow,
+     For a' the live-lang winter night
+       I lie twined o' my marrow.
+
+     "O came ye by yon water-side?
+       Pou'd you the rose or lily?
+     Or came you by yon meadow green,
+       Or saw you my sweet Willie?"
+
+     She sought him up, she sought him down,
+       She sought him braid and narrow;
+     Syne, in the cleaving of a craig,
+       She found him drown'd in Yarrow!
+
+     ANON.
+
+
+
+
+     129. LOSS OF THE _ROYAL GEORGE_.
+
+     Toll for the Brave!
+     The brave that are no more!
+     All sunk beneath the wave
+     Fast by their native shore!
+
+     Eight hundred of the brave
+     Whose courage well was tried,
+     Had made the vessel heel
+     And laid her on her side.
+
+     A land-breeze shook the shrouds
+     And she was overset;
+     Down went the _Royal George_,
+     With all her crew complete.
+
+     Toll for the brave!
+     Brave Kempenfelt is gone:
+     His last sea-fight is fought,
+     His work of glory done.
+
+     It was not in the battle;
+     No tempest gave the shock;
+     She sprang no fatal leak,
+     She ran upon no rock.
+
+     His sword was in its sheath,
+     His fingers held the pen,
+     When Kempenfeld went down
+     With twice four hundred men.
+
+     Weigh the vessel up
+     Once dreaded by our foes!
+     And mingle with our cup
+     The tear that England owes.
+
+     Her timbers yet are sound,
+     And she may float again
+     Full charged with England's thunder,
+     And plough the distant main:
+
+     But Kempenfeld is gone,
+     His victories are o'er;
+     And he and his eight hundred
+     Shall plough the wave no more.
+
+     W. COWPER.
+
+
+
+
+     130. BLACK-EYED SUSAN.
+
+     All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd,
+       The streamers waving in the wind,
+     When black-eyed Susan came aboard;
+       "O! 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
+       Rock'd with the billow to and fro,
+     Soon as her well-known voice he heard
+       He sigh'd, 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
+     Might 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 fair 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 kiss'd, she sigh'd, he hung his head.
+     Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land;
+     "Adieu!" she cries; and waved her lily hand.
+
+     J. GAY.
+
+
+
+
+     131. SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.
+
+     Of all the girls that are so smart
+      There's none like pretty Sally;
+     She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+     There is no lady in the land
+      Is half so sweet as Sally;
+     She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+
+     Her father he makes cabbage-nets,
+      And through the streets does cry 'em;
+     Her mother she sells laces long
+      To such as please to buy 'em;
+     But sure such folks could ne'er beget
+      So sweet a girl as Sally!
+     She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+
+     When she is by, I leave my work,
+      I love her so sincerely;
+     My master comes like any Turk,
+      And bangs me most severely--
+     But let him bang his bellyful,
+      I'll bear it all for Sally;
+     She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+
+     Of all the days that's in the week
+      I dearly love but one day--
+     And that's the day that comes betwixt
+      A Saturday and Monday;
+     For then I'm drest all in my best
+      To walk abroad with Sally:
+     She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+
+     My master carries me to church,
+      And often am I blamed
+     Because I leave him in the lurch
+      As soon as text is named;
+     I leave the church in sermon-time
+      And slink away to Sally;
+     She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+
+     When Christmas comes about again,
+      O then I shall have money;
+     I'll hoard it up, and box it all,
+      I'll give it to my honey:
+     I would it were ten thousand pound,
+      I'd give it all to Sally;
+     She is the darling of my heart,
+      And she lives in our alley.
+
+     My master and the neighbours all
+      Make game of me and Sally,
+     And, but for her, I'd better be
+      A slave and row a galley;
+     But when my seven long years are out
+      O then I'll marry Sally,--
+     O then we'll wed, and then we'll bed,
+      But not in our alley!
+
+     H. CAREY.
+
+
+
+
+     132. A FAREWELL.
+
+     Go fetch to me a pint o' wine,
+      And fill it in a silver tassie;
+     That I may drink before I go
+      A service to my bonnie lassie:
+     The boat rocks at the pier of Leith,
+      Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry,
+     The ship rides by the Berwick-law,
+      And I maun leave my bonnie Mary.
+
+     The trumpets sound, the banners fly,
+      The glittering spears are ranked ready;
+     The shouts o' war are heard afar,
+      The battle closes thick and bloody;
+     But it's not the roar o' sea or shore
+      Wad make me langer wish to tarry;
+     Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar--
+      It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary.
+
+     R. BURNS.
+
+
+
+
+     133.
+
+     If doughty deeds my lady please
+       Right soon I'll mount my steed;
+     And strong his arm, and fast his seat
+       That bears frae me the meed.
+     I'll wear thy colours in my cap
+       Thy picture in my heart;
+     And he that bends not to thine eye
+       Shall rue it to his smart!
+        Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;
+          O tell me how to woo thee!
+        For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take
+          Tho' ne'er another trow me.
+
+     If gay attire delight thine eye
+       I'll dight me in array;
+     I'll tend thy chamber door all night,
+       And squire thee all the day.
+     If sweetest sounds can win thine ear,
+       These sounds I'll strive to catch;
+     Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysell,
+       That voice that nane can match.
+
+     But if fond love thy heart can gain,
+       I never broke a vow;
+     Nae maiden lays her skaith to me,
+       I never loved but you.
+     For you alone I ride the ring,
+       For you I wear the blue;
+     For you alone I strive to sing,
+       O tell me how to woo!
+        Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;
+          O tell me how to woo thee!
+        For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take,
+          Tho' ne'er another trow me.
+
+     GRAHAM OF GARTMORE.
+
+
+
+
+     134. 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-bosom'd as that watery glass,
+     And Heaven reflected in her face.
+
+     W. COWPER.
+
+
+
+
+     135. THE SLEEPING BEAUTY.
+
+     Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile--
+     Tho' shut so close thy laughing eyes,
+     Thy rosy lips still wear a smile
+     And move, and breathe delicious sighs!
+
+     Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks
+     And mantle o'er her neck of snow:
+     Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks
+     What most I wish--and fear to know!
+
+     She starts, she trembles, and she weeps!
+     Her fair hands folded on her breast:
+     --And now, how like a saint she sleeps!
+     A seraph in the realms of rest!
+
+     Sleep on secure! Above controul
+     Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee:
+     And may the secret of thy soul
+     Remain within its sanctuary!
+
+     S. ROGERS.
+
+
+
+
+     136.
+
+     For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove
+     An unrelenting foe to Love,
+     And when we meet a mutual heart
+     Come in between, and bid us part?
+
+     Bid us sigh on from day to day,
+     And wish and wish the soul away;
+     Till youth and genial years are flown,
+     And all the life of life is gone?
+
+     But busy, busy, still art thou,
+     To bind the loveless joyless vow,
+     The heart from pleasure to delude,
+     To join the gentle to the rude.
+
+     For once, O Fortune, hear my prayer,
+     And I absolve thy future care;
+     All other blessings I resign,
+     Make but the dear Amanda mine.
+
+     J. THOMSON.
+
+
+
+
+     137.
+
+     The merchant, to secure his treasure,
+     Conveys it in a borrow'd name:
+     Euphelia serves to grace my measure,
+     But Cloe is my real flame.
+
+     My softest verse, my darling lyre
+     Upon Euphelia's toilet lay--
+     When Cloe noted her desire
+     That I should sing, that I should play.
+
+     My lyre I tune, my voice I raise,
+     But with my numbers mix my sighs:
+     And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise,
+     I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes.
+
+     Fair Cloe blush'd: Euphelia frown'd:
+     I sung, and gazed; I play'd, and trembled:
+     And Venus to the Loves around
+     Remark'd how ill we all dissembled.
+
+     M. PRIOR.
+
+
+
+
+     138.
+
+     When lovely woman stoops to folly
+     And finds too late that men betray,--
+     What charm can soothe her melancholy,
+     What art can wash her guilt away?
+
+     The only art her guilt to cover,
+     To hide her shame from every eye,
+     To give repentance to her lover
+     And wring his bosom, is--to die.
+
+     O. GOLDSMITH.
+
+
+
+
+     139.
+
+     Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon
+       How can ye blume sae fair!
+     How can ye chant, ye little birds,
+       And I sae fu' o' care!
+
+     Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird
+       That sings upon the bough;
+     Thou minds me o' the happy days
+       When my fause Luve was true.
+
+     Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird
+       That sings beside thy mate;
+     For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
+       And wist na o' my fate.
+
+     Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon
+       To see the woodbine twine,
+     And ilka bird sang o' its love;
+       And sae did I o' mine.
+
+     Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
+       Frae aff its thorny tree;
+     And my fause luver staw the rose,
+       But left the thorn wi' me.
+
+     R. BURNS.
+
+
+
+
+     140. THE PROGRESS OF POESY.
+
+     _A Pindaric Ode._
+
+       Awake, Aeolian lyre, awake,
+     And give to rapture all thy trembling strings.
+     From Helicon's harmonious springs
+       A thousand rills their mazy progress take:
+     The laughing flowers that round them blow
+     Drink life and fragrance as they flow.
+     Now the rich stream of Music winds along
+     Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong,
+     Through verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign;
+     Now rolling down the steep amain
+     Headlong, impetuous, see it pour:
+     The rocks and nodding groves re-bellow to the roar.
+
+       O Sovereign of the willing soul,
+     Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs,
+     Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares
+       And frantic Passions hear thy soft control.
+     On Thracia's hills the Lord of War
+     Has curb'd the fury of his car
+     And dropt his thirsty lance at thy command.
+     Perching on the sceptred hand
+     Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king
+     With ruffled plumes, and flagging wing:
+     Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie
+     The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye.
+
+     Thee the voice, the dance, obey,
+     Temper'd to thy warbled lay.
+     O'er Idalia's velvet-green
+     The rosy-crowned Loves are seen
+     On Cytherea's day,
+     With antic Sport, and blue-eyed Pleasures,
+     Frisking light in frolic measures;
+     Now pursuing, now retreating,
+       Now in circling troops they meet:
+     To brisk notes in cadence beating
+       Glance their many-twinkling feet.
+     Slow-melting strains their Queen's approach declare:
+       Where'er she turns the Graces homage pay:
+     With arms sublime that float upon the air
+       In gliding state she wins her easy way:
+     O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom move
+     The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.
+
+       Man's feeble race what ills await!
+     Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain,
+     Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train,
+       And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate!
+     The fond complaint, my song, disprove,
+     And justify the laws of Jove.
+     Say, has he 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.
+
+       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.
+
+     Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep,
+     Isles, that crown th' Aegean deep,
+     Fields that cool Ilissus laves
+     Or where Maeander's amber waves
+     In lingering lab'rinths creep,
+     How do your tuneful echoes languish,
+     Mute, but to the voice of anguish!
+     Where each old poetic mountain
+       Inspiration breathed around;
+     Every shade and hallow'd fountain
+       Murmur'd deep a solemn sound:
+     Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour
+       Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains.
+     Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power,
+       And coward Vice, that revels in her chains.
+     When Latium had her lofty spirit lost,
+     They sought, O Albion! next, thy sea-encircled coast.
+
+       Far from the sun and summer-gale
+     In thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid,
+     What time, where lucid Avon stray'd,
+       To him the mighty Mother did unveil
+     Her awful face: the dauntless Child
+     Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smiled.
+     This pencil take (she said) whose colours clear
+     Richly paint the vernal year:
+     Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal Boy!
+     This can unlock the gates of Joy;
+     Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears,
+     Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic Tears.
+
+       Nor second He, that rode sublime
+     Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy
+     The secrets of the Abyss to spy:
+       He pass'd the flaming bounds of Place and Time:
+     The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze
+     Where Angels tremble while they gaze,
+     He saw; but blasted with excess of light,
+     Closed his eyes in endless night.
+     Behold where Dryden's less presumptuous car
+     Wide o'er the fields of Glory bear
+     Two coursers of ethereal race
+     With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding pace.
+
+     Hark! his hands the lyre explore!
+     Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o'er,
+     Scatters from her pictured urn
+     Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
+     But ah! 'tis heard no more--
+     O! Lyre divine, what daring Spirit
+     Wakes thee now! Tho' he inherit
+     Nor the pride, nor ample pinion
+       That the Theban Eagle bear,
+     Sailing with supreme dominion
+       Thro' the azure deep of air:
+     Yet oft before his infant eyes would run
+       Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray
+     With orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun:
+       Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way
+     Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate:
+     Beneath the Good how far--but far above the Great.
+
+     T. GRAY.
+
+
+
+
+     141. 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,
+     Throng'd around her magic cell
+     Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
+     Possest beyond the Muse's painting;
+     By turns they felt the glowing mind
+     Disturb'd, delighted, raised, refined:
+     'Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
+     Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired,
+     From the supporting myrtles round
+     They snatch'd 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 his hand, its skill to try,
+       Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,
+     And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
+       E'en at the sound himself had made.
+
+     Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,
+       In lightnings own'd 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 delighted measure?
+     Still it whisper'd 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 call'd 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-stain'd 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 each dreary pause between,
+          Dejected Pity at his side
+          Her soul-subduing voice applied,
+       Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien,
+     While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head.
+
+     Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd:
+       Sad proof of thy distressful state!
+     Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd;
+       And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate.
+
+     With eyes up-raised, as one inspired,
+     Pale Melancholy sat retired;
+     And from her wild sequester'd seat,
+     In notes by distance made more sweet,
+     Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul:
+       And dashing soft from rocks around
+       Bubbling runnels join'd 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 alter'd was its sprightlier tone
+     When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
+       Her bow across her shoulder flung,
+       Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,
+     Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,
+       The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known!
+     The oak-crown'd 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 leap'd up, and seized his beechen spear.
+
+     Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:
+     He, with viny crown advancing,
+       First to the lively pipe his hand addrest:
+     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 kiss'd the stings,
+       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 learn'd an all-commanding power,
+     Thy mimic soul, O nymph endear'd!
+     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, energetic, chaste, sublime!
+     Thy wonders, in that god-like 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!
+
+     W. COLLINS.
+
+
+
+
+     142. ODE ON THE SPRING.
+
+     Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours,
+       Fair Venus' train, appear,
+     Disclose the long-expecting flowers
+       And wake the purple year!
+     The Attic warbler pours her throat
+     Responsive to the cuckoo's note,
+     The untaught harmony of Spring:
+     While, whispering pleasure as they fly,
+     Cool Zephyrs through the clear blue sky
+       Their gather'd fragrance fling.
+
+     Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch
+       A broader, browner shade,
+     Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech
+       O'er-canopies the glade,
+     Beside some water's rushy brink
+     With me the Muse shall sit, and think
+     (At ease reclined in rustic state)
+     How vain the ardour of the Crowd,
+     How low, how little, are the Proud,
+       How indigent the Great!
+
+     Still is the toiling hand of Care;
+       The panting herds repose:
+     Yet hark, how thro' the peopled air
+       The busy murmur glows!
+     The insect youth are on the wing,
+     Eager to taste the honied spring
+     And float amid the liquid noon:
+     Some lightly o'er the current skim,
+     Some show their gaily-gilded trim
+       Quick-glancing to the sun.
+
+     To Contemplation's sober eye
+       Such is the race of Man:
+     And they that creep, and they that fly,
+       Shall end where they began.
+     Alike the busy and the gay
+     But flutter thro' life's little day,
+     In Fortune's varying colours drest:
+     Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance,
+     Or chill'd by Age, their airy dance
+       They leave, in dust to rest.
+
+     Methinks I hear in accents low,
+       The sportive kind reply:
+     Poor moralist! and what art thou?
+       A solitary fly!
+     Thy joys no glittering female meets,
+     No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,
+     No painted plumage to display:
+     On hasty wings thy youth is flown;
+     Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone--
+       We frolic while 'tis May.
+
+     T. GRAY.
+
+
+
+
+     143. THE POPLAR FIELD.
+
+     The poplars are fell'd, farewell to the shade
+     And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade;
+     The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,
+     Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.
+
+     Twelve years have elapsed since I last took a view
+     Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew:
+     And now in the grass behold they are laid,
+     And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade.
+
+     The blackbird has fled to another retreat
+     Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat;
+     And the scene where his melody charm'd me before
+     Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.
+
+     My fugitive years are all hasting away,
+     And I must ere long lie lowly as they,
+     With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head,
+     Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.
+
+     'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can,
+     To muse on the perishing pleasures of man;
+     Short-lived as we are, our enjoyments, I see,
+     Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we.
+
+     W. COWPER.
+
+
+
+
+     144. TO A FIELD-MOUSE.
+
+     Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', 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 and chase thee
+     Wi' murd'ring 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, whiles, 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!
+     It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
+     An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
+     O' foggage green!
+     And bleak December's winds ensuin'
+     Baith snell and keen!
+
+     Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
+     And weary winter comin' fast,
+     And cozie here, beneath the blast,
+     Thou thought to dwell,
+     Till crash! the cruel coulter past
+     Out thro' thy cell.
+
+     That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
+     Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
+     Now thou's turn'd 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 and men
+     Gang aft a-gley,
+     And lea'e us nought but grief and pain,
+     For promised joy.
+
+     Still thou art blest, 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 and fear.
+
+     R. BURNS.
+
+
+
+
+     145. A WISH.
+
+     Mine be a cot beside the hill;
+     A bee-hive's hum shall sooth my ear;
+     A willowy brook that turns a mill,
+     With many a fall shall linger near.
+
+     The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch
+     Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
+     Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
+     And share my meal, a welcome guest.
+
+     Around my ivied porch shall spring
+     Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
+     And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
+     In russet-gown and apron blue.
+
+     The village-church among the trees,
+     Where first our marriage-vows were given,
+     With merry peals shall swell the breeze
+     And point with taper spire to Heaven.
+
+     S. ROGERS.
+
+
+
+
+     146. TO EVENING.
+
+     If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song
+     May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear
+        Like thy own solemn springs,
+        Thy springs, and dying gales;
+
+     O Nymph reserved,--while now the bright-hair'd sun
+     Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts
+        With brede ethereal wove,
+        O'erhang his wavy bed,
+
+     Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat
+     With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing,
+        Or where the beetle winds
+        His small but sullen horn,
+
+     As oft he rises midst the twilight path
+     Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum,--
+        Now teach me, maid composed,
+        To breathe some soften'd strain
+
+     Whose numbers, stealing through thy dark'ning vale,
+     May not unseemly with its stillness suit;
+        As musing slow I hail
+        Thy genial loved return.
+
+     For when thy folding-star arising shows
+     His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
+        The fragrant Hours, and Elves
+        Who slept in buds the day,
+
+     And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge
+     And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still
+        The pensive Pleasures sweet,
+        Prepare thy shadowy car.
+
+     Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene;
+     Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells,
+        Whose walls more awful nod
+        By thy religious gleams.
+
+     Or if chill blustering winds or driving rain
+     Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut
+        That, from the mountain's side
+        Views wilds and swelling floods,
+
+     And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires;
+     And hears their simple bell; and marks o'er all
+        Thy dewy fingers draw
+        The gradual dusky veil.
+
+     While Spring shall pour his 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, regardful of thy quiet rule,
+     Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,
+        Thy gentlest influence own,
+        And love thy favourite name!
+
+     W. COLLINS.
+
+
+
+
+     147. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.
+
+     The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
+     The lowing herd wind 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 for ever 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 bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
+
+     Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
+     Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
+     Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
+     The short and simple annals of the Poor.
+
+     The boast of heraldry, the pomp of 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 sway'd,
+     Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:
+
+     But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
+     Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
+     Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
+     And froze the genial current of the soul.
+
+     Full many a gem of purest ray serene
+     The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
+     Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
+     And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
+
+     Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
+     The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
+     Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
+     Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.
+
+     Th' applause of 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 forbad; nor circumscribed alone
+     Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
+     Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,
+     And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;
+
+     The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
+     To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
+     Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
+     With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
+
+     Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife
+     Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
+     Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
+     They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
+
+     Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect
+     Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
+     With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
+     Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
+
+     Their name, their years, spelt by the unletter'd Muse,
+     The place of fame and elegy supply:
+     And many a holy text around she strews,
+     That teach the rustic moralist to die.
+
+     For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
+     This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
+     Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
+     Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?
+
+     On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
+     Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
+     E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
+     E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
+
+     For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
+     Dost in those 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 noon-tide 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 cross'd in hopeless love.
+
+     One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd 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 frown'd not on his humble birth,
+     And Melancholy mark'd 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 gain'd from Heaven, 'twas all he wish'd, a friend.
+
+     No farther seek his merits to disclose,
+     Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
+     (There they alike in trembling hope repose),
+     The bosom of his Father and his God.
+
+     T. GRAY.
+
+
+
+
+     148. MARY MORISON.
+
+     O Mary, at thy window be,
+     It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!
+     Those smiles and glances let me see
+     That make the miser's treasure poor:
+     How blythely wad I bide the 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 sigh'd, and said amang them a',
+     "Ye are na Mary Morison."
+
+     O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace
+     Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee?
+     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.
+
+     R. BURNS.
+
+
+
+
+     149. BONNIE LESLEY.
+
+     O saw ye bonnie Lesley
+       As she gaed o'er the border?
+     She's gane, like Alexander,
+       To spread her conquests farther.
+
+     To see her is to love her,
+       And love but her for ever;
+     For nature made her what she is,
+       And ne'er made sic anither!
+
+     Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,
+       Thy subjects we, before thee;
+     Thou art divine, fair Lesley,
+       The hearts o' men adore thee.
+
+     The deil he could na scaith thee,
+       Or aught that wad belang thee;
+     He'd look into thy bonnie face,
+       And say "I canna wrang thee!"
+
+     The Powers aboon will tent thee,
+       Misfortune sha' na steer thee;
+     Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely
+       That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.
+
+     Return again, fair Lesley,
+       Return to Caledonie!
+     That we may brag we hae a lass
+       There's nane again sae bonnie.
+
+     R. BURNS.
+
+
+
+
+     150.
+
+     O my Luve's like a red, red rose
+       That's newly sprung in June:
+     O my Luve's like the melodie
+       That's sweetly play'd in tune.
+
+     As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
+       So deep in luve am I:
+     And I will luve thee still, my dear,
+       Till a' the seas gang dry:
+
+     Till a' the seas gang dry, my Dear,
+       And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
+     I will luve thee still, my dear,
+       While the sands o' life shall run.
+
+     And fare thee weel, my only Luve!
+       And fare thee weel a while!
+     And I will come again, my Luve
+       Tho' it were ten thousand mile.
+
+     R. BURNS.
+
+
+
+
+     151. HIGHLAND MARY.
+
+     Ye banks and braes and streams around
+       The castle o' Montgomery,
+     Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
+       Your waters never drumlie!
+     There simmer first unfauld her robes,
+       And there the langest tarry;
+     For there I took the last fareweel
+       O' my sweet Highland Mary.
+
+     How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
+       How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
+     As underneath their fragrant shade
+       I clasp'd her to my bosom!
+     The golden hours on angel wings
+       Flew o'er me and my dearie;
+     For dear to me as light and life
+       Was my sweet Highland Mary.
+
+     Wi' mony a vow and lock'd 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 kiss'd sae fondly!
+     And closed for aye the sparkling glance
+       That dwelt on me sae kindly;
+     And mouldering now in silent dust
+       That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
+     But still within my bosom's core
+       Shall live my Highland Mary.
+
+     R. BURNS.
+
+
+
+
+     152. AULD ROBIN GRAY.
+
+     When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame,
+     And a' the warld to rest are gane,
+     The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e,
+     While my gudeman lies sound by me.
+
+     Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride;
+     But saving a croun he had naething else beside:
+     To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea;
+     And the croun and the pund were baith for me.
+
+     He hadna been awa' a week but only twa,
+     When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown awa;
+     My mother she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea--
+     And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me.
+
+     My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin;
+     I toil'd day and night, but their bread I couldna win;
+     Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e
+     Said, Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!
+
+     My heart it said nay; I look'd for Jamie back;
+     But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack;
+     His ship it was a wrack--Why didna Jamie dee?
+     Or why do I live to cry, Wae's me?
+
+     My father urgit sair: my mother didna speak;
+     But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break:
+     They gi'ed him my hand, but my heart was at the sea;
+     Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.
+
+     I hadna been a wife a week but only four,
+     When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door,
+     I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he--
+     Till he said, I'm come hame to marry thee.
+
+     O sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say;
+     We took but ae kiss, and I bad him gang away;
+     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.
+
+     LADY A. LINDSAY.
+
+
+
+
+     153. 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,
+     Look'd asklent and unco skeigh,
+     Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;
+        Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
+
+     Duncan fleech'd and Duncan pray'd;
+     Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig;
+     Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,
+     Grat his een baith bleert and blin',
+     Spak o' lowpin' ower a linn!
+
+     Time and chance are but a tide,
+     Slighted love is sair to bide;
+     Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,
+     For a haughty hizzie dee?
+     She may gae to--France for me!
+
+     How it comes let doctors tell,
+     Meg grew sick--as he grew heal;
+     Something in her bosom wrings,
+     For relief a sigh she brings;
+     And O, her een, they spak sic things!
+
+     Duncan was a lad o' grace;
+     Maggie's was a piteous case;
+     Duncan could na be her death,
+     Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath;
+     Now they're crouse and canty baith:
+        Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
+
+     R. BURNS.
+
+
+
+
+     154. THE SAILOR'S WIFE.
+
+     And are ye sure the news is true?
+       And are ye sure he's weel?
+     Is this a time to think o' wark?
+       Ye jades, lay by your wheel;
+     Is this the time to spin a thread,
+       When Colin's at the door?
+     Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay
+       And see him come ashore.
+     For there's nae luck about the house,
+       There's nae luck at a';
+     There's little pleasure in the house
+       When our gudeman's awa'.
+
+     And gie to me my bigonet,
+       My bishop's satin gown;
+     For I maun tell the baillie's wife
+       That Colin's in the town.
+     My Turkey slippers maun gae on,
+       My stockins pearly blue;
+     It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,
+       For he's baith leal and true.
+
+     Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,
+       Put on the muckle pot;
+     Gie little Kate her button gown
+       And Jock his Sunday coat;
+     And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
+       Their hose as white as snaw;
+     It's a' to please my ain gudeman,
+       For he's been long awa.
+
+     There's twa fat hens upo' the coop
+       Been fed this month and mair;
+     Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
+       That Colin weel may fare;
+     And spread the table neat and clean,
+       Gar ilka thing look braw,
+     For wha can tell how Colin fared
+       When he was far awa?
+
+     Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech.
+       His breath like caller air;
+     His very foot has music in't
+       As he comes up the stair--
+     And will I see his face again?
+       And will I hear him speak?
+     I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
+       In troth I'm like to greet!
+
+     If Colin's weel, and weel content,
+       I hae nae mair to crave:
+     And gin I live to keep him sae,
+       I'm blest aboon the lave:
+     And will I see his face again,
+       And will I hear him speak?
+     I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
+       In troth I'm like to greet!
+
+     For there's nae luck about the house,
+       There's nae luck at a';
+     There's little pleasure in the house
+       When our gudeman's awa.
+
+     W. J. MICKLE.
+
+
+
+
+     155. JEAN.
+
+     Of a' the airts the wind can blaw
+       I dearly like the West,
+     For there the bonnie lassie lives,
+       The lassie I lo'e best:
+     There wild woods grow, and rivers row,
+       And mony a hill between;
+     But day and night my fancy's flight
+       Is ever wi' my Jean.
+
+     I see her in the dewy flowers,
+       I see her sweet and fair:
+     I hear her in the tunefu' birds,
+       I hear her charm the air:
+     There's not a bonnie flower that springs,
+       By fountain, shaw, or green;
+     There's not a bonnie bird that sings
+       But minds me o' my Jean.
+
+     O blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saft
+       Amang the leafy trees;
+     Wi' balmy gale, frae hill and dale
+       Bring hame the laden bees;
+     And bring the lassie back to me
+       That's aye sae neat and clean;
+     Ae smile o' her wad banish care,
+       Sae charming is my Jean.
+
+     What sighs and vows amang the knowes
+       Hae pass'd atween us twa!
+     How fond to meet, how wae to part
+       That night she gaed awa!
+     The Powers aboon can only ken
+       To whom the heart is seen,
+     That nane can be sae dear to me
+       As my sweet lovely Jean!
+
+     R. BURNS.
+
+
+
+
+     156. JOHN ANDERSON.
+
+     John Anderson my jo, John,
+     When we were first acquent
+     Your locks were like the raven,
+     Your bonnie brow was brent;
+     But now your brow is bald, John,
+     Your locks are like the snow;
+     But blessings on your frosty pow,
+     John Anderson my jo.
+
+     John Anderson my jo, John,
+     We clamb the hill thegither,
+     And mony a canty day, John,
+     We've had wi' ane anither:
+     Now we maun totter down, John,
+     But hand in hand we'll go,
+     And sleep thegither at the foot,
+     John Anderson my jo.
+
+     R. BURNS.
+
+
+
+
+     157. THE LAND O' THE LEAL.
+
+     I'm wearing awa', Jean
+     Like snaw when its thaw, Jean,
+     I'm wearing awa'
+       To the land o' the leal.
+     There's nae sorrow there, Jean,
+     There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,
+     The day is aye fair
+       In the land o' the leal.
+
+     Ye were aye leal and true, Jean,
+     Your task's ended noo, Jean,
+     And I'll welcome you
+       To the land o' the leal.
+     Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean,
+     She was baith guid and fair, Jean;
+     O we grudged her right sair
+       To the land o' the leal!
+
+     Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean,
+     My soul langs to be free, Jean,
+     And angels wait on me
+       To the land o' the leal.
+     Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean
+     This warld's care is vain, Jean;
+     We'll meet and aye be fain
+       In the land o' the leal.
+
+     LADY NAIRN.
+
+
+
+
+     158. ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE.
+
+     Ye distant spires, ye antique towers
+       That crown the wat'ry 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 stray'd,
+       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 enthral?
+     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 possest;
+     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' alter'd 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 griesly 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,
+       Condemn'd alike to groan;
+     The tender for another's pain,
+       Th' 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.
+
+     T. GRAY.
+
+
+
+
+     159. 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, design'd,
+      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 learn'd to melt at others' 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 vow their truth, and are again believed.
+
+      And Melancholy, silent maid,
+       With leaden eye, that loves the ground,
+      Still on thy solemn steps attend:
+      Warm Charity, the general 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!
+      Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad,
+       Not 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 my own defects to scan,
+     What others are to feel, and know myself a Man.
+
+     T. GRAY.
+
+
+
+
+     160. THE SOLITUDE OF ALEXANDER SELKIRK.
+
+     I am monarch of all I survey;
+     My right there is none to dispute;
+     From the centre all round to the sea
+     I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
+     O Solitude! Where are the charms
+     That sages have seen in thy face?
+     Better dwell in the midst of alarms
+     Than reign in this horrible place.
+
+     I am out of humanity's reach,
+     I must finish my journey alone,
+     Never hear the sweet music of speech;
+     I start at the sound of my own.
+     The beasts that roam over the plain
+     My form with indifference see;
+     They are so unacquainted with man,
+     Their tameness is shocking to me.
+
+     Society, Friendship, and Love
+     Divinely bestow'd upon man,
+     O had I the wings of a dove
+     How soon would I taste you again!
+     My sorrows I then might assuage
+     In the ways of religion and truth,
+     Might learn from the wisdom of age,
+     And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.
+
+     Ye winds that have made me your sport,
+     Convey to this desolate shore
+     Some cordial endearing report
+     Of a land I shall visit no more:
+     My friends, do they now and then send
+     A wish or a thought after me?
+     O tell me I yet have a friend,
+     Though a friend I am never to see.
+
+     How fleet is a glance of the mind!
+     Compared with the speed of its flight,
+     The tempest itself lags behind,
+     And the swift-winged arrows of light.
+     When I think of my own native land
+     In a moment I seem to be there;
+     But alas! recollection at hand
+     Soon hurries me back to despair.
+
+     But the seafowl is gone to her nest,
+     The beast is laid down in his lair;
+     Even here is a season of rest,
+     And I to my cabin repair.
+     There's mercy in every place,
+     And mercy, encouraging thought!
+     Gives even affliction a grace
+     And reconciles man to his lot.
+
+     W. COWPER.
+
+
+
+
+     161. TO MARY UNWIN.
+
+     Mary! I want a lyre with other strings,
+     Such aid from heaven as some have feign'd they drew,
+     An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new
+     And undebased by praise of meaner things,
+
+     That ere through age or woe I shed my wings
+     I may record thy worth with honour due,
+     In verse as musical as thou art true
+     And that immortalizes whom it sings:--
+
+     But thou hast little need. There is a Book
+     By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,
+     On which the eyes of God not rarely look,
+
+     A chronicle of actions just and bright--
+     There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine;
+     And since, thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.
+
+     W. COWPER.
+
+
+
+
+     162. 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 play'dst the housewife's part,
+     And all thy threads with magic art
+     Have wound themselves about this heart,
+             My Mary!
+
+     Thy indistinct expressions seem
+     Like language utter'd in a dream;
+     Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,
+             My Mary!
+
+     Thy silver locks, once auburn bright
+     Are still more lovely in my sight
+     Than golden beams of orient light,
+             My Mary!
+
+     For could I view nor them nor thee,
+     What sight worth seeing could I see?
+     The sun would rise in vain for me,
+             My Mary!
+
+     Partakers of thy sad decline
+     Thy hands their little force resign;
+     Yet gently press'd, press gently mine,
+             My Mary!
+
+     Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st
+     That now at every step thou mov'st
+     Upheld by two; yet still thou lov'st,
+             My Mary!
+
+     And still to love, though press'd with ill,
+     In wintry age to feel no chill,
+     With me is to be lovely still,
+             My Mary!
+
+     But ah! by constant heed I know
+     How oft the sadness that I show
+     Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,
+             My Mary!
+
+     And should my future lot be cast
+     With much resemblance of the past
+     Thy worn-out heart will break at last--
+             My Mary!
+
+     W. COWPER.
+
+
+
+
+     163. THE DYING MAN IN HIS GARDEN.
+
+     Why, Damon, with the forward day
+     Dost thou thy little spot survey,
+     From tree to tree, with doubtful cheer,
+     Pursue the progress of the year,
+     What winds arise, what rains descend,
+     When thou before that year shalt end?
+
+     What do thy noontide walks avail,
+     To clear the leaf, and pick the snail,
+     Then wantonly to death decree
+     An insect usefuller than thee?
+     Thou and the worm are brother-kind,
+     As low, as earthy, and as blind.
+
+     Vain wretch! canst thou expect to see
+     The downy peach make court to thee?
+     Or that thy sense shall ever meet
+     The bean-flower's deep-embosom'd sweet
+     Exhaling with an evening blast?
+     Thy evenings then will all be past!
+
+     Thy narrow pride, thy fancied green
+     (For vanity's in little seen),
+     All must be left when Death appears,
+     In spite of wishes, groans, and tears;
+     Nor one of all thy plants that grow
+     But Rosemary will with thee go.
+
+     G. SEWELL.
+
+
+
+
+     164. TO-MORROW.
+
+     In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining,
+      May my lot no less fortunate be
+     Than a snug elbow-chair can afford for reclining,
+      And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea;
+     With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn,
+      While I carol away idle sorrow,
+     And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn
+      Look forward with hope for to-morrow.
+
+     With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too,
+      As the sunshine or rain may prevail;
+     And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too,
+      With a barn for the use of the flail:
+     A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game,
+      And a purse when a friend wants to borrow;
+     I'll envy no nabob his riches or fame,
+      Nor what honours await him to-morrow.
+
+     From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely
+      Secured by a neighbouring hill;
+     And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly
+      By the sound of a murmuring rill:
+     And while peace and plenty I find at my board,
+      With a heart free from sickness and sorrow,
+     With my friends may I share what to-day may afford,
+      And let them spread the table to-morrow.
+
+     And when I at last must throw off this frail covering
+      Which I've worn for three-score years and ten,
+     On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hovering,
+      Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again:
+     But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey,
+      And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow;
+     As this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare to-day
+      May become everlasting to-morrow.
+
+     -- COLLINS.
+
+
+
+
+     165.
+
+     Life! I know not what thou art,
+     But know that thou and I must part;
+     And when, or how, or where we met
+     I own to me's a secret yet.
+
+     Life! we've been long together
+     Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;
+     'Tis hard to part when friends are dear--
+     Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear;
+     --Then steal away, give little warning,
+       Choose thine own time;
+     Say not Good Night,--but in some brighter clime
+       Bid me Good Morning.
+
+     A L. BARBAULD.
+
+
+
+
+
+FOURTH BOOK.
+
+
+SUMMARY.
+
+
+It proves sufficiently the lavish wealth of our own age in Poetry, that
+the pieces which, without conscious departure from the standard of
+Excellence, render this Book by far the longest, were with very few
+exceptions composed during the first thirty years the nineteenth
+century. Exhaustive reasons can hardly be given for the strangely sudden
+appearance of individual genius: but none, in the Editor's judgment, can
+be less adequate than that which assigns the splendid national
+achievements of our recent poetry, to an impulse from the frantic
+follies and criminal wars that at the time disgraced the least
+essentially civilised of our foreign neighbours. The first French
+Revolution was rather, in his opinion, one result, and in itself by no
+means the most important, of that far wider and greater spirit which
+through enquiry and doubt, through pain and triumph, sweeps mankind
+round the circles of its gradual development: and it is to this that we
+must trace the literature of modern Europe. But, without more detailed
+discussion on the motive causes of Scott, Wordsworth, Campbell, Keats,
+and Shelley, we may observe that these Poets, with others, carried to
+further perfection the later tendencies of the Century preceding, in
+simplicity of narrative, reverence for human Passion and Character in
+every sphere, and impassioned love of Nature:--that, whilst maintaining
+on the whole the advances in art made since the Restoration, they
+renewed the half-forgotten melody and depth of tone which marked the
+best Elizabethan writers:--that, lastly, to what was thus inherited they
+added a richness in language and a variety in metre, a force and fire in
+narrative, a tenderness and bloom in feeling, an insight into the finer
+passages of the Soul and the inner meanings of the landscape, a larger
+and wiser Humanity,--hitherto hardly attained, and perhaps unattainable
+even by predecessors of not inferior individual genius. In a word, the
+Nation which, after the Greeks in their glory, has been the most gifted
+of all nations for Poetry, expressed in these men the highest strength
+and prodigality of its nature. They interpreted the age to itself--hence
+the many phases of thought and style they present:--to sympathise with
+each, fervently and impartially, without fear and without fancifulness,
+is no doubtful step in the higher education of the Soul. For, as with
+the Affections and the Conscience, Purity in Taste is absolutely
+proportionate to Strength:--and when once the mind has raised itself to
+grasp and to delight in Excellence, those who love most will be found to
+love most wisely.
+
+
+
+
+
+     166. ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER.
+
+     Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold
+     And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
+     Round many western islands have I been
+     Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
+
+     Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
+     That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne:
+     Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
+     Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
+
+     --Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
+     When a new planet swims into his ken;
+     Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes
+
+     He stared at the Pacific--and all his men
+     Look'd at each other with a wild surmise--
+     Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
+
+     J. KEATS.
+
+
+
+
+     167. ODE ON THE POETS.
+
+     Bards of Passion and of Mirth
+     Ye have left your souls on earth!
+     Have ye souls in heaven too,
+     Doubled-lived in regions new?
+     --Yes, and those of heaven commune
+     With the spheres of sun and moon;
+     With the noise of fountains wonderous
+     And the parle of voices thunderous;
+     With the whisper of heaven's trees
+     And one another, in soft ease
+     Seated on Elysian lawns
+     Browsed by none but Dian's fawns;
+     Underneath large blue-bells tented,
+     Where the daisies are rose-scented,
+     And the rose herself has got
+     Perfume which on earth is not;
+     Where the nightingale doth sing
+     Not a senseless, tranced thing,
+     But divine melodious truth;
+     Philosophic numbers smooth;
+     Tales and golden histories
+     Of heaven and its mysteries.
+
+       Thus ye live on high, and then
+     On the earth ye live again;
+     And the souls ye left behind you
+     Teach us, here, the way to find you
+     Where your other souls are joying,
+     Never slumber'd, never cloying.
+     Here, your earth-born souls still speak
+     To mortals, of their little week;
+     Of their sorrows and delights;
+     Of their passions and their spites;
+     Of their glory and their shame;
+     What doth strengthen and what maim:--
+     Thus ye teach us, every day,
+     Wisdom, though fled far away.
+
+       Bards of Passion and of Mirth
+     Ye have left your souls on earth!
+     Ye have souls in heaven too,
+     Double-lived in regions new!
+
+     J. KEATS.
+
+
+
+
+     168. LOVE.
+
+     All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
+     Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
+     All are but ministers of Love,
+         And feed his sacred flame.
+
+     Oft in my waking dreams do I
+     Live o'er again that happy hour,
+     When midway on the mount I lay
+         Beside the ruin'd tower.
+
+     The moonshine stealing o'er the scene
+     Had blended with the lights of eve;
+     And she was there, my hope, my joy,
+         My own dear Genevieve!
+
+     She lean'd against the armed man,
+     The statue of the armed knight;
+     She stood and listen'd to my lay,
+         Amid the lingering light.
+
+     Few sorrows hath she of her own
+     My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!
+     She loves me best, whene'er I sing
+         The songs that make her grieve.
+
+     I play'd a soft and doleful air,
+     I sang an old and moving story--
+     An old rude song, that suited well
+         That ruin wild and hoary.
+
+     She listen'd with a flitting blush,
+     With downcast eyes and modest grace;
+     For well she knew, I could not choose
+         But gaze upon her face.
+
+     I told her of the Knight that wore
+     Upon his shield a burning brand;
+     And that for ten long years he woo'd
+         The Lady of the Land.
+
+     I told her how he pined: and ah!
+     The deep, the low, the pleading tone
+     With which I sang another's love,
+         Interpreted my own.
+
+     She listen'd with a flitting blush,
+     With downcast eyes, and modest grace;
+     And she forgave me, that I gazed
+         Too fondly on her face.
+
+     But when I told the cruel scorn
+     That crazed that bold and lovely Knight,
+     And that he cross'd the mountain-woods,
+         Nor rested day nor night;
+
+     That sometimes from the savage den,
+     And sometimes from the darksome shade,
+     And sometimes starting up at once
+         In green and sunny glade.
+
+     There came and look'd him in the face
+     An angel beautiful and bright;
+     And that he knew it was a Fiend,
+         This miserable Knight!
+
+     And that unknowing what he did,
+     He leap'd amid a murderous band,
+     And saved from outrage worse than death
+         The Lady of the Land;
+
+     And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees;
+     And how she tended him in vain;
+     And ever strove to expiate
+         The scorn that crazed his brain;
+
+     And that she nursed him in a cave,
+     And how his madness went away,
+     When on the yellow forest-leaves
+         A dying man he lay;
+
+     --His dying words--but when I reach'd
+     That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
+     My faltering voice and pausing harp
+         Disturb'd her soul with pity!
+
+     All impulses of soul and sense
+     Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve;
+     The music and the doleful tale,
+         The rich and balmy eve;
+
+     And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,
+     An undistinguishable throng,
+     And gentle wishes long subdued,
+         Subdued and cherish'd long!
+
+     She wept with pity and delight,
+     She blush'd with love, and virgin shame;
+     And like the murmur of a dream,
+         I heard her breathe my name.
+
+     Her bosom heaved--she stepp'd aside,
+     As conscious of my look she stept--
+     Then suddenly, with timorous eye
+         She fled to me and wept.
+
+     She half enclosed me with her arms,
+     She press'd me with a meek embrace;
+     And bending back her head, look'd up,
+         And gazed upon my face.
+
+     'Twas partly love, and partly fear,
+     And partly 'twas a bashful art,
+     That I might rather feel, than see.
+         The swelling of her heart.
+
+     I calm'd her fears, and she was calm,
+     And told her love with virgin pride;
+     And so I won my Genevieve,
+         My bright and beauteous Bride.
+
+     S. T. COLERIDGE.
+
+
+
+
+     169. ALL FOR LOVE.
+
+     O talk not to me of a name great in story;
+     The days of our youth are the days of our glory;
+     And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
+     Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.
+
+     What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?
+     'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled:
+     Then away with all such from the head that is hoary--
+     What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?
+
+     O Fame!--if I e'er took delight in thy praises,
+     'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,
+     Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover
+     She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
+
+     There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;
+     Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee;
+     When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story,
+     I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.
+
+     LORD BYRON.
+
+
+
+
+     170. THE OUTLAW.
+
+     O Brignall banks are wild and fair,
+      And Greta woods are green,
+     And you may gather garlands there
+      Would grace a summer-queen.
+     And as I rode by Dalton-Hall
+      Beneath the turrets high,
+     A Maiden on the castle-wall
+      Was singing merrily:
+     "O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
+      And Greta woods are green;
+     I'd rather rove with Edmund there
+      Than reign our English queen."
+
+     "If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me,
+      To leave both tower and town,
+     Thou first must guess what life lead we
+      That dwell by dale and down.
+     And if thou canst that riddle read,
+      As read full well you may,
+     Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed
+      As blithe as Queen of May."
+     Yet sung she "Brignall banks are fair,
+      And Greta woods are green;
+     I'd rather rove with Edmund there
+      Than reign our English queen.
+
+     "I read you by your bugle-horn
+      And by your palfrey good,
+     I read you for a ranger sworn
+      To keep the King's greenwood."
+     "A Ranger, Lady, winds his horn,
+      And 'tis at peep of light;
+     His blast is heard at merry morn,
+      And mine at dead of night."
+     Yet sung she, "Brignall banks are fair,
+      And Greta woods are gay;
+     I would I were with Edmund there
+      To reign his Queen of May!
+
+     "With burnish'd brand and musketoon
+      So gallantly you come,
+     I read you for a bold Dragoon,
+      That lists the tuck of drum."
+     "I list no more the tuck of drum,
+      No more the trumpet hear;
+     But when the beetle sounds his hum
+      My comrades take the spear.
+     And O! though Brignall banks be fair,
+      And Greta woods be gay,
+     Yet mickle must the maiden dare,
+      Would reign my Queen of May!
+
+     "Maiden! a nameless life I lead,
+      A nameless death I'll die;
+     The fiend whose lantern lights the mead
+      Were better mate than I!
+     And when I'm with my comrades met
+      Beneath the greenwood bough,
+     What once we were we all forget,
+      Nor think what we are now.
+
+                   _Chorus._
+
+     Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
+      And Greta woods are green,
+     And you may gather flowers there
+      Would grace a summer-queen.
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT.
+
+
+
+
+     171.
+
+     There be none of Beauty's daughters
+      With a magic like Thee;
+     And like music on the waters
+      Is thy sweet voice to me:
+     When, as if its sound were causing
+     The charmed ocean's pausing,
+     The waves lie still and gleaming,
+     And the lull'd winds seem dreaming
+     And the midnight moon is weaving
+      Her bright chain o'er the deep,
+     Whose breast is gently heaving,
+      As an infant's asleep:
+     So the spirit bows before thee
+     To listen and adore thee;
+     With a full but soft emotion,
+     Like the swell of Summer's ocean.
+
+     LORD BYRON.
+
+
+
+
+     172. LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR.
+
+     I arise from dreams of Thee
+     In the first sweet sleep of night,
+     When the winds are breathing low
+     And the stars are shining bright:
+     I arise from dreams of thee,
+     And a spirit in my feet
+     Hath led me--who knows how?
+     To thy chamber-window, Sweet!
+
+     The wandering airs they faint
+     On the dark, the silent stream--
+     The champak odours fail
+     Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
+     The nightingale's complaint,
+     It dies upon her heart,
+     As I must on thine,
+     Oh, beloved as thou art!
+
+     Oh lift me from the grass!
+     I die! I faint, I fail!
+     Let thy love in kisses rain
+     On my lips and eyelids pale.
+     My cheek is cold and white, alas!
+     My heart beats loud and fast;
+     O! press it to thine own again
+     Where it will break at last.
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     173.
+
+     She walks in beauty, like the night
+     Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
+     And all that's best of dark and bright
+     Meets in her aspect and her eyes,
+     Thus mellow'd to that tender light
+     Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
+
+     One shade the more, one ray the less,
+     Had half impair'd the nameless grace
+     Which waves in every raven tress
+     Or softly lightens o'er her face,
+     Where thoughts serenely sweet express
+     How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
+
+     And on that cheek, and o'er that brow
+     So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
+     The smiles that win, the tints that glow
+     But tell of days in goodness spent,--
+     A mind at peace with all below,
+     A heart whose love is innocent.
+
+     LORD BYRON.
+
+
+
+
+     174.
+
+     She was a phantom of delight
+     When first she gleam'd upon my sight;
+     A lovely apparition, sent
+     To be a moment's ornament;
+     Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
+     Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
+     But all things else about her drawn
+     From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
+     A dancing shape, an image gay,
+     To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
+
+     I saw her upon nearer view,
+     A spirit, yet a woman too!
+     Her household motions light and free,
+     And steps of virgin-liberty;
+     A countenance in which did meet
+     Sweet records, promises as sweet;
+     A creature not too bright or good
+     For human nature's daily food,
+     For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
+     Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
+
+     And now I see with eye serene
+     The very pulse of the machine;
+     A being breathing thoughtful breath,
+     A traveller between life and death:
+     The reason firm, the temperate will,
+     Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
+     A perfect woman, nobly plann'd,
+     To warn, to comfort, and command;
+     And yet a Spirit still, and bright
+     With something of an angel-light.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     175.
+
+       She is not fair to outward view
+        As many maidens be;
+       Her loveliness I never knew
+        Until she smiled on me.
+       O then I saw her eye was bright,
+       A well of love, a spring of light.
+
+       But now her looks are coy and cold,
+        To mine they ne'er reply,
+       And yet I cease not to behold
+        The love-light in her eye:
+       Her very frowns are fairer far
+       Than smiles of other maidens are.
+
+     H. COLERIDGE.
+
+
+
+
+     176.
+
+     I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden;
+     Thou needest not fear mine;
+     My spirit is too deeply laden
+     Ever to burthen thine.
+
+     I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion;
+     Thou needest not fear mine;
+     Innocent is the heart's devotion
+     With which I worship thine.
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     177. THE LOST LOVE.
+
+     She dwelt among the untrodden ways
+       Beside the springs of Dove;
+     A maid whom there were none to praise,
+       And very few to love.
+
+     A violet by a mossy stone
+       Half hidden from the eye!
+     --Fair as a star, when only one
+       Is shining in the sky.
+
+     She lived unknown, and few could know
+       When Lucy ceased to be;
+     But she is in her grave, and O!
+       The difference to me!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     178.
+
+     I travell'd among unknown men
+       In lands beyond the sea;
+     Nor, England! did I know till then
+       What love I bore to thee.
+
+     'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
+       Nor will I quit thy shore
+     A second time, for still I seem
+       To love thee more and more.
+
+     Among thy mountains did I feel
+       The joy of my desire;
+     And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel
+       Beside an English fire.
+
+     Thy mornings showed, thy nights conceal'd,
+       The bowers where Lucy play'd;
+     And thine too is the last green field
+       That Lucy's eyes survey'd.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     179. THE EDUCATION OF NATURE.
+
+     Three years she grew in sun and shower;
+     Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower
+     On earth was never sown;
+     This child I to myself will take;
+     She shall be mine, and I will make
+     A lady of my own.
+
+     "Myself will to my darling be
+     Both law and impulse: and with me
+     The girl, in rock and plain,
+     In earth and heaven, in glade and bower
+     Shall feel an overseeing power
+     To kindle or restrain.
+
+     "She shall be sportive as the fawn
+     That wild with glee across the lawn
+     Or up the mountain springs;
+     And her's shall be the breathing balm,
+     And her's the silence and the calm
+     Of mute insensate things.
+
+     "The floating clouds their state shall lend
+     To her; for her the willow bend;
+     Nor shall she fail to see
+     E'en in the motions of the storm
+     Grace that shall mould the maiden's form
+     By silent sympathy.
+
+     "The stars of midnight shall be dear
+     To her; and she shall lean her ear
+     In many a secret place
+     Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
+     And beauty born of murmuring sound
+     Shall pass into her face.
+
+     "And vital feelings of delight
+     Shall rear her form to stately height,
+     Her virgin bosom swell;
+     Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
+     While she and I together live
+     Here in this happy dell."
+
+     Thus Nature spake--The work was done--
+     How soon my Lucy's race was run!
+     She died, and left to me
+     This heath, this calm and quiet scene;
+     The memory of what has been,
+     And never more will be.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     180.
+
+     A slumber did my spirit seal;
+       I had no human fears:
+     She seem'd a thing that could not feel
+       The touch of earthly years.
+
+     No motion has she now, no force;
+       She neither hears nor sees;
+     Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course
+       With rocks, and stones, and trees!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     181. LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.
+
+     A Chieftain to the Highlands bound
+     Cries "Boatman, do not tarry!
+     And I'll give thee a silver pound
+     To row us o'er the ferry!"
+
+     "Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle
+     This dark and stormy water?"
+     "O I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,
+     And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.
+
+     "And fast before her father's men
+     Three days we've fled together,
+     For should he find us in the glen,
+     My blood would stain the heather.
+
+     "His horsemen hard behind us ride--
+     Should they our steps discover,
+     Then who will cheer my bonny bride
+     When they have slain her lover?"
+
+     Out spoke the hardy Highland wight
+     "I'll go, my chief, I'm ready:
+     It is not for your silver bright,
+     But for your winsome lady:--
+
+     "And by my word! the bonny bird
+     In danger not shall tarry;
+     So though the waves are raging white
+     I'll row you o'er the ferry."
+
+     By this the storm grew loud apace,
+     The water-wraith was shrieking;
+     And in the scowl of heaven each face
+     Grew dark as they were speaking.
+
+     But still as wilder blew the wind
+     And as the night grew drearer,
+     Adown the glen rode armed men,
+     Their trampling sounded nearer.
+
+     "O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,
+     "Though tempests round us gather;
+     I'll meet the raging of the skies,
+     But not an angry father."
+
+     The boat has left a stormy land,
+     A stormy sea before her,--
+     When O! too strong for human hand
+     The tempest gather'd o'er her.
+
+     And still they row'd amidst the roar
+     Of waters fast prevailing:
+     Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,--
+     His wrath was changed to wailing.
+
+     For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shade
+     His child he did discover:--
+     One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,
+     And one was round her lover.
+
+     "Come back! come back!" he cried in grief,
+     "Across this stormy water:
+     And I'll forgive your Highland chief,
+     My daughter!--O my daughter!"
+
+     'Twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore,
+     Return or aid preventing:
+     The waters wild went o'er his child,
+     And he was left lamenting.
+
+     T. CAMPBELL.
+
+
+
+
+     182. JOCK O' HAZELDEAN.
+
+     "Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?
+       Why weep ye by the tide?
+     I'll wed ye to my youngest son,
+       And ye sall be his bride:
+     And ye sall be his bride, ladie,
+       Sae comely to be seen"--
+     But aye she loot the tears doon fa'
+       For Jock o' Hazeldean.
+
+     "Now let this wilfu' grief be done,
+       And dry that cheek so pale;
+     Young Frank is chief of Errington
+       And lord of Langley-dale;
+     His step is first in peaceful ha',
+       His sword in battle keen"--
+     But aye she loot the tears down fa'
+       For Jock o' Hazeldean.
+
+     "A chain of gold ye shall not lack,
+       Nor braid to bind your hair,
+     Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk
+       Nor palfrey fresh and fair;
+     And you the foremost o' them a'
+       Shall ride our forest queen"--
+     But aye she loot the tears down fa'
+       For Jock o' Hazeldean.
+
+     The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide,
+       The tapers glimmer'd fair;
+     The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,
+       And dame and knight are there:
+     They sought her baith by bower and ha';
+       The ladie was not seen!
+     She's o'er the Border, and awa'
+       Wi' Jock o' Hazeldean.
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT.
+
+
+
+
+     183. FREEDOM AND LOVE.
+
+     How delicious is the winning
+     Of a kiss at love's beginning,
+     When two mutual hearts are sighing
+     For the knot there's no untying!
+
+     Yet remember, 'midst your wooing,
+     Love has bliss, but Love has ruing;
+     Other smiles may make you fickle,
+     Tears for other charms may trickle.
+
+     Love he comes, and Love he tarries,
+     Just as fate or fancy carries;
+     Longest stays, when sorest chidden;
+     Laughs and flies, when press'd and bidden.
+
+     Bind the sea to slumber stilly,
+     Bind its odour to the lily,
+     Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver,
+     Then bind Love to last for ever.
+
+     Love's a fire that needs renewal
+     Of fresh beauty for its fuel:
+     Love's wing moults when caged and captured,
+     Only free, he soars enraptured.
+
+     Can you keep the bee from ranging
+     Or the ringdove's neck from changing?
+     No! nor fetter'd Love from dying
+     In the knot there's no untying.
+
+     T. CAMPBELL.
+
+
+
+
+     184. LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY.
+
+     The fountains mingle with the river
+     And the rivers with the ocean,
+     The winds of heaven mix for ever
+     With a sweet emotion;
+     Nothing in the world is single,
+     All things by a law divine
+     In one another's being mingle--
+     Why not I with thine?
+
+     See the mountains kiss high heaven
+     And the waves clasp one another;
+     No sister-flower would be forgiven
+     If it disdain'd its brother:
+     And the sunlight clasps the earth,
+     And the moonbeams kiss the sea--
+     What are all these kissings worth,
+     If thou kiss not me?
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     185. ECHOES.
+
+     How sweet the answer Echo makes
+     To Music at night
+     When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
+     And far away o'er lawns and lakes
+     Goes answering light!
+
+     Yet Love hath echoes truer far
+     And far more sweet
+     Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star,
+     Of horn or lute or soft guitar
+     The songs repeat.
+
+     'Tis when the sigh,--in youth sincere
+     And only then,
+     The sigh that's breathed for one to hear--
+     Is by that one, that only Dear
+     Breathed back again.
+
+     T. MOORE.
+
+
+
+
+     186. A SERENADE.
+
+     Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,
+       The sun has left the lea,
+     The orange-flower perfumes the bower,
+       The breeze is on the sea.
+     The lark, his lay who trill'd all day,
+       Sits hush'd his partner nigh;
+     Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,
+       But where is County Guy?
+
+     The village maid steals through the shade
+       Her shepherd's suit to hear;
+     To Beauty shy, by lattice high,
+       Sings high-born Cavalier.
+     The star of Love, all stars above,
+       Now reigns o'er earth and sky,
+     And high and low the influence know--
+       But where is County Guy?
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT.
+
+
+
+
+     187. TO THE EVENING STAR.
+
+     Gem of the crimson-colour'd Even,
+     Companion of retiring day,
+     Why at the closing gates of heaven,
+     Beloved Star, dost thou delay?
+
+     So fair thy pensile beauty burns
+     When soft the tear of twilight flows;
+     So due thy plighted love returns
+     To chambers brighter than the rose;
+
+     To Peace, to Pleasure, and to love
+     So kind a star thou seem'st to be,
+     Sure some enamour'd orb above
+     Descends and burns to meet with thee.
+
+     Thine is the breathing, blushing hour
+     When all unheavenly passions fly,
+     Chased by the soul-subduing power
+     Of Love's delicious witchery.
+
+     O! sacred to the fall of day
+     Queen of propitious stars, appear,
+     And early rise, and long delay
+     When Caroline herself is here!
+
+     Shine on her chosen green resort
+     Whose trees the sunward summit crown,
+     And wanton flowers, that well may court
+     An angel's feet to tread them down:--
+
+     Shine on her sweetly scented road
+     Thou star of evening's purple dome,
+     That lead'st the nightingale abroad,
+     And guid'st the pilgrim to his home.
+
+     Shine where my charmer's sweeter breath
+     Embalms the soft exhaling dew,
+     Where dying winds a sigh bequeath
+     To kiss the cheek of rosy hue:--
+
+     Where, winnow'd by the gentle air,
+     Her silken tresses darkly flow
+     And fall upon her brow so fair,
+     Like shadows on the mountain snow.
+
+     Thus, ever thus, at day's decline
+     In converse sweet to wander far--
+     O bring with thee my Caroline,
+     And thou shalt be my Ruling Star!
+
+     T. CAMPBELL.
+
+
+
+
+     188. TO THE NIGHT.
+
+     Swiftly walk over the western wave,
+                 Spirit of Night!
+     Out of the misty eastern cave
+     Where all the long and lone daylight
+     Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear
+     Which make thee terrible and dear,--
+                 Swift be thy flight!
+
+     Wrap thy form in a mantle gray,
+                 Star-inwrought!
+     Blind with thine hair the eyes of day,
+     Kiss her until she be wearied out,
+     Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land,
+     Touching all with thine opiate wand--
+                 Come, long-sought!
+
+     When I arose and saw the dawn,
+                 I sigh'd for thee;
+     When light rode high, and the dew was gone,
+     And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,
+     And the weary Day turn'd to his rest,
+     Lingering like an unloved guest,
+                 I sigh'd for thee.
+
+     Thy brother Death came, and cried,
+                 Wouldst thou me?
+     Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,
+     Murmur'd like a noon-tide bee
+     Shall I nestle near thy side?
+     Wouldst thou me?--And I replied
+                 No, not thee!
+
+     Death will come when thou art dead,
+                 Soon, too soon--
+     Sleep will come when thou art fled;
+     Of neither would I ask the boon
+     I ask of thee, beloved Night--
+     Swift be thine approaching flight,
+                 Come soon, soon!
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     189. TO A DISTANT FRIEND.
+
+     Why art thou silent! Is thy love a plant
+     Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air
+     Of absence withers what was once so fair?
+     Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant?
+
+     Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant,
+     Bound to thy service with unceasing care--
+     The mind's least generous wish a mendicant
+     For nought but what thy happiness could spare.
+
+     Speak!--though this soft warm heart, once free to hold
+     A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine,
+     Be left more desolate, more dreary cold
+     Than a forsaken bird's-nest fill'd with snow
+     'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine--
+     Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     190.
+
+          When we two parted
+          In silence and tears,
+          Half broken-hearted
+          To sever for years,
+          Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
+          Colder thy kiss;
+          Truly that hour foretold
+          Sorrow to this!
+
+          The dew of the morning
+          Sunk chill on my brow;
+          It felt like the warning
+          Of what I feel now.
+          Thy vows are all broken,
+          And light is thy fame:
+          I hear thy name spoken,
+          And share in its shame.
+
+          They name thee before me,
+          A knell to mine ear;
+          A shudder comes o'er me--
+          Why wert thou so dear?
+          They know not I knew thee,
+          Who knew thee too well:
+          Long, long shall I rue thee
+          Too deeply to tell.
+
+          In secret we met:
+          In silence I grieve
+          That thy heart could forget,
+          Thy spirit deceive.
+          If I should meet thee
+          After long years,
+          How should I greet thee?--
+          With silence and tears.
+
+     LORD BYRON.
+
+
+
+
+     191. HAPPY INSENSIBILITY.
+
+     In a drear-nighted December,
+     Too happy, happy Tree
+     Thy branches ne'er remember
+     Their green felicity:
+     The north cannot undo them
+     With a sleety whistle through them,
+     Nor frozen thawings glue them
+     From budding at the prime.
+
+     In a drear-nighted December
+     Too happy, happy Brook
+     Thy bubblings ne'er remember
+     Apollo's summer look;
+     But with a sweet forgetting
+     They stay their crystal fretting,
+     Never, never petting
+     About the frozen time.
+
+     Ah! would 'twere so with many
+     A gentle girl and boy!
+     But were there ever any
+     Writhed not at passed joy?
+     To know the change and feel it,
+     When there is none to heal it
+     Nor numbed sense to steal it--
+     Was never said in rhyme.
+
+     J. KEATS.
+
+
+
+
+     192.
+
+     Where shall the lover rest
+      Whom the fates sever
+     From his true maiden's breast
+      Parted for ever?
+     Where, through groves deep and high
+      Sounds the far billow,
+     Where early violets die
+      Under the willow.
+        Eleu loro
+      Soft shall be his pillow.
+
+     There, through the summer day
+      Cool streams are laving:
+     There, while the tempests sway,
+      Scarce are boughs waving;
+     There thy rest shalt thou take,
+      Parted for ever,
+     Never again to wake
+      Never, O never!
+        Eleu loro
+      Never, O never!
+
+     Where shall the traitor rest,
+      He, the deceiver,
+     Who would win maiden's breast,
+      Ruin, and leave her?
+     In the lost battle,
+      Borne down by the flying,
+     Where mingles war's rattle
+      With groans of the dying;
+        Eleu loro
+      There shall he be lying.
+
+     Her wing shall the eagle flap
+      O'er the falsehearted;
+     His warm blood the wolf shall lap
+      Ere life be parted:
+     Shame and dishonour sit
+      By his grave ever;
+     Blessing shall hallow it
+      Never, O never!
+        Eleu loro
+      Never, O never!
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT.
+
+
+
+
+     193. LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI.
+
+     "O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
+      Alone and palely loitering?
+     The sedge has wither'd from the lake,
+      And no birds sing.
+
+     "O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
+      So haggard and so woe-begone?
+     The squirrel's granary is full,
+      And the harvest's done.
+
+     "I see a lily on thy brow
+      With anguish moist and fever-dew,
+     And on thy cheeks a fading rose
+      Fast withereth too."
+
+     "I met a lady in the meads,
+      Full beautiful--a faery's child,
+     Her hair was long, her foot was light,
+      And her eyes were wild.
+
+     "I made a garland for her head,
+      And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
+     She look'd at me as she did love,
+      And made sweet moan.
+
+     "I set her on my pacing steed
+      And nothing else saw all day long,
+     For sidelong would she bend, and sing
+      A faery's song.
+
+     "She found me roots of relish sweet,
+      And honey wild and manna-dew,
+     And sure in language strange she said,
+      'I love thee true.'
+
+     "She took me to her elfin grot,
+      And there she wept, and sigh'd full sore,
+     And there I shut her wild wild eyes
+      With kisses four.
+
+     "And there she lulled me asleep,
+      And there I dream'd--Ah! woe betide!
+     The latest dream I ever dream'd
+      On the cold hill's side.
+
+     "I saw pale kings and princes too,
+      Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
+     They cried--'La belle Dame sans Merci
+      Hath thee in thrall!'
+
+     "I saw their starved lips in the gloam
+      With horrid warning gaped wide,
+     And I awoke and found me here,
+      On the cold hill's side.
+
+     "And this is why I sojourn here
+      Alone and palely loitering,
+     Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
+      And no birds sing."
+
+     J. KEATS.
+
+
+
+
+     194. THE ROVER.
+
+     "A weary lot is thine, fair maid,
+       A weary lot is thine!
+     To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
+       And press the rue for wine.
+     A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,
+       A feather of the blue,
+     A doublet of the Lincoln green--
+       No more of me you knew,
+                   My Love!
+     No more of me you knew.
+
+     "The morn is merry June, I trow,
+       The rose is budding fain;
+     But she shall bloom in winter snow
+       Ere we two meet again."
+     He turn'd his charger as he spake
+       Upon the river shore,
+     He gave the bridle-reins a shake,
+       Said "Adieu for evermore,
+                   My Love!
+     And adieu for evermore."
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT.
+
+
+
+
+     195. THE FLIGHT OF LOVE.
+
+     When the lamp is shatter'd,
+     The light in the dust lies dead--
+     When the cloud is scatter'd,
+     The rainbow's glory is shed.
+     When the lute is broken,
+     Sweet tones are remember'd not;
+     When the lips have spoken,
+     Loved accents are soon forgot.
+
+     As music and splendour
+     Survive not the lamp and the lute,
+     The heart's echoes render
+     No song when the spirit is mute--
+     No song but sad dirges,
+     Like the wind through a ruin'd cell,
+     Or the mournful surges
+     That ring the dead seaman's knell.
+
+     When hearts have once mingled,
+     Love first leaves the well-built nest;
+     The weak one is singled
+     To endure what it once possest.
+     O Love! who bewailest
+     The frailty of all things here,
+     Why choose you the frailest
+     For your cradle, your home, and your bier?
+
+     Its passions will rock thee
+     As the storms rock the ravens on high;
+     Bright reason will mock thee
+     Like the sun from a wintry sky.
+     From thy nest every rafter
+     Will rot, and thine eagle home
+     Leave thee naked to laughter,
+     When leaves fall and cold winds come.
+
+     P. B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     196. THE MAID OF NEIDPATH.
+
+     O lovers' eyes are sharp to see,
+      And lovers' ears in hearing;
+     And love, in life's extremity
+      Can lend an hour of cheering.
+     Disease had been in Mary's bower
+      And slow decay from mourning,
+     Though now she sits on Neidpath's tower
+      To watch her Love's returning.
+
+     All sunk and dim her eyes so bright,
+      Her form decay'd by pining,
+     Till through her wasted hand, at night,
+      You saw the taper shining.
+     By fits a sultry hectic hue
+      Across her cheek was flying;
+     By fits so ashy pale she grew
+      Her maidens thought her dying.
+
+     Yet keenest powers to see and hear
+      Seem'd in her frame residing;
+     Before the watch-dog prick'd his ear
+      She heard her lover's riding;
+     Ere scarce a distant form was kenn'd
+      She knew and waved to greet him,
+     And o'er the battlement did bend
+      As on the wing to meet him.
+
+     He came--he pass'd--an heedless gaze
+      As o'er some stranger glancing;
+     Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase,
+      Lost in his courser's prancing--
+
+     The castle-arch, whose hollow tone
+      Returns each whisper spoken,
+     Could scarcely catch the feeble moan
+      Which told her heart was broken.
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT
+
+
+
+
+     197. THE MAID OF NEIDPATH.
+
+     Earl March look'd on his dying child,
+      And smit with grief to view her--
+     The youth, he cried, whom I exiled
+      Shall be restored to woo her.
+
+     She's at the window many an hour
+      His coming to discover:
+     And he look'd up to Ellen's bower
+      And she look'd on her lover--
+
+     But ah! so pale, he knew her not,
+      Though her smile on him was dwelling--
+     And am I then forgot--forgot?
+      It broke the heart of Ellen.
+
+     In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs,
+      Her cheek is cold as ashes;
+     Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes
+      To lift their silken lashes.
+
+     T. CAMPBELL
+
+
+
+
+     198.
+
+     Bright Star! would I were steadfast as thou art--
+     Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,
+     And watching, with eternal lids apart,
+     Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,
+
+     The moving waters at their priestlike task
+     Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
+     Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask
+     Of snow upon the mountains and the moors:--
+
+     No--yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
+     Pillow'd upon my fair Love's ripening breast
+     To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
+     Awake for ever in a sweet unrest;
+
+     Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
+     And so live ever,--or else swoon to death.
+
+     J. KEATS.
+
+
+
+
+     199. THE TERROR OF DEATH.
+
+     When I have fears that I may cease to be
+     Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
+     Before high-piled books, in charact'ry,
+     Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;
+
+     When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
+     Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
+     And think that I may never live to trace
+     Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
+
+     And when I feel, fair Creature of an hour!
+     That I shall never look upon thee more,
+     Never have relish in the fairy power
+     Of unreflecting love--then on the shore
+
+     Of the wide world I stand alone, and think,
+     Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.
+
+     J. KEATS.
+
+
+
+
+     200. DESIDERIA.
+
+     Surprized by joy--impatient as the wind--
+     I turn'd to share the transport--Oh, with whom
+     But Thee--deep buried in the silent tomb,
+     That spot which no vicissitude can find?
+
+     Love, faithful love recall'd thee to my mind--
+     But how could I forget thee? Through what power
+     Even for the least division of an hour
+     Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
+
+     To my most grievous loss?--That thought's return
+     Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore
+     Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
+
+     Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
+     That neither present time, nor years unborn
+     Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     201.
+
+     At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping,
+           I fly
+     To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in
+           thine eye;
+     And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions
+           of air
+     To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to
+           me there
+     And tell me our love is remember'd even in the sky!
+
+     Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear
+     When our voices, commingling, breathed like one on
+           the ear;
+     And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison
+           rolls,
+     I think, O my love! 'tis thy voice, from the Kingdom
+           of Souls
+     Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.
+
+     T. MOORE.
+
+
+
+
+     202. ELEGY ON THYRZA.
+
+     And thou art dead, as young and fair
+       As aught of mortal birth;
+     And forms so soft and charms so rare
+       Too soon return'd to Earth!
+     Though Earth received them in her bed,
+     And o'er the spot the crowd may tread
+       In carelessness or mirth,
+     There is an eye which could not brook
+     A moment on that grave to look.
+
+     I will not ask where thou liest low
+       Nor gaze upon the spot;
+     There flowers and weeds at will may grow
+       So I behold them not:
+     It is enough for me to prove
+     That what I loved and long must love
+       Like common earth can rot;
+     To me there needs no stone to tell
+     'Tis Nothing that I loved so well.
+
+     Yet did I love thee to the last,
+       As fervently as thou
+     Who didst not change through all the past
+       And canst not alter now.
+     The love where Death has set his seal
+     Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,
+       Nor falsehood disavow:
+     And, what were worse, thou canst not see
+     Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.
+
+     The better days of life were ours;
+       The worst can be but mine:
+     The sun that cheers, the storm that lours
+       Shall never more be thine.
+     The silence of that dreamless sleep
+     I envy now too much to weep;
+       Nor need I to repine
+     That all those charms have pass'd away
+     I might have watch'd through long decay.
+
+     The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd
+       Must fall the earliest prey;
+     Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,
+       The leaves must drop away.
+     And yet it were a greater grief
+     To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,
+       Than see it pluck'd to-day;
+     Since earthly eye but ill can bear
+     To trace the change from foul to fair.
+
+     I know not if I could have borne
+       To see thy beauties fade;
+     The night that follow'd such a morn
+       Had worn a deeper shade:
+     Thy day without a cloud hath past,
+     And thou wert lovely to the last,
+       Extinguish'd, not decay'd;
+     As stars that shoot along the sky
+     Shine brightest as they fall from high.
+
+     As once I wept if I could weep,
+       My tears might well be shed
+     To think I was not near, to keep
+       One vigil o'er thy bed:
+     To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
+     To fold thee in a faint embrace,
+       Uphold thy drooping head;
+     And show that love, however vain,
+     Nor thou nor I can feel again.
+
+     Yet how much less it were to gain,
+       Though thou hast left me free,
+     The loveliest things that still remain
+       Than thus remember thee!
+     The all of thine that cannot die
+     Through dark and dread Eternity
+       Returns again to me,
+     And more thy buried love endears
+     Than aught except its living years.
+
+     LORD BYRON.
+
+
+
+
+     203.
+
+     One word is too often profaned
+       For me to profane it,
+     One feeling too falsely disdain'd
+       For thee to disdain it.
+     One hope is too like despair
+       For prudence to smother,
+     And Pity from thee more dear
+       Than that from another.
+
+     I can give not what men call love;
+       But wilt thou accept not
+     The worship the heart lifts above
+       And the Heavens reject not:
+     The desire of the moth for the star,
+       Of the night for the morrow,
+     The devotion to something afar
+       From the sphere of our sorrow?
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     204. GATHERING SONG OF DONALD THE BLACK.
+
+       Pibroch of Donuil Dhu
+        Pibroch of Donuil
+       Wake thy wild voice anew,
+        Summon Clan Conuil.
+       Come away, come away,
+        Hark to the summons!
+       Come in your war-array,
+        Gentles and commons.
+
+       Come from deep glen, and
+        From mountain so rocky;
+       The war-pipe and pennon
+        Are at Inverlochy.
+       Come every hill-plaid, and
+        True heart that wears one,
+       Come every steel blade, and
+        Strong hand that bears one.
+
+       Leave untended the herd,
+        The flock without shelter;
+       Leave the corpse uninterr'd,
+        The bride at the altar;
+       Leave the deer, leave the steer,
+        Leave nets and barges:
+       Come with your fighting gear,
+        Broadswords and targes.
+
+       Come as the winds come, when
+        Forests are rended,
+       Come as the waves come, when
+        Navies are stranded:
+       Faster come, faster come,
+        Faster and faster,
+       Chief, vassal, page and groom,
+        Tenant and master.
+
+       Fast they come, fast they come;
+        See how they gather!
+       Wide waves the eagle plume
+        Blended with heather.
+       Cast your plaids, draw your blades,
+        Forward each man set!
+       Pibroch of Donuil Dhu
+        Knell for the onset!
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT.
+
+
+
+
+     205.
+
+     A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
+       A wind that follows fast
+     And fills the white and rustling sail
+       And bends the gallant mast;
+     And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
+       While like the eagle free
+     Away the good ship flies, and leaves
+       Old England on the lee.
+
+     O for a soft and gentle wind!
+       I heard a fair one cry;
+     But give to me the snoring breeze
+       And white waves heaving high;
+     And white waves heaving high, my lads,
+       The good ship tight and free--
+     The world of waters is our home,
+       And merry men are we.
+
+     There's tempest in yon horned moon,
+       And lightning in yon cloud;
+     But hark the music, mariners!
+       The wind is piping loud;
+     The wind is piping loud, my boys,
+       The lightning flashes free--
+     While the hollow oak our palace is,
+       Our heritage the sea.
+
+     A. CUNNINGHAM.
+
+
+
+
+     206.
+
+     Ye Mariners of England
+     That guard our native seas!
+     Whose flag has braved, a thousand years
+     The battle and the breeze!
+     Your glorious standard launch again
+     To match another foe:
+     And sweep through the deep,
+     While the stormy winds do blow;
+     While the battle rages loud and long
+     And the stormy winds do blow.
+
+     The spirits of your fathers
+     Shall start from every wave--
+     For the deck it was their field of fame,
+     And Ocean was their grave:
+     Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell
+     Your manly hearts shall glow,
+     As ye sweep through the deep,
+     While the stormy winds do blow;
+     While the battle rages loud and long
+     And the stormy winds do blow.
+
+     Britannia needs no bulwarks,
+     No towers along the steep;
+     Her march is o'er the mountain waves,
+     Her home is on the deep.
+     With thunders from her native oak
+     She quells the floods below--
+     As they roar on the shore,
+     When the stormy winds do blow;
+     When the battle rages loud and long
+     And the stormy winds do blow.
+
+     The meteor flag of England
+     Shall yet terrific burn;
+     Till danger's troubled night depart
+     And the star of peace return.
+     Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!
+     Our song and feast shall flow
+     To the fame of your name,
+     When the storm has ceased to blow;
+     When the fiery fight is heard no more,
+     And the storm has ceased to blow.
+
+     T. CAMPBELL.
+
+
+
+
+     207. BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.
+
+     Of Nelson and the North
+     Sing the glorious day's renown,
+     When to battle fierce came forth
+     All the might of Denmark's crown,
+     And her arms along the deep proudly shone;
+     By each gun the lighted brand
+     In a bold determined hand,
+     And the Prince of all the land
+     Led them on.
+
+     Like leviathans afloat
+     Lay their bulwarks on the brine;
+     While the sign of battle flew
+     On the lofty British line:
+     It was ten of April morn by the chime:
+     As they drifted on their path
+     There was silence deep as death;
+     And the boldest held his breath
+     For a time.
+
+     But the might of England flush'd
+     To anticipate the scene;
+     And her van the fleeter rush'd
+     O'er the deadly space between.
+     "Hearts of oak!" our captains cried, when each gun
+     From its adamantine lips
+     Spread a death-shade round the ships,
+     Like the hurricane eclipse
+     Of the sun.
+
+     Again! again! again!
+     And the havoc did not slack,
+     Till a feeble cheer the Dane
+     To our cheering sent us back;--
+     Their shots along the deep slowly boom:--
+     Then ceased--and all is wail,
+     As they strike the shatter'd sail,
+     Or in conflagration pale
+     Light the gloom.
+
+     Out spoke the victor then
+     As he hail'd them o'er the wave,
+     "Ye are brothers! ye are men!
+     And we conquer but to save:--
+     So peace instead of death let us bring:
+     But yield, proud foe, thy fleet
+     With the crews, at England's feet,
+     And make submission meet
+     To our King."
+
+     Then Denmark blest our chief
+     That he gave her wounds repose;
+     And the sounds of joy and grief
+     From her people wildly rose,
+     As death withdrew his shades from the day:
+     While the sun look'd smiling bright
+     O'er a wide and woeful sight,
+     Where the fires of funeral light
+     Died away.
+
+     Now joy, old England, raise!
+     For the tidings of thy might,
+     By the festal cities' blaze,
+     Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;
+     And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
+     Let us think of them that sleep
+     Full many a fathom deep
+     By thy wild and stormy steep,
+     Elsinore!
+
+     Brave hearts! to Britain's pride
+     Once so faithful and so true,
+     On the deck of fame that died
+     With the gallant good Riou:
+     Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave!
+     While the billow mournful rolls
+     And the mermaid's song condoles
+     Singing glory to the souls
+     Of the brave!
+
+     T. CAMPBELL.
+
+
+
+
+     208. ODE TO DUTY
+
+       Stern Daughter of the voice of God!
+       O Duty! if that name thou love
+       Who art a light to guide, a rod
+       To check the erring, and reprove;
+       Thou who art victory and law
+       When empty terrors overawe;
+       From vain temptations dost set free,
+     And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!
+
+       There are who ask not if thine eye
+       Be on them; who, in love and truth
+       Where no misgiving is, rely
+       Upon the genial sense of youth:
+       Glad hearts! without reproach or blot,
+       Who do thy work, and know it not:
+       Oh! if through confidence misplaced
+     They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast.
+
+       Serene will be our days and bright
+       And happy will our nature be
+       When love is an unerring light,
+       And joy its own security.
+       And they a blissful course may hold
+       Ev'n now who, not unwisely bold,
+       Live in the spirit of this creed;
+     Yet find that other strength, according to their need.
+
+       I, loving freedom, and untried;
+       No sport of every random gust,
+       Yet being to myself a guide,
+       Too blindly have reposed my trust:
+       And oft, when in my heart was heard
+       Thy timely mandate, I deferr'd
+       The task, in smoother walks to stray;
+     But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.
+
+       Through no disturbance of my soul
+       Or strong compunction in me wrought,
+       I supplicate for thy controul,
+       But in the quietness of thought:
+       Me this uncharter'd freedom tires;
+       I feel the weight of chance desires;
+       My hopes no more must change their name;
+     I long for a repose which ever is the same.
+
+       Stern lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
+       The Godhead's most benignant grace;
+       Nor know we anything so fair
+       As is the smile upon thy face:
+       Flowers laugh before thee on their beds,
+       And fragrance in thy footing treads;
+       Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong;
+     And the most ancient Heavens, through thee, are fresh and strong.
+
+       To humbler functions, awful Power!
+       I call thee: I myself commend
+       Unto thy guidance from this hour;
+       O let my weakness have an end!
+       Give unto me, made lowly wise,
+       The spirit of self-sacrifice;
+       The confidence of reason give;
+     And in the light of Truth thy bondman let me live.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     209. ON THE CASTLE OF CHILLON.
+
+     Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind!
+     Brightest in dungeons, Liberty, thou art--
+     For there thy habitation is the heart--
+     The heart which love of Thee alone can bind;
+
+     And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd,
+     To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom,
+     Their country conquers with their martyrdom
+     And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind.
+
+     Chillon! thy prison is a holy place
+     And thy sad floor an altar, for 'twas trod
+     Until his very steps have left a trace
+
+     Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod,
+     By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface!
+     For they appeal from tyranny to God.
+
+     LORD BYRON.
+
+
+
+
+     210. ENGLAND AND SWITZERLAND.
+
+                      1802.
+
+     Two Voices are there; one is of the Sea,
+     One of the Mountains; each a mighty voice:
+     In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,
+     They were thy chosen music, Liberty!
+
+     There came a tyrant, and with holy glee
+     Thou fought'st against him,--but hast vainly striven:
+     Thou from thy Alpine holds at length are driven
+     Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.
+
+     --Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft;
+     Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left--
+     For, high-soul'd Maid, what sorrow would it be
+
+     That Mountain floods should thunder as before,
+     And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
+     And neither awful Voice be heard by Thee!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     211. ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC.
+
+     Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee
+     And was the safeguard of the West; the worth
+     Of Venice did not fall below her birth,
+     Venice, the eldest child of liberty.
+
+     She was a maiden city, bright and free;
+     No guile seduced, no force could violate;
+     And when she took unto herself a mate,
+     She must espouse the everlasting Sea.
+
+     And what if she had seen those glories fade,
+     Those titles vanish, and that strength decay,--
+     Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid
+
+     When her long life hath reach'd its final day:
+     Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade
+     Of that which once was great has pass'd away.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     212. LONDON, MDCCCII.
+
+     O Friend! I know not which way I must look
+     For comfort, being, as I am, opprest
+     To think that now our life is only drest
+     For show; mean handiwork of craftsman, cook,
+
+     Or groom!--We must run glittering like a brook
+     In the open sunshine, or we are unblest;
+     The wealthiest man among us is the best:
+     No grandeur now in Nature or in book
+
+     Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,
+     This is idolatry; and these we adore:
+     Plain living and high thinking are no more:
+
+     The homely beauty of the good old cause
+     Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,
+     And pure religion breathing household laws.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     213. THE SAME.
+
+     Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:
+     England hath need of thee: she is a fen
+     Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
+     Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
+
+     Have forfeited their ancient English dower
+     Of inward happiness. We are selfish men
+     O! raise us up, return to us again;
+     And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
+
+     Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:
+     Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea,
+     Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free;
+
+     So didst thou travel on life's common way
+     In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
+     The lowliest duties on herself did lay.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     214.
+
+     When I have borne in memory what has tamed
+     Great nations; how ennobling thoughts depart
+     When men change swords for ledgers, and desert
+     The student's bower for gold,--some fears unnamed
+
+     I had, my Country!--am I to be blamed?
+     Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art,
+     Verily, in the bottom of my heart
+     Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.
+
+     For dearly must we prize thee; we who find
+     In thee a bulwark of the cause of men;
+     And I by my affection was beguiled:
+
+     What wonder if a Poet now and then,
+     Among the many movements of his mind,
+     Felt for thee as a lover or a child!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     215. HOHENLINDEN.
+
+     On Linden, when the sun was low,
+     All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;
+     And dark as winter was the flow
+        Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
+
+     But Linden saw another sight,
+     When the drum beat at dead of night
+     Commanding fires of death to light
+        The darkness of her scenery.
+
+     By torch and trumpet fast array'd
+     Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
+     And furious every charger neigh'd
+        To join the dreadful revelry.
+
+     Then shook the hills with thunder riven;
+     Then rush'd the steed, to battle driven;
+     And louder than the bolts of Heaven
+        Far flash'd the red artillery.
+
+     But redder yet that light shall glow
+     On Linden's hills of stained snow;
+     And bloodier yet the torrent flow
+        Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
+
+     'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun
+     Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
+     Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
+       Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
+
+     The combat deepens. On, ye Brave
+     Who rush to glory, or the grave!
+     Wave, Munich all thy banners wave,
+        And charge with all thy chivalry!
+
+     Few, few shall part, where many meet!
+     The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
+     And every turf beneath their feet
+        Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
+
+     T. CAMPBELL.
+
+
+
+
+     216. AFTER BLENHEIM.
+
+     It was a summer evening,
+       Old Kaspar's work was done,
+     And he before his cottage door
+       Was sitting in the sun;
+     And by him sported on the green
+     His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
+
+     She saw her brother Peterkin
+       Roll something large and round
+     Which he beside the rivulet
+       In playing there had found
+     He came to ask what he had found
+     That was so large and smooth and round.
+
+     Old Kaspar took it from the boy
+       Who stood expectant by;
+     And then the old man shook his head,
+       And with a natural sigh
+     "'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he,
+     "Who fell in the great victory.
+
+     "I find then in the garden,
+       For there's many here about;
+     And often when I go to plough
+       The ploughshare turns them out.
+     For many thousand men," said he,
+     "Were slain in that great victory."
+
+     "Now tell us what 'twas all about,"
+       Young Peterkin he cries;
+     And little Wilhelmine looks up
+       With wonder-waiting eyes;
+     "Now tell us all about the war,
+     And what they fought each other for."
+
+     "It was the English," Kaspar cried,
+       "Who put the French to rout;
+     But what they fought each other for
+       I could not well make out.
+     But every body said," quoth he,
+     "That 'twas a famous victory.
+
+     "My father lived at Blenheim then,
+       Yon little stream hard by;
+     They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
+       And he was forced to fly:
+     So with his wife and child he fled,
+     Nor had he where to rest his head.
+
+     "With fire and sword the country round
+       Was wasted far and wide,
+     And many a childing mother then
+       And newborn baby died:
+     But things like that, you know, must be
+     At every famous victory.
+
+     "They say it was a shocking sight
+       After the field was won;
+     For many thousand bodies here
+       Lay rotting in the sun:
+     But things like that, you know, must be
+     After a famous victory.
+
+     "Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won
+       And our good Prince Eugene";
+     "Why 'twas a very wicked thing!"
+       Said little Wilhelmine;
+     "Nay--nay--my little girl," quoth he,
+     "It was a famous victory.
+
+     And every body praised the Duke
+       Who this great fight did win."
+     "But what good came of it at last?"
+       Quoth little Peterkin:--
+     "Why that I cannot tell," said he,
+     "But 'twas a famous victory."
+
+     R. SOUTHEY.
+
+
+
+
+     217. PRO PATRIA MORI.
+
+     When he who adores thee has left but the name
+       Of his fault and his sorrows behind,
+     O! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame
+       Of a life that for thee was resign'd!
+     Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,
+       Thy tears shall efface their decree;
+     For, Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,
+       I have been but too faithful to thee.
+
+     With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;
+       Every thought of my reason was thine;
+     In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above
+       Thy name shall be mingled with mine!
+     O! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live
+       The days of thy glory to see;
+     But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give
+       Is the pride of thus dying for thee.
+
+     T. MOORE.
+
+
+
+
+     218. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA.
+
+     Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
+       As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;
+     Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
+       O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
+
+     We buried him darkly at dead of night,
+       The sods with our bayonets turning;
+     By the struggling moonbeam's misty light
+       And the lantern dimly burning.
+
+     No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
+       Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him:
+     But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
+       With his martial cloak around him.
+
+     Few and short were the prayers we said
+       And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
+     But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
+       And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
+
+     We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed
+       And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,
+     That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
+       And we far away on the billow!
+
+     Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
+       And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him--
+     But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
+       In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
+
+     But half of our heavy task was done
+       When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
+     And we heard the distant and random gun
+       That the foe was sullenly firing.
+
+     Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
+       From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
+     We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
+       But we left him alone with his glory.
+
+     C. WOLFE.
+
+
+
+
+     219. SIMON LEE THE OLD HUNTSMAN.
+
+     In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
+     Not far from pleasant Ivor Hall,
+     An old man dwells, a little man,
+     I've heard he once was tall.
+     Full five-and-thirty years he lived
+     A running huntsman merry;
+     And still the centre of his cheek
+     Is red as a ripe cherry.
+
+     No man like him the horn could sound,
+     And hill and valley rang with glee,
+     When Echo bandied round and round
+     The halloo of Simon Lee.
+     In those proud days he little cared
+     For husbandry or tillage;
+     To blither tasks did Simon rouse
+     The sleepers of the village.
+
+     He all the country could outrun,
+     Could leave both man and horse behind;
+     And often, ere the chase was done,
+     He reel'd and was stone-blind.
+     And still there's something in the world
+     At which his heart rejoices;
+     For when the chiming hounds are out,
+     He dearly loves their voices.
+
+     But O the heavy change!--bereft
+     Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see
+     Old Simon to the world is left
+     In liveried poverty:
+     His master's dead, and no one now
+     Dwells in the Hall of Ivor;
+     Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;
+     He is the sole survivor.
+
+     And he is lean and he is sick,
+     His body dwindled and awry
+     Rests upon ankles swoln and thick;
+     His legs are thin and dry.
+     He has no son, he has no child;
+     His wife, an aged woman,
+     Lives with him, near the waterfall,
+     Upon the village common.
+
+     Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,
+     Not twenty paces from the door,
+     A scrap of land they have, but they
+     Are poorest of the poor.
+     This scrap of land he from the heath
+     Enclosed when he was stronger;
+     But what avails the land to them
+     Which he can till no longer?
+
+     Oft, working by her husband's side,
+     Ruth does what Simon cannot do;
+     For she, with scanty cause for pride,
+     Is stouter of the two.
+     And, though you with your utmost skill
+     From labour could not wean them,
+     'Tis little, very little, all
+     That they can do between them.
+
+     Few months of life has he in store
+     As he to you will tell,
+     For still, the more he works, the more
+     Do his weak ankles swell.
+     My gentle reader, I perceive
+     How patiently you've waited,
+     And now I fear that you expect
+     Some tale will be related.
+
+     O reader! had you in your mind
+     Such stores as silent thought can bring,
+     O gentle reader! you would find
+     A tale in everything.
+     What more I have to say is short,
+     And you must kindly take it;
+     It is no tale; but, should you think,
+     Perhaps a tale you'll make it.
+
+     One summer-day I chanced to see
+     This old man doing all he could
+     To unearth the root of an old tree,
+     A stump of rotten wood.
+     The mattock totter'd in his hand
+     So vain was his endeavour
+     That at the root of the old tree
+     He might have work'd for ever.
+
+     "You're overtask'd, good Simon Lee,
+     Give me your tool," to him I said;
+     And at the word right gladly he
+     Received my proffer'd aid.
+     I struck, and with a single blow
+     The tangled root I sever'd,
+     At which the poor old man so long
+     And vainly had endeavour'd.
+
+     The tears into his eyes were brought,
+     And thanks and praises seem'd to run
+     So fast out of his heart, I thought
+     They never would have done.
+     --I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds
+     With coldness still returning;
+     Alas! the gratitude of men
+     Has oftener left me mourning.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     220. THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES.
+
+     I have had playmates, I have had companions
+     In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days;
+     All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
+
+     I have been laughing, I have been carousing,
+     Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies;
+     All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
+
+     I loved a Love once, fairest among women:
+     Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her--
+     All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
+
+     I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man:
+     Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;
+     Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.
+
+     Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood,
+     Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse,
+     Seeking to find the old familiar faces.
+
+     Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,
+     Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?
+     So might we talk of the old familiar faces,
+
+     How some they have died, and some they have left me,
+     And some are taken from me; all are departed;
+     All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
+
+     C. LAMB.
+
+
+
+
+     221. THE JOURNEY ONWARDS.
+
+     As slow our ship her foamy track
+      Against the wind was cleaving,
+     Her trembling pennant still look'd back
+      To that dear isle 'twas leaving.
+     So loth we part from all we love,
+      From all the links that bind us;
+     So turn our hearts, as on we rove,
+      To those we've left behind us!
+
+     When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years
+      We talk with joyous seeming--
+     With smiles that might as well be tears,
+      So faint, so sad their beaming;
+     While memory brings us back again
+      Each early tie that twined us,
+     Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then
+      To those we've left behind us!
+
+     And when in other climes, we meet
+      Some isle or vale enchanting,
+     Where all looks flowery wild and sweet,
+      And nought but love is wanting;
+     We think how great had been our bliss
+      If Heaven had but assign'd us
+     To live and die in scenes like this,
+      With some we've left behind us!
+
+     As travellers oft look back at eve
+      When eastward darkly going,
+     To gaze upon that light they leave
+      Still faint behind them glowing,--
+     So, when the close of pleasure's day
+      To gloom hath near consign'd us,
+     We turn to catch our fading ray
+      Of joy that's left behind us.
+
+     T. MOORE.
+
+
+
+
+     222. YOUTH AND AGE.
+
+     There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away
+     When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay;
+     'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone which fades so fast,
+     But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.
+
+     Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness
+     Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess:
+     The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain
+     The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again.
+
+     Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down;
+     It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own;
+     That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears,
+     And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears.
+
+     Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast,
+     Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest;
+     'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe,
+     All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath.
+
+     O could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been,
+     Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanish'd scene,--
+     As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be,
+     So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me!
+
+     LORD BYRON.
+
+
+
+
+     223. A LESSON.
+
+     There is a flower, the Lesser Celandine,
+     That shrinks like many more from cold and rain,
+     And the first moment that the sun may shine,
+     Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again!
+
+     When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm,
+     Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest,
+     Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm
+     In close self-shelter, like a thing at rest.
+
+     But lately, one rough day, this flower I past,
+     And recognised it, though an alter'd form,
+     Now standing forth an offering to the blast,
+     And buffeted at will by rain and storm.
+
+     I stopp'd and said with inly-mutter'd voice,
+     "It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold;
+     This neither is its courage nor its choice,
+     But its necessity in being old.
+
+     "The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew;
+     It cannot help itself in its decay;
+     Stiff in its members, wither'd, changed of hue."
+     And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was gray.
+
+     To be a prodigal's favourite--then, worse truth,
+     A miser's pensioner--behold our lot!
+     O Man! that from thy fair and shining youth
+     Age might but take the things Youth needed not!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     224. PAST AND PRESENT.
+
+     I remember, I remember
+     The house where I was born,
+     The little window where the sun
+     Came peeping in at morn;
+     He never came a wink too soon
+     Nor brought too long a day;
+     But now, I often wish the night
+     Had borne my breath away.
+
+     I remember, I remember
+     The roses, red and white,
+     The violets, and the lily-cups--
+     Those flowers made of light!
+     The lilacs where the robin built,
+     And where my brother set
+     The laburnum on his birthday,--
+     The tree is living yet!
+
+     I remember, I remember
+     Where I was used to swing,
+     And thought the air must rush as fresh
+     To swallows on the wing;
+     My spirit flew in feathers then
+     That is so heavy now,
+     And summer pools could hardly cool
+     The fever on my brow.
+
+     I remember, I remember
+     The fir trees dark and high;
+     I used to think their slender tops
+     Were close against the sky:
+     It was a childish ignorance,
+     But now 'tis little joy
+     To know I'm farther off from Heaven
+     Than when I was a boy.
+
+     T. HOOD.
+
+
+
+
+     225. THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS.
+
+     Oft, in the stilly night,
+      Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
+     Fond Memory brings the light
+      Of other days around me:
+        The smiles, the tears
+        Of boyhood's years,
+      The words of love then spoken;
+        The eyes that shone,
+        Now dimm'd and gone,
+      The cheerful hearts now broken!
+     Thus in the stilly night,
+      Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
+     Sad Memory brings the light
+      Of other days around me.
+
+     When I remember all
+      The friends, so link'd together,
+     I've seen around me fall
+      Like leaves in wintry weather,
+        I feel like one
+        Who treads alone
+      Some banquet-hall deserted,
+        Whose lights are fled,
+        Whose garlands dead,
+      And all but he departed!
+     Thus in the stilly night,
+      Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
+     Sad Memory brings the light
+      Of other days around me.
+
+     T. MOORE.
+
+
+
+
+     226. INVOCATION.
+
+     Rarely, rarely, comest thou,
+       Spirit of Delight!
+     Wherefore hast thou left me now
+       Many a day and night?
+     Many a weary night and day
+     'Tis since thou art fled away.
+
+     How shall ever one like me
+       Win thee back again?
+     With the joyous and the free
+       Thou wilt scoff at pain.
+     Spirit false! thou hast forgot
+     All but those who need thee not.
+
+     As a lizard with the shade
+       Of a trembling leaf,
+     Thou with sorrow art dismay'd;
+       Even the sighs of grief
+     Reproach thee, that thou art not near,
+     And reproach thou wilt not hear.
+
+     Let me set my mournful ditty
+       To a merry measure;--
+     Thou wilt never come for pity,
+       Thou wilt come for pleasure;--
+     Pity then will cut away
+     Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.
+
+     I love all that thou lovest,
+       Spirit of Delight!
+     The fresh Earth in new leaves drest
+       And the starry night;
+     Autumn evening, and the morn
+     When the golden mists are born.
+
+     I love snow, and all the forms
+       Of the radiant frost;
+     I love waves, and winds, and storms,
+       Everything almost
+     Which is Nature's, and may be
+     Untainted by man's misery.
+
+     I love tranquil solitude,
+       And such society
+     As is quiet, wise, and good;
+       Between thee and me
+     What diff'rence? but thou dost possess
+     The things I seek, not love them less.
+
+     I love Love--though he has wings,
+       And like light can flee,
+     But above all other things,
+       Spirit, I love thee--
+     Thou art love and life! O come!
+     Make once more my heart thy home!
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     227. STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES.
+
+         The sun is warm, the sky is clear,
+         The waves are dancing fast and bright,
+         Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
+         The purple noon's transparent light:
+         The breath of the moist air is light
+         Around its unexpanded buds;
+         Like many a voice of one delight--
+         The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods'--
+     The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's.
+
+         I see the Deep's untrampled floor
+         With green and purple sea-weeds strown;
+         I see the waves upon the shore
+         Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown;
+         I sit upon the sands alone;
+         The lightning of the noon-tide ocean
+         Is flashing round me, and a tone
+         Arises from its measured motion--
+     How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.
+
+         Alas! I have nor hope nor health,
+         Nor peace within nor calm around,
+         Nor that Content, surpassing wealth,
+         The sage in meditation found,
+         And walked with inward glory crown'd--
+         Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure;
+         Others I see whom these surround--
+         Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;
+     To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.
+
+         Yet now despair itself is mild
+         Even as the winds and waters are;
+         I could lie down like a tired child,
+         And weep away the life of care
+         Which I have borne, and yet must bear,
+         Till death like sleep might steal on me,
+         And I might feel in the warm air
+         My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
+     Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     228. THE SCHOLAR.
+
+     My days among the Dead are past;
+     Around me I behold,
+     Where'er these casual eyes are cast,
+     The mighty minds of old:
+     My never-failing friends are they,
+     With whom I converse day by day.
+
+     With them I take delight in weal
+     And seek relief in woe;
+     And while I understand and feel
+     How much to them I owe,
+     My cheeks have often been bedew'd
+     With tears of thoughtful gratitude.
+
+     My thoughts are with the Dead; with them
+     I live in long-past years,
+     Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
+     Partake their hopes and fears,
+     And from their lessons seek and find
+     Instruction with an humble mind.
+
+     My hopes are with the Dead; anon
+     My place with them will be,
+     And I with them shall travel on
+     Through all Futurity;
+     Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
+     That will not perish in the dust.
+
+     R. SOUTHEY.
+
+
+
+
+     229. THE MERMAID TAVERN.
+
+     Souls of Poets dead and gone
+     What Elysium have ye known,
+     Happy field or mossy cavern,
+     Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
+     Have ye tippled drink more fine
+     Than mine host's Canary wine?
+     Or are fruits of Paradise
+     Sweeter than those dainty pies
+     Of Venison? O generous food!
+     Drest as though bold Robin Hood
+     Would, with his Maid Marian,
+     Sup and browse from horn and can.
+
+       I have heard that on a day
+     Mine host's signboard flew away
+     Nobody knew whither, till
+     An astrologer's old quill
+     To a sheepskin gave the story--
+     Said he saw you in your glory
+     Underneath a new-old Sign
+     Sipping beverage divine,
+     And pledging with contented smack
+     The Mermaid in the Zodiac!
+       Souls of poets dead and gone
+     What Elysium have ye known--
+     Happy field or mossy cavern--
+     Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
+
+     J. KEATS.
+
+
+
+
+     230. THE PRIDE OF YOUTH.
+
+     Proud Maisie is in the wood,
+      Walking so early;
+     Sweet Robin sits on the bush,
+      Singing so rarely.
+
+     "Tell me, thou bonny bird,
+      When shall I marry me?"
+     --"When six braw gentlemen
+      Kirkward shall carry ye."
+
+     "Who makes the bridal bed,
+      Birdie, say truly?"
+     --"The gray-headed sexton
+      That delves the grave duly.
+
+     "The glowworm o'er grave and stone
+      Shall light thee steady;
+     The owl from the steeple sing
+      Welcome, proud lady!"
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT.
+
+
+
+
+     231. THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.
+
+         One more Unfortunate
+         Weary of breath
+         Rashly importunate,
+         Gone to her death!
+
+         Take her up tenderly,
+         Lift her with care;
+         Fashion'd so slenderly
+         Young, and so fair!
+
+         Look at her garments
+         Clinging like cerements;
+         Whilst the wave constantly
+         Drips from her clothing;
+         Take her up instantly,
+         Loving, not loathing.
+
+         Touch her not scornfully;
+         Think of her mournfully,
+         Gently and humanly;
+         Not of the stains of her--
+         All that remains of her
+         Now is pure womanly.
+
+         Make no deep scrutiny
+         Into her mutiny
+         Rash and undutiful:
+         Past all dishonour,
+         Death has left on her
+         Only the beautiful.
+
+         Still, for all slips of hers,
+         One of Eve's family--
+         Wipe those poor lips of hers
+         Oozing so clammily.
+
+         Loop up her tresses
+         Escaped from the comb,
+         Her fair auburn tresses;
+         Whilst wonderment guesses
+         Where was her home?
+
+         Who was her father?
+         Who was her mother?
+         Had she a sister?
+         Had she a brother?
+         Or was there a dearer one
+         Still, and a nearer one
+         Yet, than all other?
+
+         Alas! for the rarity
+         Of Christian charity
+         Under the sun!
+         O! it was pitiful!
+         Near a whole city full,
+         Home she had none.
+
+         Sisterly, brotherly,
+         Fatherly, motherly
+         Feelings had changed:
+         Love, by harsh evidence,
+         Thrown from its eminence;
+         Even God's providence
+         Seeming estranged.
+
+         Where the lamps quiver
+         So far in the river,
+         With many a light
+         From window and casement,
+         From garret to basement,
+         She stood, with amazement,
+         Houseless by night.
+
+         The bleak wind of March
+         Made her tremble and shiver;
+         But not the dark arch,
+         Or the black flowing river:
+         Mad from life's history,
+         Glad to death's mystery,
+         Swift to be hurl'd--
+         Any where, any where
+         Out of the world!
+
+         In she plunged boldly,
+         No matter how coldly
+         The rough river ran,
+         Over the brink of it,--
+         Picture it, think of it,
+         Dissolute Man!
+         Lave in it, drink of it,
+         Then, if you can!
+
+         Take her up tenderly,
+         Lift her with care;
+         Fashion'd so slenderly,
+         Young, and so fair!
+
+         Ere her limbs frigidly
+         Stiffen too rigidly,
+         Decently, kindly,
+         Smooth and compose them;
+         And her eyes, close them,
+         Staring so blindly!
+
+         Dreadfully staring
+         Thro' muddy impurity,
+         As when with the daring
+         Last look of despairing
+         Fix'd on futurity.
+
+         Perishing gloomily,
+         Spurr'd by contumely,
+         Cold inhumanity,
+         Burning insanity,
+         Into her rest.
+         --Cross her hands humbly
+         As if praying dumbly,
+         Over her breast!
+
+         Owning her weakness,
+         Her evil behaviour,
+         And leaving, with meekness,
+         Her sins to her Saviour!
+
+     T. HOOD.
+
+
+
+
+     232. ELEGY.
+
+       O snatch'd away in beauty's bloom!
+       On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;
+       But on thy turf shall roses rear
+       Their leaves, the earliest of the year,
+     And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:
+
+       And oft by yon blue gushing stream
+       Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,
+       And feed deep thought with many a dream,
+       And lingering pause and lightly tread;
+     Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead!
+
+       Away! we know that tears are vain,
+       That Death nor heeds nor hears distress:
+       Will this unteach us to complain?
+       Or make one mourner weep the less?
+       And thou, who tell'st me to forget,
+     Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.
+
+     LORD BYRON.
+
+
+
+
+     233. HESTER.
+
+     When maidens such as Hester die
+     Their place ye may not well supply,
+     Though ye among a thousand try
+            With vain endeavour.
+     A month or more hath she been dead,
+     Yet cannot I by force be led
+     To think upon the wormy bed
+            And her together.
+
+     A springy motion in her gait,
+     A rising step, did indicate
+     Of pride and joy no common rate,
+            That flush'd her spirit:
+     I know not by what name beside
+     I shall it call: if 'twas not pride,
+     It was a joy to that allied,
+            She did inherit.
+
+     Her parents held the Quaker rule
+     Which doth the human feeling cool;
+     But she was train'd in Nature's school;
+            Nature had blest her.
+     A waking eye, a prying mind;
+     A heart that stirs, is hard to bind;
+     A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind;
+            Ye could not Hester.
+
+     My sprightly neighbour! gone before
+     To that unknown and silent shore,
+     Shall we not meet, as heretofore
+            Some summer morning--
+     When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
+     Hath struck a bliss upon the day,
+     A bliss that would not go away,
+            A sweet fore-warning?
+
+     C. LAMB.
+
+
+
+
+     234. CORONACH.
+
+     He is gone on the mountain,
+       He is lost to the forest
+     Like a summer-dried fountain,
+       When our need was the sorest.
+     The fount reappearing
+       From the raindrops shall borrow,
+     But to us comes no cheering,
+       To Duncan no morrow!
+
+     The hand of the reaper
+       Take the ears that are hoary,
+     But the voice of the weeper
+       Wails manhood in glory.
+     The autumn winds rushing
+       Waft the leaves that are serest,
+     But our flower was in flushing
+       When blighting was nearest.
+
+     Fleet foot on the correi,
+       Sage counsel in cumber,
+     Red hand in the foray,
+       How sound is thy slumber!
+     Like the dew on the mountain,
+       Like the foam on the river,
+     Like the bubble on the fountain,
+       Thou art gone, and for ever!
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT.
+
+
+
+
+     235. THE DEATH BED.
+
+     We watch'd her breathing thro' the night,
+      Her breathing soft and low,
+     As in her breast the wave of life
+      Kept heaving to and fro.
+
+     But when the morn came dim and sad
+      And chill with early showers,
+     Her quiet eyelids closed--she had
+      Another morn than ours.
+
+     T. HOOD.
+
+
+
+
+     236. ROSABELLE.
+
+     O listen, listen, ladies gay!
+      No haughty feat of arms I tell;
+     Soft is the note, and sad the lay
+      That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.
+
+     "Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew,
+      And, gentle lady, deign to stay!
+     Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,
+      Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.
+
+     "The blackening wave is edged with white;
+      To inch and rock the sea-mews fly;
+     The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite,
+      Whose screams forbode that wreck is nigh.
+
+     "Last night the gifted Seer did view
+      A wet shroud swathed round lady gay;
+     Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch;
+      Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?
+
+     "'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir
+      To-night at Roslin leads the ball,
+     But that my lady-mother there
+      Sits lonely in her castle-hall.
+
+     "'Tis not because the ring they ride,
+      And Lindesay at the ring rides well,
+     But that my sire the wine will chide
+      If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle."
+
+     --O'er Roslin all that dreary night
+      A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;
+     'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light,
+      And redder than the bright moonbeam.
+
+     It glared on Roslin's castled rock,
+      It ruddied all the copse-wood glen;
+     'Twas seen from Dryden's grove of oak,
+      And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.
+
+     Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud
+      Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie,
+     Each baron, for a sabled shroud,
+      Sheathed in his iron panoply.
+
+     Seem'd all on fire within, around,
+      Deep sacristy and altar's pale;
+     Shone every pillar foliage-bound,
+      And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail.
+
+     Blazed battlement and pinnet high,
+      Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair--
+     So still they blaze, when fate is nigh
+      The lordly line of high Saint Clair.
+
+     There are twenty of Roslin's baron's bold
+      Lie buried within that proud chapelle;
+     Each one the holy vault doth hold,
+      But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle!
+
+     And each Saint Clair was buried there
+      With candle, with book, and with knell;
+     But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung
+      The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT.
+
+
+
+
+     237. ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN.
+
+     I saw where in the shroud did lurk
+     A curious frame of Nature's work;
+     A flow'ret crushed in the bud,
+     A nameless piece of Babyhood
+     Was in her cradle-coffin lying;
+     Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying:
+     So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb
+     For darker closets of the tomb!
+     She did but ope an eye, and put
+     A clear beam forth, then straight up shut
+     For the long dark: ne'er more to see
+     Through glasses of mortality.
+     Riddle of destiny, who can show
+     What thy short visit meant, or know
+     What thy errand here below?
+     Shall we say, that Nature blind
+     Check'd her hand, and changed her mind
+     Just when she had exactly wrought
+     A finish'd pattern without fault?
+     Could she flag, or could she tire,
+     Or lack'd she the Promethean fire
+     (With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd)
+     That should thy little limbs have quicken'd?
+     Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure
+     Life of health, and days mature:
+     Woman's self in miniature!
+     Limbs so fair, they might supply
+     (Themselves now but cold imagery)
+     The sculptor to make Beauty by.
+     Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry
+     That babe or mother, one must die;
+     So in mercy left the stock
+     And cut the branch; to save the shock
+     Of young years widow'd, and the pain
+     When Single State comes back again
+     To the lone man who, reft of wife,
+     Thenceforward drags a maimed life?
+     The economy of Heaven is dark,
+     And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark
+     Why human buds, like this, should fall,
+     More brief than fly ephemeral
+     That has his day; while shrivell'd crones
+     Stiffen with age to stocks and stones;
+     And crabbed use the conscience sears
+     In sinners of an hundred years.
+     --Mother's prattle, mother's kiss,
+     Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss:
+     Rites, which custom does impose,
+     Silver bells, and baby clothes;
+     Coral redder than those lips
+     Which pale death did late eclipse;
+     Music framed for infants' glee,
+     Whistle never tuned for thee;
+     Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them,
+     Loving hearts were they which gave them.
+     Let not one be missing; nurse,
+     See them laid upon the hearse
+     Of infant slain by doom perverse.
+     Why should kings and nobles have
+     Pictured trophies to their grave,
+     And we, churls, to thee deny
+     Thy pretty toys with thee to lie--
+     A more harmless vanity?
+
+     C. LAMB.
+
+
+
+
+     238. THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET.
+
+     Where art thou, my beloved Son,
+     Where art thou, worse to me than dead!
+     Oh find me, prosperous or undone!
+     Or if the grave be now thy bed,
+     Why am I ignorant of the same
+     That I may rest; and neither blame
+     Nor sorrow may attend thy name?
+
+     Seven years, alas! to have received
+     No tidings of an only child--
+     To have despair'd, have hoped, believed,
+     And be for evermore beguiled,--
+     Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss!
+     I catch at them, and then I miss;
+     Was ever darkness like to this?
+
+     He was among the prime in worth,
+     An object beauteous to behold;
+     Well born, well bred; I sent him forth
+     Ingenuous, innocent, and bold:
+     If things ensued that wanted grace,
+     As hath been said, they were not base;
+     And never blush was on my face.
+
+     Ah! little doth the young-one dream,
+     When full of play and childish cares,
+     What power is in his wildest scream,
+     Heard by his mother unawares!
+     He knows it not, he cannot guess:
+     Years to a mother bring distress;
+     But do not make her love the less.
+
+     Neglect me! no, I suffer'd long
+     From that ill thought; and being blind
+     Said, "Pride shall help me in my wrong:
+     Kind mother have I been, as kind
+     As ever breathed": and that is true;
+     I've wet my path with tears like dew,
+     Weeping for him when no one knew.
+
+     My Son, if thou be humbled, poor,
+     Hopeless of honour and of gain,
+     O! do not dread thy mother's door,
+     Think not of me with grief and pain:
+     I now can see with better eyes;
+     And worldly grandeur I despise
+     And fortune with her gifts and lies.
+
+     Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings
+     And blasts of heaven will aid their flight;
+     They mount--how short a voyage brings
+     The wanderers back to their delight!
+     Chains tie us down by land and sea;
+     And wishes, vain as mine, may be
+     All that is left to comfort thee.
+
+     Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan
+     Maim'd, mangled by inhuman men;
+     Or thou upon a desert thrown
+     Inheritest the lion's den;
+     Or hast been summoned to the deep,
+     Thou, thou, and all thy mates, to keep
+     An incommunicable sleep.
+
+     I look for ghosts: but none will force
+     Their way to me; 'tis falsely said
+     That there was ever intercourse
+     Between the living and the dead;
+     For surely then I should have sight
+     Of him I wait for day and night
+     With love and longings infinite.
+
+     My apprehensions come in crowds;
+     I dread the rustling of the grass;
+     The very shadows of the clouds
+     Have power to shake me as they pass;
+     I question things, and do not find
+     One that will answer to my mind;
+     And all the world appears unkind.
+
+     Beyond participation lie
+     My troubles, and beyond relief:
+     If any chance to heave a sigh
+     They pity me, and not my grief.
+     Then come to me, my Son, or send
+     Some tidings that my woes may end!
+     I have no other earthly friend.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     239. HUNTING SONG.
+
+     Waken, lords and ladies gay,
+     On the mountain dawns the day;
+     All the jolly chase is here
+     With hawk and horse and hunting-spear;
+     Hounds are in their couples yelling,
+     Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,
+     Merrily merrily mingle they,
+     "Waken, lords and ladies gay."
+
+     Waken, lords and ladies gay,
+     The mist has left the mountains gray,
+     Springlets in the dawn are streaming,
+     Diamonds on the brake are gleaming,
+     And foresters have busy been
+     To track the buck in thicket green;
+     Now we come to chant our lay
+     "Waken, lords and ladies gay."
+
+     Waken, lords and ladies gay,
+     To the greenwood haste away;
+     We can show you where he lies,
+     Fleet of foot and tall of size;
+     We can show the marks he made
+     When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd;
+     You shall see him brought to bay;
+     "Waken, lords and ladies gay."
+
+     Louder, louder chant the lay
+     Waken, lords and ladies gay!
+     Tell them youth and mirth and glee
+     Run a course as well as we;
+     Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk,
+     Staunch as hound and fleet as hawk;
+     Think of this, and rise with day
+     Gentle lords and ladies gay!
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT.
+
+
+
+
+     240. TO THE SKYLARK.
+
+     Ethereal Minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!
+     Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?
+     Or while the wings aspire, are heart and eye
+     Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
+     Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will,
+     Those quivering wings composed, that music still!
+
+     To the last point of vision, and beyond,
+     Mount, daring warbler!--that love-prompted strain
+     --'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond--
+     Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain:
+     Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing
+     All independent of the leafy Spring.
+
+     Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;
+     A privacy of glorious light is thine;
+     Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood
+     Of harmony, with instinct more divine;
+     Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam--
+     True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     241. TO A SKYLARK.
+
+             Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
+               Bird thou never wert,
+             That from heaven, or near it
+               Pourest thy full heart
+     In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
+
+             Higher still and higher
+               From the earth thou springest,
+             Like a cloud of fire;
+               The blue deep thou wingest,
+     And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
+
+             In the golden lightning
+               Of the sunken sun
+             O'er which clouds are brightening,
+               Thou dost float and run,
+     Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
+
+             The pale purple even
+               Melts around thy flight;
+             Like a star of heaven
+               In the broad daylight
+     Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight:
+
+             Keen as are the arrows
+               Of that silver sphere,
+             Whose intense lamp narrows
+               In the white dawn clear
+     Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.
+
+             All the earth and air
+               With thy voice is loud,
+             As, when night is bare,
+               From one lonely cloud
+     The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd.
+
+             What thou art we know not;
+               What is most like thee?
+             From rainbow clouds there flow not
+               Drops so bright to see
+     As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
+
+             Like a poet hidden
+               In the light of thought,
+             Singing hymns unbidden
+               Till the world is wrought
+     To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
+
+             Like a high-born maiden
+               In a palace tower,
+             Soothing her love-laden
+               Soul in secret hour
+     With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:
+
+             Like a glow-worm golden
+               In a dell of dew,
+             Scattering unbeholden
+               Its aerial hue
+     Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:
+
+             Like a rose embower'd
+               In its own green leaves,
+             By warm winds deflower'd,
+               Till the scent it gives
+     Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged thieves.
+
+             Sound of vernal showers
+               On the twinkling grass,
+             Rain-awaken'd flowers,
+               All that ever was
+     Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.
+
+             Teach us, sprite or bird,
+               What sweet thoughts are thine:
+             I have never heard
+               Praise of love or wine
+     That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
+
+             Chorus hymeneal
+               Or triumphal chaunt
+             Match'd with thine, would be all
+               But an empty vaunt--
+     A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
+
+             What objects are the fountains
+               Of thy happy strain?
+             What fields, or waves, or mountains?
+               What shapes of sky or plain?
+     What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?
+
+             With thy clear keen joyance
+               Languor cannot be:
+             Shadow of annoyance
+               Never came near thee:
+     Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
+
+             Waking or asleep
+               Thou of death must deem
+             Things more true and deep
+               Than we mortals dream,
+     Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
+
+             We look before and after,
+               And pine for what is not:
+             Our sincerest laughter
+               With some pain is fraught;
+     Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
+
+             Yet if we could scorn
+               Hate, and pride, and fear;
+             If we were things born
+               Not to shed a tear,
+     I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
+
+             Better than all measures
+               Of delightful sound,
+             Better than all treasures
+               That in books are found,
+     Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
+
+             Teach me half the gladness
+               That thy brain must know,
+             Such harmonious madness
+               From my lips would flow
+     The world should listen then, as I am listening now!
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     242. THE GREEN LINNET.
+
+     Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed
+     Their snow white blossoms on my head,
+     With brightest sunshine round me spread
+     Of Spring's unclouded weather,
+     In this sequester'd nook how sweet
+     To sit upon my orchard-seat!
+     And birds and flowers once more to greet,
+     My last year's friends together.
+
+     One have I mark'd, the happiest guest
+     In all this covert of the blest:
+     Hail to Thee, far above the rest
+     In joy of voice and pinion!
+     Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,
+     Presiding Spirit here to-day
+     Dost lead the revels of the May,
+     And this is thy dominion.
+
+     While birds, and butterflies, and flowers
+     Make all one band of paramours,
+     Thou, ranging up and down the bowers
+     Art sole in thy employment;
+     A Life, a Presence like the air,
+     Scattering thy gladness without care,
+     Too blest with any one to pair;
+     Thyself thy own enjoyment.
+
+     Amid yon tuft of hazel trees,
+     That twinkle to the gusty breeze,
+     Behold him perch'd in ecstasies,
+     Yet seeming still to hover;
+     There, where the flutter of his wings
+     Upon his back and body flings
+     Shadows and sunny glimmerings,
+     That cover him all over.
+
+     My dazzled sight he oft deceives--
+     A brother of the dancing leaves;
+     Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves
+     Pours forth his song in gushes,
+     As if by that exulting strain
+     He mock'd and treated with disdain
+     The voiceless Form he chose to feign
+     While fluttering in the bushes.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     243. TO THE CUCKOO.
+
+       O blithe new-comer! I have heard,
+       I hear thee and rejoice:
+       O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird,
+       Or but a wandering Voice?
+
+       While I am lying on the grass
+       Thy twofold shout I hear;
+       From hill to hill it seems to pass,
+       At once far off and near.
+
+       Though babbling only to the vale
+       Of sunshine and of flowers,
+       Thou bringest unto me a tale
+       Of visionary hours.
+
+       Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
+       Even yet thou art to me
+       No bird, but an invisible thing,
+       A voice, a mystery;
+
+       The same whom in my school-boy days
+       I listen'd to; that Cry
+       Which made me look a thousand ways
+       In bush, and tree, and sky.
+
+       To seek thee did I often rove
+       Through woods and on the green;
+       And thou wert still a hope, a love;
+       Still long'd for, never seen!
+
+       And I can listen to thee yet;
+       Can lie upon the plain
+       And listen, till I do beget
+       That golden time again.
+
+       O blessed bird! the earth we pace
+       Again appears to be
+       An unsubstantial, fairy place;
+       That is fit home for Thee!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     244. ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE.
+
+     My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
+      My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
+     Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
+      One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
+     'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
+      But being too happy in thine happiness,--
+       That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
+          In some melodious plot
+      Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
+       Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
+
+     O for a draught of vintage, that hath been
+      Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
+     Tasting of Flora and the country-green,
+      Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth!
+     O for a beaker full of the warm South,
+      Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
+       With beaded bubbles winking at the brim
+          And purple-stained mouth;
+      That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
+       And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
+
+     Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
+      What thou among the leaves hast never known,
+     The weariness, the fever, and the fret
+      Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
+     Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
+      Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
+       Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
+          And leaden-eyed despairs;
+      Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
+       Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
+
+     Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
+      Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
+     But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
+      Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
+     Already with thee! tender is the night,
+      And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
+       Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
+          But here there is no light
+      Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
+       Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
+
+     I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
+      Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
+     But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
+      Wherewith the seasonable month endows
+     The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
+      White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
+       Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
+          And mid-May's eldest child,
+      The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
+       The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
+
+     Darkling I listen; and for many a time
+      I have been half in love with easeful Death,
+     Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
+      To take into the air my quiet breath;
+     Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
+      To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
+       While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
+          In such an ecstasy!
+      Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain--
+       To thy high requiem become a sod.
+
+     Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
+      No hungry generations tread thee down;
+     The voice I hear this passing night was heard
+      In ancient days by emperor and clown:
+     Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
+      Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
+       She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
+          The same that oft-times hath
+      Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
+       Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
+
+     Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
+      To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
+     Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
+      As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
+     Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
+      Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
+       Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
+          In the next valley-glades:
+      Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
+       Fled is that music:--do I wake or sleep?
+
+     J. KEATS.
+
+
+
+
+     245. UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE.
+
+              _Sept._ 3, 1802.
+
+     Earth has not anything to show more fair:
+     Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
+     A sight so touching in its majesty:
+     This City now doth like a garment wear
+     The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
+     Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
+     Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
+     All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
+
+     Never did sun more beautifully steep
+     In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;
+     Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
+
+     The river glideth at his own sweet will:
+     Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
+     And all that mighty heart is lying still!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     246. OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT.
+
+     I met a traveller from an antique land
+     Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
+     Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand
+     Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
+     And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
+     Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
+     Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
+     The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed;
+     And on the pedestal these words appear:
+     "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
+     Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
+     Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
+     Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
+     The lone and level sands stretch far away.
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     247. COMPOSED AT NEIDPATH CASTLE, THE PROPERTY OF LORD QUEENSBERRY,
+          1803.
+
+     Degenerate Douglas! O the unworthy lord!
+     Whom mere despite of heart could so far please
+     And love of havoc (for with such disease
+     Fame taxes him) that he could send forth word
+
+     To level with the dust a noble horde,
+     A brotherhood of venerable trees,
+     Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like these
+     Beggar'd and outraged!--Many hearts deplored
+
+     The fate of those old trees; and oft with pain
+     The traveller at this day will stop and gaze
+     On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed:
+
+     For shelter'd places, bosoms, nooks, and bays,
+     And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed,
+     And the green silent pastures, yet remain.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     248. ADMONITION TO A TRAVELLER.
+
+     Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!
+     --The lovely cottage in the guardian nook
+     Hath stirr'd thee deeply; with its own dear brook,
+     Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!
+
+     But covet not the abode--O do not sigh
+     As many do, repining while they look;
+     Intruders who would tear from Nature's book
+     This precious leaf with harsh impiety:
+
+     --Think what the home would be if it were thine,
+     Even thine, though few thy wants!--Roof, window, door,
+     The very flowers are sacred to the Poor,
+
+     The roses to the porch which they entwine:
+     Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the day
+     On which it should be touch'd would melt away!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     249. TO THE HIGHLAND GIRL OF INVERSNEYDE.
+
+     Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower
+     Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
+     Twice seven consenting years have shed
+     Their utmost bounty on thy head:
+     And these grey rocks, this household lawn,
+     These trees--a veil just half withdrawn,
+     This fall of water that doth make
+     A murmur near the silent lake,
+     This little bay, a quiet road
+     That holds in shelter thy abode;
+     In truth together ye do seem
+     Like something fashion'd in a dream;
+     Such forms as from their covert peep
+     When earthly cares are laid asleep!
+     But, O fair Creature! in the light
+     Of common day, so heavenly bright,
+     I bless Thee, Vision as thou art,
+     I bless thee with a human heart;
+     God shield thee to thy latest years!
+     I neither know thee nor thy peers:
+     And yet my eyes are fill'd with tears.
+
+     With earnest feeling I shall pray
+     For thee when I am far away;
+     For never saw I mien or face
+     In which more plainly I could trace
+     Benignity and home-bred sense
+     Ripening in perfect innocence.
+     Here scatter'd like a random seed,
+     Remote from men, Thou dost not need
+     The embarrass'd look of shy distress,
+     And maidenly shamefacedness:
+     Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear
+     The freedom of a mountaineer:
+     A face with gladness overspread,
+     Soft smiles, by human kindness bred;
+     And seemliness complete, that sways
+     Thy courtesies, about thee plays;
+     With no restraint, but such as springs
+     From quick and eager visitings
+     Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach
+     Of thy few words of English speech:
+     A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strife
+     That gives thy gestures grace and life!
+     So have I, not unmoved in mind,
+     Seen birds of tempest-loving kind,
+     Thus beating up against the wind.
+
+     What hand but would a garland cull
+     For thee who art so beautiful?
+     O happy pleasure! here to dwell
+     Beside thee in some heathy dell;
+     Adopt your homely ways and dress,
+     A shepherd, thou a shepherdess!
+     But I could frame a wish for thee
+     More like a grave reality:
+     Thou art to me but as a wave
+     Of the wild sea: and I would have
+     Some claim upon thee, if I could,
+     Though but of common neighbourhood.
+     What joy to hear thee, and to see!
+     Thy elder brother I would be,
+     Thy father, anything to thee.
+
+     Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace
+     Hath led me to this lonely place.
+     Joy have I had; and going hence
+     I bear away my recompense.
+     In spots like these it is we prize
+     Our memory, feel that she hath eyes:
+     Then why should I be loth to stir?
+     I feel this place was made for her;
+     To give new pleasure like the past,
+     Continued long as life shall last.
+     Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart,
+     Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part;
+     For I, methinks, till I grow old
+     As fair before me shall behold
+     As I do now, the cabin small,
+     The lake, the bay, the waterfall;
+     And Thee, the spirit of them all!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     250. THE REAPER.
+
+     Behold her, single in the field,
+     Yon solitary Highland Lass!
+     Reaping and singing by herself;
+     Stop here, or gently pass!
+     Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
+     And sings a melancholy strain;
+     O listen! for the vale profound
+     Is overflowing with the sound.
+
+     No nightingale did ever chaunt
+     More welcome notes to weary bands
+     Of travellers in some shady haunt,
+     Among Arabian sands:
+     No sweeter voice was ever heard
+     In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,
+     Breaking the silence of the seas
+     Among the farthest Hebrides.
+
+     Will no one tell me what she sings?
+     Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
+     For old, unhappy, far-off things,
+     And battles long ago:
+     Or is it some more humble lay,
+     Familiar matter of to-day?
+     Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
+     That has been, and may be again?
+
+     Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
+     As if her song could have no ending;
+     I saw her singing at her work,
+     And o'er the sickle bending;
+     I listen'd till I had my fill;
+     And, as I mounted up the hill,
+     The music in my heart I bore
+     Long after it was heard no more.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     251. THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN.
+
+     At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears
+     Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:
+     Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot, and has heard
+     In the silence of morning the song of the bird.
+
+     'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees
+     A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
+     Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
+     And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
+
+     Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale
+     Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail;
+     And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,
+     The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.
+
+     She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade
+     The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;
+     The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
+     And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     252. TO A LADY, WITH A GUITAR.
+
+     Ariel to Miranda:--Take
+     This slave of music, for the sake
+     Of him who is the slave of thee;
+     And teach it all the harmony
+     In which thou canst, and only thou,
+     Make the delighted spirit glow,
+     Till joy denies itself again
+     And, too intense, is turn'd to pain;
+     For by permission and command
+     Of thine own Prince Ferdinand,
+     Poor Ariel sends this silent token
+     Of more than ever can be spoken;
+     Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who
+     From life to life, must still pursue
+     Your happiness, for thus alone
+     Can Ariel ever find his own;
+     From Prospero's enchanted cell,
+     As the mighty verses tell,
+     To the throne of Naples he
+     Lit you o'er the trackless sea,
+     Flitting on, your prow before,
+     Like a living meteor.
+     When you die, the silent Moon,
+     In her interlunar swoon
+     Is not sadder in her cell
+     Than deserted Ariel;
+     When you live again on earth,
+     Like an unseen Star of birth
+     Ariel guides you o'er the sea
+     Of life from your nativity:--
+     Many changes have been run
+     Since Ferdinand and you begun
+     Your course of love, and Ariel still
+     Has track'd your steps and served your will.
+     Now in humbler, happier lot,
+     This is all remember'd not;
+     And now, alas! the poor sprite is
+     Imprison'd for some fault of his
+     In a body like a grave--
+     From you he only dares to crave
+     For his service and his sorrow
+     A smile to-day, a song to-morrow.
+
+     The artist who this viol wrought
+     To echo all harmonious thought,
+     Fell'd a tree, while on the steep
+     The woods were in their winter sleep,
+     Rock'd in that repose divine
+     On the wind-swept Apennine;
+     And dreaming, some of autumn past,
+     And some of spring approaching fast,
+     And some of April buds and showers,
+     And some of songs in July bowers,
+     And all of love; and so this tree,--
+     O that such our death may be!--
+     Died in sleep, and felt no pain,
+     To live in happier form again:
+     From which, beneath Heaven's fairest star,
+     The artist wrought this loved Guitar;
+     And taught it justly to reply
+     To all who question skilfully
+     In language gentle as thine own;
+     Whispering in enamour'd tone
+     Sweet oracles of woods and dells,
+     And summer winds in sylvan cells;
+     --For it had learnt all harmonies
+     Of the plains and of the skies,
+     Of the forests and the mountains,
+     And the many-voiced fountains;
+     The clearest echoes of the hills,
+     The softest notes of falling rills,
+     The melodies of birds and bees,
+     The murmuring of summer seas,
+     And pattering rain, and breathing dew,
+     And airs of evening; and it knew
+     That seldom-heard mysterious sound
+     Which, driven on its diurnal round,
+     As it floats through boundless day,
+     Our world enkindles on its way:
+     --All this it knows, but will not tell
+     To those who cannot question well
+     The spirit that inhabits it;
+     It talks according to the wit
+     Of its companions; and no more
+     Is heard than has been felt before
+     By those who tempt it to betray
+     These secrets of an elder day:
+     But, sweetly as its answers will
+     Flatter hands of perfect skill,
+     It keeps its highest holiest tone
+     For one beloved Friend alone.
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     253. THE DAFFODILS.
+
+       I wander'd lonely as a cloud
+       That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
+       When all at once I saw a crowd,
+       A host of golden daffodils,
+       Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
+       Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
+
+       Continuous as the stars that shine
+       And twinkle on the milky way,
+       They stretch'd in never-ending line
+       Along the margin of a bay:
+       Ten thousand saw I at a glance
+       Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
+
+       The waves beside them danced; but they
+       Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:--
+       A Poet could not but be gay
+       In such a jocund company!
+       I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
+       What wealth the show to me had brought;
+
+       For oft, when on my couch I lie
+       In vacant or in pensive mood,
+       They flash upon that inward eye
+       Which is the bliss of solitude;
+       And then my heart with pleasure fills,
+       And dances with the daffodils.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     254. TO THE DAISY.
+
+       With little here to do or see
+       Of things that in the great world be,
+       Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee
+           For thou art worthy,
+       Thou unassuming commonplace
+       Of Nature, with that homely face,
+       And yet with something of a grace,
+           Which love makes for thee!
+
+       Oft on the dappled turf at ease
+       I sit and play with similes,
+       Loose types of things through all degrees,
+           Thoughts of thy raising;
+       And many a fond and idle name
+       I give to thee, for praise or blame,
+       As is the humour of the game,
+           While I am gazing.
+
+       A nun demure, of lowly port;
+       Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court,
+       In thy simplicity the sport
+           Of all temptations;
+       A queen in crown of rubies drest;
+       A starveling in a scanty vest;
+       Are all, as seem to suit thee best,
+           Thy appellations.
+
+       A little Cyclops, with one eye
+       Staring to threaten and defy,
+       That thought comes next--and instantly
+           The freak is over,
+       The shape will vanish, and behold!
+       A silver shield with boss of gold
+       That spreads itself, some fairy bold
+           In fight to cover.
+
+       I see thee glittering from afar--
+       And then thou art a pretty star,
+       Not quite so fair as many are
+           In heaven above thee!
+       Yet like a star, with glittering crest,
+       Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest;--
+       May peace come never to his nest,
+           Who shall reprove thee!
+
+       Sweet Flower! for by that name at last
+       When all my reveries are past
+       I call thee and to that cleave fast,
+           Sweet silent Creature!
+       That breath'st with me in sun and air,
+       Do thou, as thou art wont, repair
+       My heart with gladness, and a share
+           Of thy meek nature!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     255. ODE TO AUTUMN.
+
+     Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
+     Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
+     Conspiring with him how to load and bless
+     With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
+     To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
+     And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
+     To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
+     With a sweet kernel; to set budding more
+     And still more, later flowers for the bees,
+     Until they think warm days will never cease;
+     For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.
+
+     Who hath not seen Thee oft amid thy store?
+     Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
+     Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
+     Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
+     Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
+     Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
+     Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
+     And sometime like a gleaner thou dost keep
+     Steady thy laden head across a brook;
+     Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
+     Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
+
+     Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
+     Think not of them,--thou hast thy music too,
+     While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day
+     And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
+     Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
+     Among the river sallows, borne aloft
+     Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
+     And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
+     Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft
+     The redbreast whistles from a garden croft;
+     And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
+
+     J. KEATS.
+
+
+
+
+     256. ODE TO WINTER.
+
+          _Germany_, _December_, 1800.
+
+     When first the fiery mantled Sun
+     His heavenly race began to run,
+     Round the earth and ocean blue
+     His children four the Seasons flew:--
+      First, in green apparel dancing,
+     The young Spring smiled with angel-grace;
+      Rosy Summer next advancing,
+     Rush'd into her sire's embrace--
+     Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep
+      For ever nearest to his smiles,
+     On Calpe's olive-shaded steep
+      Or India's citron-cover'd isles.
+     More remote and buxom-brown,
+      The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne;
+     A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown,
+      A ripe sheaf bound her zone.
+
+     But howling Winter fled afar
+     To hills that prop the polar star;
+     And loves on deer-borne car to ride
+     With barren darkness at his side
+     Round the shore where loud Lofoden
+      Whirls to death the roaring whale,
+     Round the hall where Runic Odin
+      Howls his war-song to the gale--
+     Save when adown the ravaged globe
+      He travels on his native storm,
+     Deflowering Nature's grassy robe
+      And trampling on her faded form;
+     Till light's returning Lord assume
+      The shaft that drives him to his northern fields,
+     Of power to pierce his raven plume
+      And crystal-cover'd shield.
+
+     O sire of storms! whose savage ear
+     The Lapland drum delights to hear,
+     When Frenzy with her bloodshot eye
+     Implores thy dreadful deity--
+     Archangel! Power of desolation!
+      Fast descending as thou art,
+     Say, hath mortal invocation
+      Spells to touch thy stony heart:
+     Then, sullen Winter! hear my prayer,
+     And gently rule the ruin'd year;
+     Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare
+     Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear:
+     To shuddering Want's unmantled bed
+      Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend,
+     And gently on the orphan head
+      Of Innocence descend.
+
+     But chiefly spare, O king of clouds!
+     The sailor on his airy shrouds,
+     When wrecks and beacons strew the deep
+     And spectres walk along the deep.
+     Milder yet thy snowy breezes
+      Pour on yonder tented shores,
+     Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes,
+      Or the dark-brown Danube roars.
+     O winds of Winter! list ye there
+      To many a deep and dying groan?
+     Or start, ye demons of the midnight air,
+      At shrieks and thunders louder than your own?
+     Alas! e'en your unhallow'd breath
+      May spare the victim fallen low;
+     But Man will ask no truce to death,
+      No bounds to human woe.
+
+     T. CAMPBELL.
+
+
+
+
+     257. YARROW UNVISITED.
+
+               1803.
+
+     From Stirling castle we had seen
+     The mazy Forth unravell'd,
+     Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay,
+     And with the Tweed had travell'd;
+     And when we came to Clovenford,
+     Then said my "winsome Marrow."
+     "Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,
+     And see the Braes of Yarrow."
+
+     "Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,
+     Who have been buying, selling,
+     Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own,
+     Each maiden to her dwelling!
+     On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,
+     Hares couch, and rabbits burrow,
+     But we will downward with the Tweed,
+     Nor turn aside to Yarrow.
+
+     "There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
+     Both lying right before us;
+     And Dryburgh, where with chiming Tweed
+     The lintwhites sing in chorus;
+     There's pleasant Tiviotdale, a land
+     Made blythe with plough and harrow:
+     Why throw away a needful day
+     To go in search of Yarrow?
+
+     "What's Yarrow but a river bare
+     That glides the dark hills under?
+     There are a thousand such elsewhere
+     As worthy of your wonder."
+     --Strange words they seem'd of slight and scorn;
+     My true-love sighed for sorrow,
+     And look'd me in the face, to think
+     I thus could speak of Yarrow!
+
+     "O green," said I, "are Yarrow's holms,
+     And sweet is Yarrow flowing!
+     Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
+     But we will leave it growing.
+     O'er hilly path, and open strath,
+     We'll wander Scotland thorough;
+     But, though so near, we will not turn
+     Into the dale of Yarrow.
+
+     "Let beeves and home-bred kine partake
+     The sweets of Burn-mill meadow;
+     The swan on still Saint Mary's Lake
+     Float double, swan and shadow!
+     We will not see them; will not go
+     To-day, nor yet to-morrow;
+     Enough if in our hearts we know
+     There's such a place as Yarrow.
+
+     "Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown;
+     It must, or we shall rue it:
+     We have a vision of our own;
+     Ah! why should we undo it?
+     The treasured dreams of times long past,
+     We'll keep them, winsome Marrow!
+     For when we're there, although 'tis fair,
+     'Twill be another Yarrow.
+
+     "If care with freezing years should come
+     And wandering seem but folly,--
+     Should we be loth to stir from home,
+     And yet be melancholy;
+     Should life be dull, and spirits low,
+     'Twill soothe us in our sorrow
+     That earth has something yet to show,
+     The bonny Holms of Yarrow!"
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     258. YARROW VISITED.
+
+               _September_, 1814.
+
+     And is this--Yarrow?--This is the Stream
+     Of which my fancy cherish'd
+     So faithfully, a waking dream,
+     An image that hath perish'd?
+     O that some minstrel's harp were near
+     To utter notes of gladness
+     And chase this silence from the air,
+     That fills my heart with sadness!
+
+     Yet why?--a silvery current flows
+     With uncontroll'd meanderings;
+     Nor have these eyes by greener hills
+     Been soothed, in all my wanderings.
+     And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake
+     Is visibly delighted;
+     For not a feature of those hills
+     Is in the mirror slighted.
+
+     A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow Vale,
+     Save where that pearly whiteness
+     Is round the rising sun diffused,
+     A tender hazy brightness;
+     Mild dawn of promise! that excludes
+     All profitless dejection;
+     Though not unwilling here to admit
+     A pensive recollection.
+
+     Where was it that the famous Flower
+     Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding?
+     His bed perchance was yon smooth mound
+     On which the herd is feeding:
+     And haply from this crystal pool,
+     Now peaceful as the morning,
+     The water-Wraith ascended thrice,
+     And gave his doleful warning.
+
+     Delicious is the Lay that sings
+     The haunts of happy lovers,
+     The path that leads them to the grove,
+     The leafy grove that covers:
+     And pity sanctifies the verse
+     That paints, by strength of sorrow,
+     The unconquerable strength of love;
+     Bear witness, rueful Yarrow!
+
+     But thou that didst appear so fair
+     To fond imagination
+     Dost rival in the light of day
+     Her delicate creation:
+     Meek loveliness is round thee spread,
+     A softness still and holy:
+     The grace of forest charms decay'd,
+     And pastoral melancholy.
+
+     That region left, the vale unfolds
+     Rich groves of lofty stature,
+     With Yarrow winding through the pomp
+     Of cultivated Nature;
+     And rising from those lofty groves
+     Behold a ruin hoary,
+     The shatter'd front of Newark's Towers,
+     Renown'd in Border story.
+
+     Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom,
+     For sportive youth to stray in,
+     For manhood to enjoy his strength,
+     And age to wear away in!
+     Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss,
+     A covert for protection
+     Of studious ease and generous cares,
+     And every chaste affection!
+
+     How sweet on this autumnal day
+     The wild-wood fruits to gather,
+     And on my true-love's forehead plant
+     A crest of blooming heather!
+     And what if I enwreathed my own?
+     'Twere no offence to reason;
+     The sober hills thus deck their brows
+     To meet the wintry season.
+
+     I see--but not by sight alone
+     Loved Yarrow, have I won thee;
+     A ray of Fancy still survives--
+     Her sunshine plays upon thee!
+     Thy ever-youthful waters keep
+     A course of lively pleasure;
+     And gladsome notes my lips can breathe
+     Accordant to the measure.
+
+     The vapours linger round the heights,
+     They melt, and soon must vanish;
+     One hour is theirs, nor more is mine--
+     Sad thought! which I would banish,
+     But that I know, where'er I go,
+     Thy genuine image, Yarrow!
+     Will dwell with me, to heighten joy
+     And cheer my mind in sorrow.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     259. THE INVITATION.
+
+     Best and Brightest, come away,
+     Fairer far than this fair day,
+     Which, like thee, to those in sorrow
+     Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow
+     To the rough year just awake
+     In its cradle on the brake.
+     The brightest hour of unborn Spring
+     Through the winter wandering,
+     Found, it seems, the halcyon morn
+     To hoar February born;
+     Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth,
+     It kiss'd the forehead of the earth,
+     And smiled upon the silent sea,
+     And bade the frozen streams be free,
+     And waked to music all their fountains,
+     And breathed upon the frozen mountains,
+     And like a prophetess of May
+     Strew'd flowers upon the barren way,
+     Making the wintry world appear
+     Like one on whom thou smilest, Dear.
+
+     Away, away, from men and towns,
+     To the wild wood and the downs--
+     To the silent wilderness
+     Where the soul need not repress
+     Its music, lest it should not find
+     An echo in another's mind,
+     While the touch of Nature's art
+     Harmonises heart to heart.
+
+     Radiant Sister of the Day
+     Awake! arise! and come away!
+     To the wild woods and the plains,
+     And the pools where winter rains
+     Image all their roof of leaves,
+     Where the pine its garland weaves
+     Of sapless green, and ivy dun,
+     Round stems that never kiss the sun,
+     Where the lawns and pastures be
+     And the sandhills of the sea,
+     Where the melting hoar-frost wets
+     The daisy-star that never sets,
+     And wind-flowers and violets
+     Which yet join not scent to hue
+     Crown the pale year weak and new;
+     When the night is left behind
+     In the deep east, dim and blind,
+     And the blue noon is over us,
+     And the multitudinous
+     Billows murmur at our feet,
+     Where the earth and ocean meet,
+     And all things seem only one
+     In the universal Sun.
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     260. THE RECOLLECTION.
+
+     Now the last day of many days
+     All beautiful and bright as thou,
+     The loveliest and the last, is dead,
+     Rise, Memory, and write its praise!
+     Up, do thy wonted work! come, trace
+     The epitaph of glory fled,
+     For now the Earth has changed its face,
+     A frown is on the Heaven's brow.
+
+     We wander'd to the Pine Forest
+      That skirts the Ocean's foam;
+     The lightest wind was in its nest,
+      The tempest in its home.
+     The whispering waves were half asleep,
+      The clouds were gone to play,
+     And on the bosom of the deep
+      The smile of Heaven lay;
+     It seem'd as if the hour were one
+      Sent from beyond the skies
+     Which scatter'd from above the sun
+      A light of Paradise!
+
+     We paused amid the pines that stood
+      The giants of the waste,
+     Tortured by storms to shapes as rude
+      As serpents interlaced,--
+     And soothed by every azure breath
+      That under heaven is blown
+     To harmonies and hues beneath,
+      As tender as its own:
+     Now all the tree-tops lay asleep
+      Like green waves on the sea,
+     As still as in the silent deep
+      The ocean-woods may be.
+
+     How calm it was!--the silence there
+      By such a chain was bound,
+     That even the busy woodpecker
+      Made stiller by her sound
+     The inviolable quietness;
+      The breath of peace we drew
+     With its soft motion made not less
+      The calm that round us grew.
+     There seem'd from the remotest seat
+      Of the wide mountain waste
+     To the soft flower beneath our feet
+      A magic circle traced
+     A spirit interfused around,
+      A thrilling silent life;
+     To momentary peace it bound
+      Our mortal nature's strife;--
+     And still I felt the centre of
+      The magic circle there
+     Was one fair Form that fill'd with love
+      The lifeless atmosphere.
+
+     We paused beside the pools that lie
+      Under the forest bough;
+     Each seemed as 'twere a little sky
+      Gulf'd in a world below;
+     A firmament of purple light
+      Which in the dark earth lay,
+     More boundless than the depth of night
+      And purer than the day--
+     In which the lovely forests grew
+      As in the upper air,
+     More perfect both in shape and hue
+      Than any spreading there.
+     There lay the glade and neighbouring lawn,
+      And through the dark green wood
+     The white sun twinkling like the dawn
+      Out of a speckled cloud.
+     Sweet views which in our world above
+      Can never well be seen
+     Were imaged by the water's love
+      Of that fair forest green:
+     And all was interfused beneath
+      With an Elysian glow,
+     An atmosphere without a breath,
+      A softer day below.
+     Like one beloved the scene had lent
+      To the dark water's breast
+     Its very leaf and lineament
+      With more than truth exprest;
+     Until an envious wind crept by,
+      Like an unwelcome thought
+     Which from the mind's too faithful eye
+      Blots one dear image out.
+     --Though Thou art ever fair and kind,
+      The forests ever green,
+     Less oft is peace in Shelley's mind,
+      Than calm in waters seen!
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     261. BY THE SEA.
+
+     It is a beauteous evening, calm and free;
+     The holy time is quiet as a nun
+     Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
+     Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
+
+     The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea:
+     Listen! the mighty being is awake,
+     And doth with his eternal motion make
+     A sound like thunder--everlastingly.
+
+     Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here,
+     If thou appear untouch'd by solemn thought
+     Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
+
+     Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year;
+     And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine,
+     God being with thee when we know it not.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     262. TO THE EVENING STAR.
+
+     Star that bringest home the bee,
+     And sett'st the weary labourer free!
+     If any star shed peace, 'tis Thou
+       That send'st it from above,
+     Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow
+       Are sweet as hers we love.
+
+     Come to the luxuriant skies,
+     Whilst the landscape's odours rise,
+     Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard
+       And songs when toil is done,
+     From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd
+       Curls yellow in the sun.
+
+     Star of love's soft interviews,
+     Parted lovers on thee muse;
+     Their remembrancer in Heaven
+       Of thrilling vows thou art,
+     Too delicious to be riven
+       By absence from the heart.
+
+     T. CAMPBELL.
+
+
+
+
+     263. DATUR HORA QUIETI.
+
+     The sun upon the lake is low,
+      The wild birds hush their song,
+     The hills have evening's deepest glow,
+      Yet Leonard tarries long.
+     Now all whom varied toil and care
+      From home and love divide,
+     In the calm sunset may repair
+      Each to the loved one's side.
+
+     The noble dame on turret high,
+      Who waits her gallant knight,
+     Looks to the western beam to spy
+      The flash of armour bright.
+     The village maid, with hand on brow
+      The level ray to shade,
+     Upon the footpath watches now
+      For Colin's darkening plaid.
+
+     Now to their mates the wild swans row,
+      By day they swam apart,
+     And to the thicket wanders slow
+      The hind beside the hart.
+     The woodlark at his partner's side
+      Twitters his closing song--
+     All meet whom day and care divide,
+      But Leonard tarries long!
+
+     SIR W. SCOTT.
+
+
+
+
+     264. TO THE MOON.
+
+         Art thou pale for weariness
+       Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth,
+         Wandering companionless
+       Among the stars that have a different birth,--
+     And ever-changing, like a joyless eye
+     That finds no object worth its constancy?
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     265.
+
+       A widow bird sate mourning for her Love
+         Upon a wintry bough;
+       The frozen wind crept on above,
+         The freezing stream below.
+
+       There was no leaf upon the forest bare,
+         No flower upon the ground,
+       And little motion in the air
+         Except the mill-wheel's sound.
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     266. TO SLEEP.
+
+     A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by
+     One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
+     Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
+     Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;--
+
+     I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie
+     Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies
+     Must hear, first utter'd from my orchard trees,
+     And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
+
+     Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay,
+     And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:
+     So do not let me wear to-night away:
+
+     Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?
+     Come, blessed barrier between day and day,
+     Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     267. THE SOLDIERS DREAM.
+
+     Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd,
+      And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
+     And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,
+      The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
+
+     When reposing that night on my pallet of straw
+      By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,
+     At the dead of the night a sweet Vision I saw;
+      And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.
+
+     Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array
+      Far, far, I had roam'd on a desolate track:
+     'Twas Autumn,--and sunshine arose on the way
+      To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.
+
+     I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft
+      In life's morning march, when my bosom was young;
+     I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
+      And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
+
+     Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore
+      From my home and my weeping friends never to part;
+     My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,
+      And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.
+
+     "Stay--stay with us!--rest!--thou art weary and worn!"--
+      And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;--
+     But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,
+      And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
+
+     T. CAMPBELL.
+
+
+
+
+     268. A DREAM OF THE UNKNOWN.
+
+     I dream'd that, as I wander'd by the way
+      Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring,
+     And gentle odours led my steps astray,
+      Mix'd with a sound of waters murmuring
+     Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay
+      Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling
+     Its green arms round the bosom of the stream,
+     But kiss'd it and then fled, as Thou mightest in dream.
+
+     There grew pied wind-flowers and violets,
+      Daisies, those pearl'd Arcturi of the earth,
+     The constellated flower that never sets;
+      Faint oxlips; tender blue-bells, at whose birth
+     The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets
+     Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears,
+     When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears.
+
+     And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,
+      Green cow-bind and the moonlight-colour'd May,
+     And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whose wine
+      Was the bright dew yet drain'd not by the day;
+     And wild roses, and ivy serpentine,
+      With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray;
+     And flowers azure, black, and streak'd with gold,
+     Fairer than any waken'd eyes behold.
+
+     And nearer to the rivers trembling edge
+      There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prankt with white,
+     And starry river-buds among the sedge,
+      And floating water-lilies, broad and bright,
+     Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge
+      With moonlight beams of their own watery light;
+     And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green
+     As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.
+
+     Methought that of these visionary flowers
+      I made a nosegay, bound in such a way
+     That the same hues, which in their natural bowers
+      Were mingled or opposed, the like array
+     Kept these imprison'd children of the Hours
+      Within my hand;--and then, elate and gay,
+     I hasten'd to the spot whence I had come
+     That I might there present it--O! to Whom?
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     269. THE INNER VISION.
+
+     Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes
+     To pace the ground, if path there be or none,
+     While a fair region round the Traveller lies
+     Which he forbears again to look upon;
+
+     Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene
+     The work of Fancy, or some happy tone
+     Of meditation, slipping in between
+     The beauty coming and the beauty gone.
+
+     --If Thought and Love desert us, from that day
+     Let us break off all commerce with the Muse:
+     With Thought and Love companions of our way--
+
+     Whate'er the senses take or may refuse,--
+     The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews
+     Of inspiration on the humblest lay.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     270. THE REALM OF FANCY.
+
+     Ever let the Fancy roam!
+     Pleasure never is at home:
+     At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth,
+     Like to bubbles when rain pelteth;
+     Then let winged Fancy wander
+     Through the thought still spread beyond her:
+     Open wide the mind's cage-door,
+     She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.
+     O sweet Fancy! let her loose;
+     Summer's joys are spoilt by use,
+     And the enjoying of the Spring
+     Fades as does its blossoming:
+     Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too
+     Blushing through the mist and dew
+     Cloys with tasting: What do then?
+     Sit thee by the ingle, when
+     The sear faggot blazes bright,
+     Spirit of a winter's night;
+     When the soundless earth is muffled,
+     And the caked snow is shuffled
+     From the ploughboy's heavy shoon;
+     When the Night doth meet the Noon
+     In dark conspiracy
+     To banish Even from her sky.
+     --Sit thee there, and send abroad
+     With a mind self-overawed
+     Fancy, high-commission'd:--send her!
+     She has vassals to attend her;
+     She will bring, in spite of frost,
+     Beauties that the earth hath lost;
+     She will bring thee, all together,
+     All delights of summer weather;
+     All the buds and bells of May,
+     From dewy sward or thorny spray;
+     All the heaped Autumn's wealth,
+     With a still, mysterious stealth:
+     She will mix these pleasures up
+     Like three fit wines in a cup,
+     And thou shalt quaff it;--thou shalt hear
+     Distant harvest-carols clear;
+     Rustle of the reaped corn;
+     Sweet birds antheming the morn:
+     And in the same moment--hark!
+     'Tis the early April lark,
+     Or the rooks, with busy caw,
+     Foraging for sticks and straw.
+     Thou shalt, at one glance, behold
+     The daisy and the marigold;
+     White-plumed lilies, and the first
+     Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst;
+     Shaded hyacinth, alway
+     Sapphire queen of the mid-May;
+     And every leaf, and every flower
+     Pearled with the self-same shower.
+     Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep
+     Meagre from its celled sleep;
+     And the snake all winter-thin
+     Cast on sunny bank its skin;
+     Freckled nest eggs thou shalt see
+     Hatching in the hawthorn-tree,
+     When the hen-bird's wing doth rest
+     Quiet on her mossy nest;
+     Then the hurry and alarm
+     When the bee-hive casts its swarm;
+     Acorns ripe down-pattering
+     While the autumn breezes sing.
+
+       O sweet Fancy! let her loose;
+     Everything is spoilt by use:
+     Where's the cheek that doth not fade,
+     Too much gazed at? Where's the maid
+     Whose lip mature is ever new?
+     Where's the eye, however blue,
+     Doth not weary? Where's the face
+     One would meet in every place?
+     Where's the voice, however soft,
+     One would hear so very oft?
+     At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth
+     Like to bubbles when rain pelteth.
+     Let then winged Fancy find
+     Thee a mistress to thy mind:
+     Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter,
+     Ere the God of Torment taught her
+     How to frown and how to chide;
+     With a waist and with a side
+     White as Hebe's, when her zone
+     Slipt its golden clasp, and down
+     Fell her kirtle to her feet,
+     While she held the goblet sweet,
+     And Jove grew languid.--Break the mesh
+     Of the Fancy's silken leash;
+     Quickly break her prison-string,
+     And such joys as these she'll bring:
+     --Let the winged Fancy roam!
+     Pleasure never is at home.
+
+     J. KEATS.
+
+
+
+
+     271. HYMN TO THE SPIRIT OF NATURE.
+
+     Life of Life! Thy lips enkindle
+      With their love the breath between them;
+     And thy smiles before they dwindle
+      Make the cold air fire; then screen them
+     In those locks, where whoso gazes
+     Faints, entangled in their mazes.
+
+     Child of Light! Thy limbs are burning
+      Through the veil which seems to hide them,
+     As the radiant lines of morning
+      Through thin clouds, ere they divide them;
+     And this atmosphere divinest
+     Shrouds thee wheresoe'er thou shinest.
+
+     Fair are others; none beholds Thee;
+      But thy voice sounds low and tender
+     Like the fairest, for it folds thee
+      From the sight, that liquid splendour;
+     And all feel, yet see thee never,--
+     As I feel now, lost for ever!
+
+     Lamp of Earth! Where'er thou movest
+      Its dim shapes are clad with brightness,
+     And the souls of whom thou lovest
+      Walk upon the winds with lightness
+     Till they fail, as I am failing,
+     Dizzy, lost, yet unbewailing!
+
+     P. B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     272. WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.
+
+     I heard a thousand blended notes
+     While in a grove I sat reclined,
+     In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
+     Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
+
+     To her fair works did Nature link
+     The human soul that through me ran;
+     And much it grieved my heart to think
+     What Man has made of Man.
+
+     Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,
+     The periwinkle trail'd its wreaths;
+     And 'tis my faith that every flower
+     Enjoys the air it breathes.
+
+     The birds around me hopp'd and play'd,
+     Their thoughts I cannot measure--
+     But the least motion which they made
+     It seem'd a thrill of pleasure.
+
+     The budding twigs spread out their fan
+     To catch the breezy air;
+     And I must think, do all I can,
+     That there was pleasure there.
+
+     If this belief from heaven be sent,
+     If such be Nature's holy plan,
+     Have I not reason to lament
+     What Man has made of Man?
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     273. RUTH: OR THE INFLUENCES OF NATURE.
+
+     When Ruth was left half desolate,
+     Her father took another mate;
+     And Ruth, not seven years old,
+     A slighted child, at her own will
+     Went wandering over dale and hill,
+     In thoughtless freedom bold.
+
+     And she had made a pipe of straw,
+     And music from that pipe could draw
+     Like sounds of winds and floods;
+     Had built a bower upon the green,
+     As if she from her birth had been
+     An infant of the woods.
+
+     Beneath her father's roof, alone
+     She seem'd to live; her thoughts her own;
+     Herself her own delight:
+     Pleased with herself, nor sad nor gay,
+     She pass'd her time; and in this way
+     Grew up to woman's height.
+
+     There came a youth from Georgia's shore--
+     A military casque he wore
+     With splendid feathers drest;
+     He brought them from the Cherokees;
+     The feathers nodded in the breeze
+     And made a gallant crest.
+
+     From Indian blood you deem him sprung:
+     But no! he spake the English tongue
+     And bore a soldier's name;
+     And, when America was free
+     From battle and from jeopardy,
+     He 'cross the ocean came.
+
+     With hues of genius on his cheek,
+     In finest tones the youth could speak:
+     --While he was yet a boy
+     The moon, the glory of the sun,
+     And streams that murmur as they run
+     Had been his dearest joy.
+
+     He was a lovely youth! I guess
+     The panther in the wilderness
+     Was not so fair as he;
+     And when he chose to sport and play,
+     No dolphin ever was so gay
+     Upon the tropic sea.
+
+     Among the Indians he had fought,
+     And with him many tales he brought
+     Of pleasure and of fear;
+     Such tales as, told to any maid
+     By such a youth, in the green shade,
+     Were perilous to hear.
+
+     He told of girls, a happy rout!
+     Who quit their fold with dance and shout,
+     Their pleasant Indian town,
+     To gather strawberries all day long;
+     Returning with a choral song
+     When daylight is gone down.
+
+     He spake of plants that hourly change
+     Their blossoms, through a boundless range
+     Of intermingling hues;
+     With budding, fading, faded flowers,
+     They stand the wonder of the bowers
+     From morn to evening dews,
+
+     He told of the Magnolia, spread
+     High as a cloud, high over head!
+     The cypress and her spire;
+     --Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam
+     Cover a hundred leagues, and seem
+     To set the hills on fire.
+
+     The youth of green savannahs spake,
+     And many an endless, endless lake,
+     With all its fairy crowds
+     Of islands, that together lie
+     As quietly as spots of sky
+     Among the evening clouds.
+
+     And then he said, "How sweet it were
+     A fisher or a hunter there,
+     In sunshine or in shade
+     To wander with an easy mind,
+     And build a household fire, and find
+     A home in every glade!
+
+     "What days and what bright years! Ah me!
+     Our life were life indeed, with Thee
+     So pass'd in quiet bliss;
+     And all the while," said he, "to know
+     That we were in a world of woe,
+     On such an earth as this!"
+
+     And then he sometimes interwove
+     Fond thoughts about a father's love,
+     "For there," said he, "are spun
+     Around the heart such tender ties,
+     That our own children to our eyes
+     Are dearer than the sun.
+
+     "Sweet Ruth! and could you go with me
+     My helpmate in the woods to be,
+     Our shed at night to rear;
+     Or run, my own adopted bride,
+     A sylvan huntress at my side,
+     And drive the flying deer!
+
+     "Beloved Ruth!"--No more he said.
+     The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed
+     A solitary tear:
+     She thought again--and did agree
+     With him to sail across the sea,
+     And drive the flying deer.
+
+     "And now, as fitting is and right,
+     We in the church our faith will plight,
+     A husband and a wife."
+     Even so they did; and I may say
+     That to sweet Ruth that happy day
+     Was more than human life.
+
+     Through dream and vision did she sink,
+     Delighted all the while to think
+     That, on those lonesome floods,
+     And green savannahs, she should share
+     His board with lawful joy, and bear
+     His name in the wild woods.
+
+     But, as you have before been told,
+     This Stripling, sportive, gay, and bold,
+     And with his dancing crest
+     So beautiful, through savage lands
+     Had roam'd about, with vagrant bands
+     Of Indians in the West.
+
+     The wind, the tempest roaring high,
+     The tumult of a tropic sky
+     Might well be dangerous food
+     For him, a youth to whom was given
+     So much of earth--so much of heaven,
+     And such impetuous blood.
+
+     Whatever in those climes he found
+     Irregular in sight or sound
+     Did to his mind impart
+     A kindred impulse, seem'd allied
+     To his own powers, and justified
+     The workings of his heart.
+
+     Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought,
+     The beauteous forms of Nature wrought,--
+     Fair trees and gorgeous flowers;
+     The breezes their own languor lent;
+     The stars had feelings, which they sent
+     Into those favour'd bowers.
+
+     Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween
+     That sometimes there did intervene
+     Pure hopes of high intent:
+     For passions link'd to forms so fair
+     And stately, needs must have their share
+     Of noble sentiment.
+
+     But ill he lived, much evil saw,
+     With men to whom no better law
+     Nor better life was known;
+     Deliberately and undeceived,
+     Those wild men's vices he received,
+     And gave them back his own.
+
+     His genius and his moral frame
+     Were thus impair'd, and he became
+     The slave of low desires:
+     A man who without self-control
+     Would seek what the degraded soul
+     Unworthily admires.
+
+     And yet he with no feign'd delight
+     Had woo'd the maiden, day and night
+     Had loved her, night and morn:
+     What could he less than love a maid
+     Whose heart with so much nature play'd--
+     So kind and so forlorn?
+
+     Sometimes most earnestly he said,
+     "O Ruth! I have been worse than dead;
+     False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain
+     Encompass'd me on every side
+     When I, in confidence and pride,
+     Had cross'd the Atlantic main.
+
+     "Before me shone a glorious world
+     Fresh as a banner bright, unfurl'd
+     To music suddenly:
+     I look'd upon those hills and plains,
+     And seem'd as if let loose from chains
+     To live at liberty!
+
+     "No more of this--for now, by thee,
+     Dear Ruth! more happily set free
+     With nobler zeal I burn;
+     My soul from darkness is released
+     Like the whole sky when to the east
+     The morning doth return."
+
+     Full soon that better mind was gone;
+     No hope, no wish remain'd, not one,--
+     They stirr'd him now no more;
+     New objects did new pleasure give,
+     And once again he wish'd to live
+     As lawless as before.
+
+     Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared,
+     They for the voyage were prepared,
+     And went to the sea-shore,
+     But, when they thither came, the youth
+     Deserted his poor bride, and Ruth
+     Could never find him more.
+
+     God help thee, Ruth!--Such pains she had
+     That she in half a year was mad
+     And in a prison housed;
+     And there, exulting in her wrongs,
+     Among the music of her songs
+     She fearfully caroused.
+
+     Yet sometimes milder hours she knew,
+     Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew,
+     Nor pastimes of the May;
+     --They all were with her in her cell;
+     And a clear brook with cheerful knell
+     Did o'er the pebbles play.
+
+     When Ruth three seasons thus had lain,
+     There came a respite to her pain;
+     She from her prison fled;
+     But of the vagrant none took thought;
+     And where it liked her best she sought
+     Her shelter and her bread.
+
+     Among the fields she breathed again:
+     The master-current of her brain
+     Ran permanent and free;
+     And, coming to the banks of Tone,
+     There did she rest; and dwell alone
+     Under the greenwood tree.
+
+     The engines of her pain, the tools
+     That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools,
+     And airs that gently stir
+     The vernal leaves--she loved them still,
+     Nor ever tax'd them with the ill
+     Which had been done to her.
+
+     A barn her Winter bed supplies;
+     But, till the warmth of Summer skies
+     And Summer days is gone,
+     (And all do in this tale agree)
+     She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree,
+     And other home hath none.
+
+     An innocent life, yet far astray!
+     And Ruth will, long before her day,
+     Be broken down and old:
+     Sore aches she needs must have! but less
+     Of mind, than body's wretchedness,
+     From damp, and rain, and cold.
+
+     If she is prest by want of food
+     She from her dwelling in the wood
+     Repairs to a road-side;
+     And there she begs at one steep place
+     Where up and down with easy pace
+     The horsemen-travellers ride.
+
+     That oaten pipe of hers is mute
+     Or thrown away; but with a flute
+     Her loneliness she cheers;
+     This flute, made of a hemlock stalk,
+     At evening in his homeward walk
+     The Quantock woodman hears.
+
+     I, too, have pass'd her on the hills
+     Setting her little water-mills
+     By spouts and fountains wild--
+     Such small machinery as she turn'd
+     Ere she had wept, ere she had mourn'd,
+     A young and happy child!
+
+     Farewell! and when thy days are told,
+     Ill-fated Ruth! in hallow'd mould
+     Thy corpse shall buried be;
+     For thee a funeral bell shall ring,
+     And all the congregation sing
+     A Christian psalm for thee.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     274. WRITTEN IN THE EUGANEAN HILLS, NORTH ITALY.
+
+     Many a green isle needs must be
+     In the deep wide sea of misery,
+     Or the mariner, worn and wan,
+     Never thus could voyage on
+     Day and night, and night and day,
+     Drifting on his dreary way,
+     With the solid darkness black
+     Closing round his vessel's track;
+     Whilst above, the sunless sky
+     Big with clouds, hangs heavily,
+     And behind the tempest fleet
+     Hurries on with lightning feet,
+     Riving sail, and cord, and plank,
+     Till the ship has almost drank
+     Death from the o'er-brimming deep;
+     And sinks down, down, like that sleep
+     When the dreamer seems to be
+     Weltering through eternity;
+     And the dim low line before
+     Of a dark and distant shore
+     Still recedes, as ever still
+     Longing with divided will,
+     But no power to seek or shun,
+     He is ever drifted on
+     O'er the unreposing wave,
+     To the haven of the grave.
+
+     Ah, many flowering islands lie
+     In the waters of wide agony:
+     To such a one this morn was led
+     My bark, by soft winds piloted.
+     --'Mid the mountains Euganean
+     I stood listening to the paean
+     With which the legion'd rooks did hail
+     The Sun's uprise majestical:
+     Gathering round with wings all hoar,
+     Through the dewy mist they soar
+     Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven
+     Bursts, and then,--as clouds of even
+     Fleck'd with fire and azure, lie
+     In the unfathomable sky,--
+     So their plumes of purple grain
+     Starr'd with drops of golden rain
+     Gleam above the sunlight woods,
+     As in silent multitudes
+     On the morning's fitful gale
+     Through the broken mist they sail;
+     And the vapours cloven and gleaming
+     Follow down the dark steep streaming,
+     Till all is bright, and clear, and still
+     Round the solitary hill.
+
+       Beneath is spread like a green sea
+     The waveless plain of Lombardy,
+     Bounded by the vaporous air,
+     Islanded by cities fair;
+     Underneath day's azure eyes,
+     Ocean's nursling, Venice lies,--
+     A peopled labyrinth of walls,
+     Amphitrite's destined halls,
+     Which her hoary sire now paves
+     With his blue and beaming waves.
+     Lo! the sun upsprings behind,
+     Broad, red, radiant, half-reclined
+     On the level quivering line
+     Of the waters crystalline;
+     And before that chasm of light,
+     As within a furnace bright,
+     Column, tower, and dome, and spire,
+     Shine like obelisks of fire,
+     Pointing with inconstant motion
+     From the altar of dark ocean
+     To the sapphire-tinted skies;
+     As the flames of sacrifice
+     From the marble shrines did rise
+     As to pierce the dome of gold
+     Where Apollo spoke of old.
+
+       Sun-girt City! thou hast been
+     Ocean's child, and then his queen;
+     Now is come a darker day,
+     And thou soon must be his prey,
+     If the power that raised thee here
+     Hallow so thy watery bier.
+     A less drear ruin then than now
+     With thy conquest-branded brow
+     Stooping to the slave of slaves
+     From thy throne among the waves,
+     Wilt thou be,--when the sea-mew
+     Flies, as once before it flew,
+     O'er thine isles depopulate,
+     And all is in its ancient state,
+     Save where many a palace-gate
+     With green sea-flowers overgrown
+     Like a rock of ocean's own,
+     Topples o'er the abandon'd sea
+     As the tides change sullenly.
+     The fisher on his watery way
+     Wandering at the close of day,
+     Will spread his sail and seize his oar
+     Till he pass the gloomy shore,
+     Lest thy dead should, from their sleep
+     Bursting o'er the starlight deep,
+     Lead a rapid masque of death
+     O'er the waters of his path.
+
+       Noon descends around me now:
+     'Tis the noon of autumn's glow,
+     When a soft and purple mist
+     Like a vaporous amethyst,
+     Or an air-dissolved star
+     Mingling light and fragrance, far
+     From the curved horizon's bound
+     To the point of heaven's profound,
+     Fills the overflowing sky:
+     And the plains that silent lie
+     Underneath; the leaves unsodden
+     Where the infant frost has trodden
+     With his morning-winged feet
+     Whose bright print is gleaming yet;
+     And the red and golden vines
+     Piercing with their trellised lines
+     The rough, dark-skirted wilderness;
+     The dun and bladed grass no less,
+     Pointing from this hoary tower
+     In the windless air; the flower
+     Glimmering at my feet; the line
+     Of the olive-sandall'd Apennine
+     In the south dimly islanded;
+     And the Alps, whose snows are spread
+     High between the clouds and sun;
+     And of living things each one;
+     And my spirit, which so long
+     Darken'd this swift stream of song,--
+     Interpenetrated lie
+     By the glory of the sky;
+     Be it love, light, harmony,
+     Odour, or the soul of all
+     Which from Heaven like dew doth fall,
+     Or the mind which feeds this verse
+     Peopling the lone universe.
+
+     Noon descends, and after noon
+     Autumn's evening meets me soon,
+     Leading the infantine moon
+     And that one star, which to her
+     Almost seems to minister
+     Half the crimson light she brings
+     From the sunset's radiant springs:
+     And the soft dreams of the morn
+     (Which like winged winds had borne
+     To that silent isle, which lies
+     'Mid remember'd agonies,
+     The frail bark of this lone being),
+     Pass, to other sufferers fleeing,
+     And its ancient pilot, Pain,
+     Sits beside the helm again.
+
+     Other flowering isles must be
+     In the sea of life and agony:
+     Other spirits float and flee
+     O'er that gulf: ev'n now, perhaps,
+     On some rock the wild wave wraps,
+     With folding wings they waiting sit
+     For my bark, to pilot it
+     To some calm and blooming cove,
+     Where for me, and those I love,
+     May a windless bower be built,
+     Far from passion, pain, and guilt,
+     In a dell 'mid lawny hills
+     Which the wild sea-murmur fills,
+     And soft sunshine, and the sound
+     Of old forests echoing round,
+     And the light and smell divine
+     Of all flowers that breathe and shine.
+     --We may live so happy there,
+     That the spirits of the air,
+     Envying us, may even entice
+     To our healing paradise
+     The polluting multitude;
+     But their rage would be subdued
+     By that clime divine and calm,
+     And the winds whose wings rain balm
+     On the uplifted soul, and leaves
+     Under which the bright sea heaves;
+     While each breathless interval
+     In their whisperings musical
+     The inspired soul supplies
+     With its own deep melodies;
+     And the Love which heals all strife
+     Circling, like the breath of life,
+     All things in that sweet abode
+     With its own mild brotherhood.
+     They, not it, would change; and soon
+     Every sprite beneath the moon
+     Would repent its envy vain,
+     And the Earth grow young again!
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     275. ODE TO THE WEST WIND.
+
+     O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
+     Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
+     Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
+     Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
+     Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou
+     Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
+     The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
+     Each like a corpse within its grave, until
+     Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow
+     Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
+     (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
+     With living hues and odours plain and hill:
+     Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
+     Destroyer and preserver; Hear, O hear!
+
+       Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,
+     Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed
+     Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,
+     Angels of rain and lightning; there are spread
+     On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
+     Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
+     Of some fierce Maenad, ev'n from the dim verge
+     Of the horizon to the zenith's height--
+     The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
+     Of the dying year, to which this closing night
+     Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
+     Vaulted with all thy congregated might
+     Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
+     Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: O hear!
+
+       Thou who didst waken from his summer-dreams
+     The blue Mediterranean, where he lay
+     Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams,
+     Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,
+     And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
+     Quivering within the wave's intenser day,
+     All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
+     So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
+     For whose path the Atlantic's level powers
+     Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
+     The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
+     The sapless foliage of the ocean, know
+     Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear
+     And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!
+
+       If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
+     If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
+     A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share
+     The impulse of thy strength, only less free
+     Than Thou, O uncontrollable! If even
+     I were as in my boyhood, and could be
+     The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,
+     As then, when to outstrip the skyey speed
+     Scarce seem'd a vision, I would ne'er have striven
+     As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
+     O lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
+     I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
+     A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd
+     One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.
+
+       Make me thy lyre, ev'n as the forest is:
+     What if my leaves are falling like its own!
+     The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
+     Will take from both a deep autumnal tone,
+     Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
+     My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!
+     Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
+     Like wither'd leaves to quicken a new birth!
+     And, by the incantation of this verse,
+     Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth
+     Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
+     Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth
+     The trumpet of a prophecy! O, Wind,
+     If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     276. NATURE AND THE POET.
+
+     _Suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle in a Storm, painted by
+     Sir George Beaumont._
+
+     I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile!
+     Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee:
+     I saw thee every day; and all the while
+     Thy form was sleeping on a glassy sea.
+
+     So pure the sky, so quiet was the air!
+     So like, so very like, was day to day!
+     Whene'er I look'd, thy image still was there;
+     It trembled, but it never pass'd away.
+
+     How perfect was the calm! It seem'd no sleep,
+     No mood, which season takes away, or brings:
+     I could have fancied that the mighty Deep
+     Was even the gentlest of all gentle things.
+
+     Ah! then if mine had been the painter's hand
+     To express what then I saw; and add the gleam,
+     The light that never was on sea or land,
+     The consecration, and the Poet's dream,--
+
+     I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile,
+     Amid a world how different from this!
+     Beside a sea that could not cease to smile;
+     On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss.
+
+     A picture had it been of lasting ease,
+     Elysian quiet, without toil or strife;
+     No motion but the moving tide, a breeze,
+     Or merely silent Nature's breathing life.
+
+     Such, in the fond illusion of my heart,
+     Such picture would I at that time have made;
+     And seen the soul of truth in every part,
+     A steadfast peace that might not be betray'd.
+
+     So once it would have been,--'tis so no more
+     I have submitted to a new control:
+     A power is gone, which nothing can restore;
+     A deep distress hath humanised my soul.
+
+     Not for a moment could I now behold
+     A smiling sea, and be what I have been:
+     The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old;
+     This, which I know, I speak with mind serene.
+
+     Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the friend
+     If he had lived, of him whom I deplore,
+     This work of thine I blame not, but commend;
+     This sea in anger, and that dismal shore.
+
+     O 'tis a passionate work!--yet wise and well,
+     Well chosen is the spirit that is here;
+     That hulk which labours in the deadly swell,
+     This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear!
+
+     And this huge Castle, standing here sublime,
+     I love to see the look with which it braves,
+     --Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time--
+     The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.
+
+     Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone,
+     Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind!
+     Such happiness, wherever it be known,
+     Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind.
+
+     But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer,
+     And frequent sights of what is to be borne!
+     Such sights, or worse, as are before me here:
+     Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     277. THE POET'S DREAM.
+
+        On a Poet's lips I slept
+        Dreaming like a love-adept
+        In the sound his breathing kept;
+        Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses,
+        But feeds on the aerial kisses
+        Of shapes that haunt Thought's wildernesses.
+        He will watch from dawn to gloom
+        The lake-reflected sun illume
+        The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom,
+          Nor heed nor see, what things they be--
+        But from these create he can
+        Forms more real than living Man,
+          Nurslings of immortality!
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     278.
+
+     The World is too much with us; late and soon,
+     Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
+     Little we see in Nature that is ours;
+     We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
+
+     This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
+     The winds that will be howling at all hours
+     And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers,
+     For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
+
+     It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
+     A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn,--
+     So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
+
+     Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
+     Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
+     Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     279. WITHIN KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE.
+
+     Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense,
+     With ill-match'd aims the Architect who plann'd
+     (Albeit labouring for a scanty band
+     Of white-robed Scholars only) this immense
+
+     And glorious work of fine intelligence!
+     --Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore
+     Of nicely-calculated less or more:--
+     So deem'd the man who fashion'd for the sense
+
+     These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof
+     Self-poised, and scoop'd into ten thousand cells
+     Where light and shade repose, where music dwells
+
+     Lingering and wandering on as loth to die--
+     Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof
+     That they were born for immortality.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     280. YOUTH AND AGE.
+
+     Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying,
+     Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee--
+     Both were mine! Life went a-maying
+     With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,
+                 When I was young!
+
+     When I was young?--Ah, woeful when!
+     Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then!
+     This breathing house not built with hands,
+     This body that does me grievous wrong,
+     O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands
+     How lightly then it flash'd along:
+     Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,
+     On winding lakes and rivers wide,
+     That ask no aid of sail or oar,
+     That fear no spite of wind or tide!
+     Nought cared this body for wind or weather
+     When Youth and I lived in't together.
+     Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;
+     Friendship is a sheltering tree;
+     O! the joys, that came down shower-like,
+     Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,
+                 Ere I was old!
+
+     Ere I was old? Ah woeful Ere,
+     Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!
+     O Youth! for years so many and sweet
+     'Tis known that Thou and I were one,
+     I'll think it but a fond conceit--
+     It cannot be, that Thou art gone!
+     Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd:--
+     And thou wert aye a masker bold!
+     What strange disguise hast now put on
+     To make believe that thou art gone?
+     I see these locks in silvery slips,
+     This drooping gait, this alter'd size:
+     But Springtide blossoms on thy lips,
+     And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!
+     Life is but Thought: so think I will
+     That Youth and I are housemates still.
+
+     Dew-drops are the gems of morning,
+     But the tears of mournful eve!
+     Where no hope is, life's a warning
+     That only serves to make us grieve
+
+                 When we are old:
+     --That only serves to make us grieve
+     With oft and tedious taking-leave,
+     Like some poor nigh-related guest
+     That may not rudely be dismist,
+     Yet hath out-stay'd his welcome while,
+     And tells the jest without a smile.
+
+     S. T. COLERIDGE.
+
+
+
+
+     281. THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS.
+
+     We walk'd along, while bright and red
+     Uprose the morning sun;
+     And Matthew stopp'd, he looked, and said,
+     "The will of God be done!"
+
+     A village schoolmaster was he,
+     With hair of glittering gray;
+     As blithe a man as you could see
+     On a spring holiday.
+
+     And on that morning, through the grass,
+     And by the steaming rills
+     We travel'd merrily, to pass
+     A day among the hills.
+
+     "Our work," said I, "was well begun;
+     Then, from thy breast what thought,
+     Beneath so beautiful a sun,
+     So sad a sigh has brought?"
+
+     A second time did Matthew stop;
+     And fixing still his eye
+     Upon the eastern mountain-top,
+     To me he made reply:
+
+     "Yon cloud with that long purple cleft
+     Brings fresh into my mind
+     A day like this, which I have left
+     Full thirty years behind.
+
+     "And just above yon slope of corn
+     Such colours, and no other,
+     Were in the sky, that April morn
+     Of this the very brother.
+
+     "With rod and line I sued the sport
+     Which that sweet season gave,
+     And, to the church-yard come, stopp'd short
+     Beside my daughter's grave.
+
+     "Nine summers had she scarcely seen,
+     The pride of all the vale;
+     And then she sang:--she would have been
+     A very nightingale.
+
+     "Six feet in earth my Emma lay;
+     And yet I loved her more--
+     For so it seem'd,--than till that day
+     I e'er had loved before.
+
+     "And, turning from her grave, I met,
+     Beside the church-yard yew,
+     A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet
+     With points of morning dew.
+
+     "A basket on her head she bare;
+     Her brow was smooth and white:
+     To see a child so very fair,
+     It was a pure delight!
+
+     "No fountain from its rocky cave
+     E'er tripped with foot so free;
+     She seem'd as happy as a wave
+     That dances on the sea.
+
+     "There came from me a sigh of pain
+     Which I could ill confine;
+     I looked at her, and looked again
+     And did not wish her mine!"
+
+     --Matthew is in his grave, yet now,
+     Methinks I see him stand
+     As at that moment, with a bough
+     Of wilding in his hand.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     282. THE FOUNTAIN.
+
+               _A Conversation._
+
+     We talk'd with open heart, and tongue
+     Affectionate and true,
+     A pair of friends, though I was young,
+     And Matthew seventy-two.
+
+     We lay beneath a spreading oak,
+     Beside a mossy seat;
+     And from the turf a fountain broke
+     And gurgled at our feet.
+
+     "Now, Matthew!" said I "let us match
+     This water's pleasant tune
+     With some old border song, or catch
+     That suits a summer's noon.
+
+     "Or of the church-clock and the chimes
+     Sing here beneath the shade
+     That half-mad thing of witty rhymes
+     Which you last April made!"
+
+     In silence Matthew lay, and eyed
+     The spring beneath the tree;
+     And thus the dear old man replied,
+     The gray-hair'd man of glee:
+
+     "No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears,
+     How merrily it goes!
+     'Twill murmur on a thousand years
+     And flow as now it flows.
+
+     "And here, on this delightful day
+     I cannot choose but think
+     How oft, a vigorous man, I lay
+     Beside this fountain's brink.
+
+     "My eyes are dim with childish tears,
+     My heart is idly stirr'd,
+     For the same sound is in my ears
+     Which in those days I heard.
+
+     "Thus fares it still in our decay:
+     And yet the wiser mind
+     Mourns less for what Age takes away,
+     Than what it leaves behind.
+
+     "The blackbird amid leafy trees--
+     The lark above the hill,
+     Let loose their carols when they please,
+     Are quiet when they will.
+
+     "With Nature never do they wage
+     A foolish strife; they see
+     A happy youth, and their old age
+     Is beautiful and free:
+
+     "But we are press'd by heavy laws;
+     And often, glad no more,
+     We wear a face of joy, because
+     We have been glad of yore.
+
+     "If there be one who need bemoan
+     His kindred laid in earth,
+     The household hearts that were his own,--
+     It is the man of mirth.
+
+     "My days, my friend, are almost gone,
+     My life has been approved,
+     And many love me; but by none
+     Am I enough beloved."
+
+     "Now both himself and me he wrongs,
+     The man who thus complains!
+     I live and sing my idle songs
+     Upon these happy plains:
+
+     "And Matthew, for thy children dead
+     I'll be a son to thee!"
+     At this he grasp'd my hand and said,
+     "Alas! that cannot be."
+
+     We rose up from the fountain-side;
+     And down the smooth descent
+     Of the green sheep-track did we glide
+     And through the wood we went;
+
+     And, ere we came to Leonard's Rock,
+     He sang those witty rhymes
+     About the crazy old church-clock,
+     And the bewilder'd chimes.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     283. THE RIVER OF LIFE.
+
+     The more we live, more brief appear
+       Our life's succeeding stages:
+     A day to childhood seems a year,
+       And years like passing ages.
+
+     The gladsome current of our youth
+       Ere passion yet disorders,
+     Steals lingering like a river smooth
+       Along its grassy borders.
+
+     But as the careworn cheek grows wan,
+       And sorrow's shafts fly thicker,
+     Ye Stars, that measure life to man,
+       Why seem your courses quicker?
+
+     When joys have lost their bloom and breath
+       And life itself is vapid,
+     Why, as we reach the Falls of Death,
+       Feel we its tide more rapid?
+
+     It may be strange--yet who would change
+       Time's course to lower speeding,
+     When one by one our friends have gone
+       And left our bosoms bleeding?
+
+     Heaven gives our years of fading strength
+       Indemnifying fleetness;
+     And those of youth, a seeming length,
+       Proportion'd to their sweetness.
+
+     T. CAMPBELL.
+
+
+
+
+     284. THE HUMAN SEASONS.
+
+     Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;
+     There are four seasons in the mind of Man:
+     He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
+     Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
+
+     He has his summer, when luxuriously
+     Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves
+     To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
+     Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves
+
+     His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
+     He furleth close; contented so to look
+     On mists in idleness--to let fair things
+     Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook:--
+
+     He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
+     Or else he would forego his mortal nature.
+
+     J. KEATS.
+
+
+
+
+     285. A LAMENT.
+
+     O World! O Life! O Time!
+     On whose last steps I climb,
+       Trembling at that where I had stood before;
+     When will return the glory of your prime?
+       No more--O never more!
+
+     Out of the day and night
+     A joy has taken flight:
+       Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar
+     Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight
+       No more--O never more!
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+     286.
+
+     My heart leaps up when I behold
+       A rainbow in the sky:
+     So was it when my life began,
+     So is it now I am a man;
+     So be it when I shall grow old
+        Or let me die!
+     The Child is father of the Man:
+     I could wish my days to be
+     Bound each to each by natural piety.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     287. ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF
+     EARLY CHILDHOOD.
+
+     There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
+     The earth, and every common sight
+                 To me did seem
+             Apparell'd in celestial light,
+     The glory and the freshness of a dream.
+     It is not now as it hath been of yore;--
+             Turn wheresoe'er I may,
+                 By night or day,
+     The things which I have seen I now can see no more!
+
+             The rainbow comes and goes,
+             And lovely is the rose;
+             The moon doth with delight
+        Look round her when the heavens are bare;
+             Waters on a starry night
+             Are beautiful and fair;
+        The sunshine is a glorious birth;
+        But yet I know, where'er I go,
+     That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth.
+
+     Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
+        And while the young lambs bound
+             As to the tabor's sound,
+     To me alone there came a thought of grief:
+     A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
+             And I again am strong.
+     The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,--
+     No more shall grief of mine the season wrong:
+     I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,
+     The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
+             And all the earth is gay;
+                 Land and sea
+        Give themselves up to jollity,
+             And with the heart of May
+        Doth every beast keep holiday;--
+                 Thou child of joy,
+     Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy
+           Shepherd boy!
+
+     Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call
+        Ye to each other make; I see
+     The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
+        My heart is at your festival,
+        My head hath its coronal,
+     The fulness of your bliss, I feel--I feel it all.
+             O evil day! if I were sullen
+             While Earth herself is adorning
+                 This sweet May morning,
+             And the children are pulling
+                 On every side
+             In a thousand valleys far and wide
+             Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,
+     And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm:--
+             I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!
+             --But there's a tree, of many, one,
+     A single field which I have look'd upon,
+     Both of them speak of something that is gone:
+                 The pansy at my feet
+                 Doth the same tale repeat:
+     Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
+     Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
+
+     Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;
+     The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
+             Hath had elsewhere its setting
+                 And cometh from afar;
+             Not in entire forgetfulness
+             And not in utter nakedness
+     But trailing clouds of glory do we come
+                 From God, who is our home:
+     Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
+     Shades of the prison-house begin to close
+                 Upon the growing boy,
+     But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
+                 He sees it in his joy,
+     The youth, who daily farther from the east
+         Must travel, still is Nature's priest,
+             And by the vision splendid
+             Is on his way attended;
+     At length the man perceives it die away,
+     And fade into the light of common day.
+
+     Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;
+     Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
+     And, even with something of a mother's mind,
+                 And no unworthy aim,
+             The homely nurse doth all she can
+     To make her foster-child, her inmate, Man,
+                 Forget the glories he hath known
+     And that imperial palace whence he came.
+
+     Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,
+     A six years' darling of a pigmy size!
+     See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,
+     Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,
+     With light upon him from his father's eyes!
+     See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
+     Some fragment from his dream of human life,
+     Shaped by himself with newly-learned art;
+             A wedding or a festival,
+             A mourning or a funeral;
+                 And this hath now his heart,
+             And unto this he frames his song:
+                 Then will he fit his tongue
+     To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
+             But it will not be long
+             Ere this be thrown aside,
+             And with new joy and pride
+     The little actor cons another part;
+     Filling from time to time his "humorous stage"
+     With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,
+     That life brings with her in her equipage;
+             As if his whole vocation
+             Were endless imitation.
+
+     Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
+             Thy soul's immensity;
+     Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep
+     Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind,
+     That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,
+     Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,--
+                 Mighty prophet! Seer blest!
+                 On whom those truths do rest
+     Which we are toiling all our lives to find;
+     In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;
+     Thou, over whom thy immortality
+     Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave,
+     A presence which is not to be put by;
+     Thou little child, yet glorious in the might
+     Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,
+     Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
+     The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
+     Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
+     Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,
+     And custom lie upon thee with a weight
+     Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!
+
+             O joy! that in our embers
+             Is something that doth live,
+             That nature yet remembers
+             What was so fugitive!
+     The thought of our past years in me doth breed
+     Perpetual benediction: not indeed
+     For that which is most worthy to be blest,
+     Delight and liberty, the simple creed
+     Of childhood, whether busy or at rest,
+     With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:
+             --Not for these I raise
+             The song of thanks and praise;
+        But for those obstinate questionings
+        Of sense and outward things,
+        Fallings from us, vanishings,
+        Blank misgivings of a creature
+     Moving about in worlds not realised,
+     High instincts, before which our mortal nature
+     Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised:
+        But for those first affections,
+        Those shadowy recollections,
+             Which, be they what they may,
+     Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,
+     Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;
+        Uphold us--cherish--and have power to make
+     Our noisy years seem moments in the being
+     Of the eternal silence: truths that wake,
+                 To perish never;
+     Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour
+                 Nor man nor boy
+     Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
+     Can utterly abolish or destroy!
+        Hence, in a season of calm weather
+             Though inland far we be,
+     Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
+                 Which brought us hither;
+             Can in a moment travel thither--
+     And see the children sport upon the shore,
+     And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.
+
+     Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
+             And let the young lambs bound
+             As to the tabor's sound!
+        We, in thought, will join your throng
+             Ye that pipe and ye that play,
+             Ye that through your hearts to-day
+             Feel the gladness of the May!
+     What though the radiance which was once so bright
+     Be now for ever taken from my sight,
+        Though nothing can bring back the hour
+     Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
+             We will grieve not, rather find
+             Strength in what remains behind,
+             In the primal sympathy
+             Which having been must ever be,
+             In the soothing thoughts that spring
+             Out of human suffering,
+             In the faith that looks through death,
+     In years that bring the philosophic mind.
+
+     And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
+     Forebode not any severing of our loves!
+     Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
+     I only have relinquish'd one delight
+     To live beneath your more habitual sway;
+     I love the brooks which down their channels fret
+     Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they;
+     The innocent brightness of a new-born day
+                 Is lovely yet;
+     The clouds that gather round the setting sun
+     Do take a sober colouring from an eye
+     That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
+     Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
+     Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
+     Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
+     To me the meanest flower that blows can give
+     Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
+
+     W. WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+     288.
+
+        Music, when soft voices die,
+        Vibrates in the memory--
+        Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
+        Live within the sense they quicken.
+
+        Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
+        Are heap'd for the beloved's bed;
+        And so thy thoughts, when Thou art gone,
+        Love itself shall slumber on.
+
+     P.B. SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+
+PALGRAVE'S NOTES.
+
+
+Poem 2.
+_Rouse Memnon's mother_: Awaken the Dawn from the dark Earth and the
+clouds where she is resting. Aurora in the old mythology is mother of
+Memnon (the East), and wife of Tithonus (the appearances of Earth and
+Sky during the last hours of Night). She leaves him every morning in
+renewed youth, to prepare the way for Phoebus (the Sun), whilst Tithonus
+remains in perpetual old age and grayness.
+
+_by Peneus' streams_: Phoebus loved the Nymph Daphne whom he met by the
+river Peneus in the vale of Tempe. This legend expressed the attachment
+of the Laurel (Daphne) to the Sun, under whose heat the tree both fades
+and flourishes. It has been thought worth while to explain these
+allusions, because they illustrate the character of the Grecian
+Mythology, which arose in the Personification of natural phenomena, and
+was totally free from those debasing and ludicrous ideas with which,
+through Roman and later misunderstanding or perversion, it has been
+associated.
+
+_Amphion's lyre_: He was said to have built the walls of Thebes to the
+sound of his music.
+
+_Night like a drunkard reels_: Compare Romeo and Juliet, Act II. Scene
+3: "The gray-eyed morn smiles," etc.--It should be added that three
+lines, which appeared hopelessly misprinted, have been omitted in this
+Poem.
+
+
+Poem 4.
+
+_Time's chest_: in which he is figuratively supposed to lay up past
+treasures. So in Troilus, Act III. Scene 3, "Time hath a wallet at his
+back," etc.
+
+
+Poem 5.
+
+A fine example of the high-wrought and conventional Elizabethan
+Pastoralism, which it would be ludicrous to criticise on the ground of
+the unshepherdlike or unreal character of some images suggested. Stanza
+6 was probably inserted by Izaak Walton.
+
+Poem 9.
+This Poem, with 25 and 94, is taken from Davison's "Rhapsody," first
+published in 1602. One stanza has been here omitted, in accordance with
+the principle noticed in the Preface. Similar omissions occur in 45, 87,
+100, 128, 160, 165, 227, 235. The more serious abbreviation by which it
+has been attempted to bring Crashaw's "Wishes" and Shelley's "Euganean
+Hills" within the limits of lyrical unity, is commended with much
+diffidence to the judgment of readers acquainted with the original
+pieces.
+
+_Presence_ in line 12 is here conjecturally printed for _present_. A
+very few similar corrections of (it is presumed) misprints have been
+made:--as _thy_ for _my_, 22, line 9: _men_ for _me_, 41, line 3: _viol_
+for _idol_, 252, line 43, and _one_ for _our_, line 90: _locks_ for
+_looks_, 271, line 5: _dome_ for _doom_, 275, line 25:--with two or
+three more less important.
+
+
+Poem 15.
+
+This charming little poem, truly "old and plain, and dallying with the
+innocence of love" like that spoken of in Twelfth Night, is taken with
+5, 17, 20, 34, and 40, from the most characteristic collection of
+Elizabeth's reign, "England's Helicon," first published in 1600.
+
+
+Poem 16.
+
+Readers who have visited Italy will be reminded of more than one picture
+by this gorgeous Vision of Beauty, equally sublime and pure in its
+Paradisaical naturalness. Lodge wrote it on a voyage to "the Islands of
+Terceras and the Canaries"; and he seems to have caught, in those
+southern seas, no small portion of the qualities which marked the almost
+contemporary Art of Venice,--the glory and the glow of Veronese, or
+Titian, or Tintoret, when he most resembles Titian, and all but
+surpasses him.
+
+_The clear_: is the crystalline or outermost heaven of the old
+cosmography. For _resembling_ other copies give _refining_: the correct
+reading is perhaps _revealing_.
+
+_For a fair there's fairer none_: If you desire a Beauty, there is none
+more beautiful than Rosaline.
+
+
+Poem 18.
+
+_that fair thou owest_: that beauty thou ownest.
+
+
+Poem 23.
+
+_the star Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken_:
+apparently, Whose stellar influence is uncalculated, although his
+angular altitude from the plane of the astrolabe or artificial horizon
+used by astrologers has been determined.
+
+
+Poem 27.
+
+_keel_: skim.
+
+
+Poem 29.
+
+_expense_: waste.
+
+
+Poem 30.
+
+_Nativity once in the main of light_: when a star has risen and entered
+on the full stream of light;--another of the astrological phrases no
+longer familiar.
+
+_Crooked eclipses_: as coming athwart the Sun's apparent course.
+
+Wordsworth, thinking probably of the "Venus" and the "Lucrece," said
+finely of Shakespeare "Shakespeare _could_ not have written an Epic; he
+would have died of plethora of thought." This prodigality of nature is
+exemplified equally in his Sonnets. The copious selection here given
+(which from the wealth of the material, required greater consideration
+than any other portion of the Editor's task) contains many that will not
+be fully felt and understood without some earnestness of thought on the
+reader's part. But he is not likely to regret the labour.
+
+
+Poem 31.
+
+_upon misprision growing_: either, granted in error, or, on the growth
+of contempt.
+
+
+Poem 32.
+
+With the tone of this Sonnet compare Hamlet's "Give me that man That is
+not passion's slave," etc. Shakespeare's writings show the deepest
+sensitiveness to passion:--hence the attraction he felt in the
+contrasting effects of apathy.
+
+
+Poem 33.
+
+_grame_: sorrow. It was long before English Poetry returned to the
+charming simplicity of this and a few other poems by Wyat.
+
+
+Poem 34.
+
+Pandion in the ancient fable was father to Philomela.
+
+
+Poem 38.
+
+_ramage_: confused noise.
+
+
+Poem 39.
+
+_censures_: judges.
+
+
+Poem 40.
+
+By its style this beautiful example of old simplicity and feeling may be
+referred to the early years of Elizabeth. _Late forgot_: lately.
+
+
+Poem 41.
+
+_haggards_: the least tameable hawks.
+
+
+Poem 44.
+
+_cypres_ or cyprus,--used by the old writers for _crape_: whether from
+the French _crespe_ or from the Island whence it was imported. Its
+accidental similarity in spelling to _cypress_ has, here and in Milton's
+Penseroso, probably confused readers.
+
+
+Poems 46, 47.
+
+"I never saw anything like this funeral dirge," says Charles Lamb,
+"except the ditty which reminds Ferdinand of his drowned father in the
+Tempest. As that is of the water, watery; so this is of the earth,
+earthy. Both have that intenseness of feeling, which seems to resolve
+itself into the element which it contemplates."
+
+
+Poem 51.
+
+_crystal_: fairness.
+
+
+Poem 53.
+
+This "Spousal Verse" was written in honour of the Ladies Elizabeth and
+Katherine Somerset. Although beautiful, it is inferior to the
+"Epithalamion" on Spenser's own marriage,--omitted with great reluctance
+as not in harmony with modern manners.
+
+_feateously_: elegantly.
+
+_shend_: put out.
+
+_a noble peer_: Robert Devereux, second Lord Essex, then at the height
+of his brief triumph after taking Cadiz: hence the allusion following to
+the Pillars of Hercules, placed near Gades by ancient legend.
+
+_Eliza_: Elizabeth; _twins of Jove_: the stars Castor and Pollux;
+_baldric_: belt, the zodiac.
+
+
+Poem 57.
+
+A fine example of a peculiar class of Poetry;--that written by
+thoughtful men who practised this Art but little. Wotton's, 72, is
+another. Jeremy Taylor, Bishop Berkeley, Dr. Johnson, Lord Macaulay,
+have left similar specimens.
+
+
+Poem 62.
+
+_whist_: hushed; _Pan_: used here for the Lord of all; _Lars and
+Lemures_: household Gods and spirits of relations dead; _Flamens_: Roman
+priests; _That twice-batter'd god_: Dagon.
+
+_Osiris_, the Egyptian god of Agriculture (here, perhaps by confusion
+with Apis, figured as a Bull), was torn to pieces by Typho and embalmed
+after death in a sacred chest. This myth, reproduced in Syria and Greece
+in the legends of Thammuz, Adonis, and perhaps Absyrtus, represents the
+annual death of the Sun or the Year under the influences of the winter
+darkness. Horus, the son of Osiris, as the New Year, in his turn
+overcomes Typho.--It suited the genius of Milton's time to regard this
+primaeval poetry and philosophy of the seasons, which has a further
+reference to the contest of Good and Evil in Creation, as a malignant
+idolatry. Shelley's Chorus in _Hellas_, "Worlds on worlds," treats the
+subject in a larger and sweeter spirit.
+
+_unshower'd grass_: as watered by the Nile only.
+
+
+Poem 64.
+
+_The Late Massacre_: the Vaudois persecution, carried on in 1655 by the
+Duke of Savoy. This "collect in verse," as it has been justly named, is
+the most mighty Sonnet in any language known to the Editor. Readers
+should observe that, unlike our sonnets of the sixteenth century, it is
+constructed , on the original Italian or Provencal model,--unquestionably
+far superior to the imperfect form employed by Shakespeare and Drummond.
+
+
+Poem 65.
+
+Cromwell returned from Ireland in 1650. Hence the prophecies, not
+strictly fulfilled, of his deference to the Parliament, in stanzas
+21-24.
+
+This Ode, beyond doubt one of the finest in our language, and more in
+Milton's style than has been reached by any other poet, is occasionally
+obscure from imitation of the condensed Latin syntax. The meaning of st.
+5 is "rivalry or hostility are the same to a lofty spirit, and
+limitation more hateful than opposition." The allusion in st. 11 is to
+the old physical doctrines of the non-existence of a vacuum and the
+impenetrability of matter:--in st. 17 to the omen traditionally
+connected with the foundation of the Capitol at Rome. The ancient belief
+that certain years in life complete natural periods and are hence
+peculiarly exposed to death, is introduced in stanza 26 by the word
+_climacteric_.
+
+
+Poem 66.
+
+_Lycidas_. The person lamented is Milton's college friend Edward King,
+drowned in 1637 whilst crossing from Chester to Ireland.
+
+Strict Pastoral Poetry was first written or perfected by the Dorian
+Greeks settled in Sicily: but the conventional use of it, exhibited more
+magnificently in _Lycidas_ than in any other pastoral, is apparently of
+Roman origin. Milton, employing the noble freedom of a great artist, has
+here united ancient mythology, with what may be called the modern
+mythology of Camus and Saint Peter,--to direct Christian images.--The
+metrical structure of this glorious poem is partly derived from Italian
+models.
+
+_Sisters of the sacred well_: the Muses, said to frequent the fountain
+Helicon on Mount Parnassus.
+
+_Mona_: Anglesea, called by the Welsh Inis Dowil or the Dark Island,
+from its dense forests.
+
+_Deva_: the Dee: a river which probably derived its magical character
+from Celtic traditions: it was long the boundary of Briton and
+Saxon.--These places are introduced, as being near the scene of the
+shipwreck.
+
+_Orpheus_ was torn to pieces by Thracian women; _Amaryllis_ and _Neaera_
+names used here for the love idols of poets: as _Damoetas_ previously
+for a shepherd.
+
+_the blind Fury_: Atropos, fabled to cut the thread of life.
+
+_Arethuse_ and _Mincius_: Sicilian and Italian waters here alluded to as
+synonymous with the pastoral poetry of Theocritus and Virgil.
+
+_oat_: pipe, used here like Collins' _oaten stop_, No. 146, for _Song_.
+
+_Hippotades_: Aeolus, god of the Winds. _Panope_ a Nereid. The names of
+local deities in the Hellenic mythology express generally some feature
+in the natural landscape, which the Greeks studied and analysed with
+their usual unequalled insight and feeling. Panope represents the
+boundlessness of the ocean-horizon when seen from a height, as compared
+with a limited horizon of the land in hilly countries such as Greece or
+Asia Minor.
+
+_Camus_: the Cam; put for King's University.
+
+_The sanguine flower_: the Hyacinth of the ancients; probably our Iris.
+
+_The pilot_: Saint Peter, figuratively introduced as the head of the
+Church on earth, to foretell "the ruin of our corrupted clergy, then in
+their heighth" under Laud's primacy.
+
+_the wolf_: Popery.
+
+_Alpheus_: a stream in Southern Greece, supposed to flow underseas to
+meet the Arethuse.
+
+_Swart star_: the Dogstar, called swarthy because its heliacal rising in
+ancient times occurred soon after mid-summer.
+
+_moist vows_: either tearful prayers, or prayers for one at sea.
+
+_Bellerus_: a giant, apparently created here by Milton to personify
+Bellerium, the ancient title of the Land's End.
+
+_The great Vision_:--The story was that the Archangel Michael had
+appeared on the rock by Marazion in Mount's Bay which bears his name.
+Milton calls on him to turn his eyes from the south homeward, and to
+pity Lycidas, if his body has drifted into the troubled waters of the
+Land's End. Finisterre being the land due south of Marazion, two places
+in that district (then by our trade with Corunna probably less
+unfamiliar to English ears), are named,--_Namancos_ now Mujio in
+Galicia, _Bayona_ north of the Minho, or, perhaps a fortified rock (one
+of the _Cies_ Islands) not unlike St. Michael's Mount, at the entrance
+of Vigo Bay.
+
+_ore_: rays of golden light. _Doric lay_: Sicilian, pastoral.
+
+
+Poem 70.
+
+_The assault_: was an attack on London expected in 1642, when the troops
+of Charles I. reached Brentford. "Written on his door" was in the
+original title of this sonnet. Milton was then living in Aldersgate
+Street.
+
+_Emathian Conqueror_: When Thebes was destroyed (B.C. 335) and the
+citizens massacred by thousands, Alexander ordered the house of Pindar
+to be spared. He was as incapable of appreciating the Poet as Lewis XIV.
+of appreciating Racine: but even the narrow and barbarian mind of
+Alexander could understand the advantage of a showy act of homage to
+Poetry.
+
+_the repeated air \Of sad Electra's poet_: Amongst Plutarch's vague
+stories, he says that when the Spartan confederacy in 404 B.C. took
+Athens, a proposal to demolish it was rejected through the effect
+produced on the commanders by hearing part of a chorus from the Electra
+of Euripides sung at a feast. There is however no apparent congruity
+between the lines quoted (167, 8 Ed. Dindorf) and the result ascribed to
+them.
+
+
+Poem 73.
+
+This high-toned and lovely Madrigal is quite in the style, and worthy
+of, the "pure Simonides."
+
+
+Poem 75.
+
+Vaughan's beautiful though quaint verses should be compared with
+Wordsworth's great Ode, No. 287.
+
+
+Poem 76.
+
+_Favonius_: the spring wind.
+
+
+Poem 77.
+
+_Themis_: the goddess of justice. Skinner was grandson by his mother to
+Sir E. Coke;--hence, as pointed out by Mr. Keightley, Milton's allusion
+to the _bench_.
+
+_what the Swede intends, and what the French_: Sweden was then at war
+with Poland, and France with the Spanish Netherlands.
+
+
+Poem 79.
+
+_Sydneian showers_: either in allusion to the conversations in the
+"Arcadia," or to Sidney himself as a model of "gentleness" in spirit and
+demeanour.
+
+
+Poem 84.
+
+_Elizabeth of Bohemia_: Daughter to James I., and ancestor to Sophia of
+Hanover. These lines are a fine specimen of gallant and courtly
+compliment.
+
+
+Poem 85.
+
+Lady M. Ley was daughter to Sir J. Ley, afterwards Earl of Marlborough,
+who died March, 1628-9, coincidently with the dissolution of the third
+Parliament of Charles's reign. Hence Milton poetically compares his
+death to that of the Orator Isocrates of Athens, after Philip's victory
+in 328 B.C.
+
+
+Poems 92, 93.
+
+These are quite a Painter's poems.
+
+
+Poem 99.
+
+_From Prison_: to which his active support of Charles I. twice brought
+the high-spirited writer.
+
+
+Poem 105.
+
+Inserted in Book II. as written in the character of a Soldier of Fortune
+in the Seventeenth Century.
+
+
+Poem 106.
+
+_Waly waly_: an exclamation of sorrow, the root and the pronunciation of
+which are preserved in the word _caterwaul_. _Brae_: hillside; _burn_:
+brook; _busk_: adorn. _Saint Anton's Well_: at the foot of Arthur's Seat
+by Edinburgh. _Cramasie_: crimson.
+
+
+Poem 107.
+
+_burd_: maiden.
+
+
+Poem 108.
+
+_corbies_: crows; _fail_: turf; _hause_: neck; _theek_: thatch.
+
+If not in their origin, in their present form this and the two preceding
+poems appear due to the Seventeenth Century, and have therefore been
+placed in Book II.
+
+
+Poem 111.
+
+The remark quoted in the note to No. 47 applies equally to these truly
+wonderful verses, which, like "Lycidas," may be regarded as a test of
+any reader's insight into the most poetical aspects of Poetry. The
+general differences between them are vast: but in imaginative intensity
+Marvell and Shelley are closely related. This poem is printed as a
+translation in Marvell's works: but the original Latin is obviously his
+own. The most striking verses in it, here quoted as the book is rare,
+answer more or less to stanzas 2 and 6:
+
+Alma Quies, teneo te! et te, germana Quietis, Simplicitas! vos ergo diu
+per templa, per urbes Quaesivi, regum perque alta palatia, frustra: Sed
+vos hortorum per opaca silentia, longe Celarunt plantae virides, et
+concolor umbra.
+
+
+Poems 112&113.
+
+_L'Allegro_ and _Il Penseroso_. It is a striking proof of Milton's
+astonishing power, that these, the earliest pure Descriptive Lyrics in
+our language, should still remain the best in a style which so many
+great poets have since attempted. The Bright and the Thoughtful aspects
+of Nature are their subjects: but each is preceded by a mythological
+introduction in a mixed Classical and Italian manner. The meaning of the
+first is that Gaiety is the child of Nature; of the second, that
+Pensiveness is the daughter of Sorrow and Genius.
+
+112: Perverse ingenuity has conjectured that for _Cerberus_ we should
+read _Erebus_, who in the Mythology is brother at once and husband of
+Night. But the issue of this union is not Sadness, but Day and
+Aether:--completing the circle of primary creation, as the parents are
+both children of Chaos, the first-begotten of all things. (Hesiod.)
+
+_the mountain nymph_: compare Wordsworth's Sonnet, No. 210.
+
+_The clouds in thousand liveries dight_: is in _apposition_ to the
+preceding, by a grammatical license not uncommon with Milton.
+
+_tells his tale_: counts his flock; _Cynosure_: the Pole Star; _Corydon,
+Thyrsis_, etc.: Shepherd names from the old Idylls; _Jonson's learned
+sock_: the gaiety of our age would find little pleasure in his elaborate
+comedies; _Lydian airs_: a light and festive style of ancient music.
+
+113: _bestead_: avail.
+
+_starr'd Ethiop queen_: Cassiopeia, the legendary Queen of Ethiopia, and
+thence translated amongst the constellations.
+
+_Cynthia_: the Moon: her chariot is drawn by dragons in ancient
+representations.
+
+_Hermes_: called Trismegistus, a mystical writer of the Neo-Platonist
+school; _Thebes_, etc.: subjects of Athenian Tragedy; _Buskin'd_:
+tragic; _Musaeus_: a poet in Mythology.
+
+_him that left half told_: Chaucer, in his incomplete "Squire's Tale."
+
+_great bards_: Ariosto, Tasso, and Spenser, are here intended.
+
+_frounced_: curled; _The Attic Boy_: Cephalus.
+
+
+Poem 114.
+
+Emigrants supposed to be driven towards America by the government of
+Charles I.
+
+_But apples_, etc.: A fine example of Marvell's imaginative hyperbole.
+
+
+Poem 115.
+
+_concent_: harmony.
+
+
+Poem 123.
+
+_The Bard_.: This Ode is founded on a fable that Edward I., after
+conquering Wales, put the native Poets to death. After lamenting his
+comrades (st. 2, 3) the Bard prophesies the fate of Edward II. and the
+conquests of Edward III. (4); his death and that of the Black Prince
+(5): of Richard II, with the wars of York and Lancaster, the murder of
+Henry VI. (the _meek usurper_), and of Edward V. and his brother (6). He
+turns to the glory and prosperity following the accession of the Tudors
+(7), through Elizabeth's reign (8): and concludes with a vision of the
+poetry of Shakespeare and Milton.
+
+_Glo'ster_: Gilbert de Clare, son-in-law to Edward; _Mortimer_: one of
+the Lords Marchers of Wales.
+
+_Arvon_: the shores of Carnarvonshire opposite Anglesey.
+
+_She-wolf_: Isabel of France, adulterous Queen of Edward II.; _Towers of
+Julius_: the Tower of London, built in part, according to tradition, by
+Julius Caesar.
+
+_bristled boar_: the badge of Richard III.
+
+_Half of thy heart_: Queen Eleanor died soon after the conquest of
+Wales.
+
+_Arthur_: Henry VII. named his eldest son thus, in deference to British
+feeling and legend.
+
+
+Poem 125.
+
+The Highlanders called the battle of Culloden, Drumossie.
+
+
+Poem 126.
+
+_lilting_: singing blithely; _loaning_: broad lane; _bughts_: pens;
+_scorning_: rallying; _dowie_: dreary; _daffin'_ and _gabbin'_: joking
+and chatting; _leglin_: milkpail; _shearing_: reaping; _bandsters_:
+sheaf-binders; _lyart_: grizzled; _runkled_: wrinkled; _fleeching_:
+coaxing; _gloaming_: twilight; _bogle_: ghost; _dool_: sorrow.
+
+
+Poem 128.
+
+The Editor has found no authoritative text of this poem, in his judgment
+superior to any other of its class in melody and pathos. Part is
+probably not later than the seventeenth century: in other stanzas a more
+modern hand, much resembling Scott's, is traceable. Logan's poem (127)
+exhibits a knowledge rather of the old legend than of the old verses.
+
+_Hecht_: promised, the obsolete _hight_; _mavis_: thrush; _ilka_: every;
+_lav'rock_: lark; _haughs_: valley-meadows; _twined_: parted from;
+_marrow_: mate; _syne_ then.
+
+
+Poem 129.
+
+The _Royal George_, of 108 guns, whilst undergoing a partial careening
+in Portsmouth Harbour, was overset about 10 A.M. Aug. 29, 1782. The
+total loss was believed to be near 1000 souls.
+
+
+Poem 131.
+
+A little masterpiece in a very difficult style: Catullus himself could
+hardly have bettered it. In grace, tenderness, simplicity, and humour it
+is worthy of the Ancients; and even more so, from the completeness and
+unity of the picture presented.
+
+
+Poem 136.
+
+Perhaps no writer who has given such strong proofs of the poetic nature
+has left less satisfactory poetry than Thomson. Yet he touched little
+which he did not beautify: and this song, with "Rule Britannia" and a
+few others, must make us regret that he did not more seriously apply
+himself to lyrical writing.
+
+
+Poem 140.
+
+_Aeolian lyre_: the Greeks ascribed the origin of their Lyrical Poetry
+to the colonies of Aeolis in Asia Minor.
+
+_Thracia's hills_ supposed a favourite resort of Mars.
+
+_Feather'd king_ the Eagle of Jupiter, admirably described by Pindar in
+a passage here imitated by Gray.
+
+_Idalia_: in Cyprus, where _Cytherea_ (Venus) was especially worshipped.
+
+_Hyperion_: the Sun. St. 6-8 allude to the Poets of the Islands and
+Mainland of Greece, to those of Rome and of England.
+
+_Theban Eagle_: Pindar.
+
+
+Poem 141.
+
+_chaste-eyed Queen_: Diana.
+
+
+Poem 142.
+
+_Attic warbler_: the nightingale.
+
+
+Poem 144.
+
+_sleekit_: sleek; _bickering brattle_: flittering flight; _laith_: loth;
+_pattle_: ploughstaff; _whyles_: at times; _a daimen icker_: a corn-ear
+now and then; _thrave_: shock; _lave_: rest; _foggage_: aftergrass;
+_snell_: biting; _but hald_: without dwelling-place; _thole_: bear;
+_cranreuch_: hoarfrost; _thy lane_: alone; _a-gley_: off the right
+line, awry.
+
+
+Poem 147.
+
+Perhaps the noblest stanzas in our language.
+
+
+Poem 148.
+
+_stoure_: dust-storm; _braw_: smart.
+
+
+Poem 149.
+
+_scaith_: hurt; _tent_: guard; _steer_: molest.
+
+
+Poem 151.
+
+_drumlie_: muddy; _birk_: birch.
+
+
+Poem 152.
+
+_greet_: cry; _daurna_: dare not.--There can hardly exist a poem more
+truly tragic in the highest sense than this: nor, except Sappho, has any
+Poetess known to the Editor equalled it in excellence.
+
+
+Poem 153.
+
+_fou_: merry with drink; _coost_: carried; _unco skeigh_: very proud;
+_gart_: forced; _abeigh_: aside; _Ailsa craig_: a rock in the Firth of
+Clyde; _grat his een bleert_: cried till his eyes were bleared;
+_lowpin_: leaping; _linn_: waterfall; _sair_: sore; _smoor'd_:
+smothered; _crouse and canty_: blythe and gay.
+
+
+Poem 154.
+
+Burns justly named this "one of the most beautiful songs in the Scots or
+any other language." One verse, interpolated by Beattie, is here
+omitted:--it contains two good lines, but is quite out of harmony with
+the original poem.
+
+_Bigonet_: little cap, probably altered from _beguinette_; _thraw_:
+twist; _caller_: fresh.
+
+
+Poem 155.
+
+_airts_: quarters; _row_: roll; _shaw_: small wood in a hollow, spinney;
+_knowes_: knolls.
+
+
+Poem 156.
+
+_jo_: sweetheart; _brent_: smooth; _pow_: head.
+
+
+Poem 157.
+
+_leal_: faithful; _fain_: happy.
+
+
+Poem 158.
+
+Henry VI. founded Eton.
+
+
+Poem 161.
+
+The Editor knows no Sonnet more remarkable than this, which, with 162,
+records Cowper's gratitude to the Lady whose affectionate care for many
+years gave what sweetness he could enjoy to a life radically wretched.
+Petrarch's sonnets have a more ethereal grace and a more perfect finish;
+Shakespeare's more passion; Milton's stand supreme in stateliness,
+Wordsworth's in depth and delicacy. But Cowper's unites with an
+exquisiteness in the turn of thought which the ancients would have
+called Irony, an intensity of pathetic tenderness peculiar to his loving
+and ingenuous nature. There is much mannerism, much that is unimportant
+or of now exhausted interest in his poems: but where he is great, it is
+with that elementary greatness which rests on the most universal human
+feelings. Cowper is our highest master in simple pathos.
+
+
+Poem 163.
+
+_fancied green_: cherished garden.
+
+
+Poem 164.
+
+Nothing except his surname appears recoverable with regard to the author
+of this truly noble poem: It should be noted as exhibiting a rare
+excellence,--the climax of simple sublimity.
+
+It is a lesson of high instructiveness to examine the essential
+qualities which give first-rate poetical rank to lyrics such as
+"To-morrow" or "Sally in our Alley," when compared with poems written
+(if the phrase may be allowed) in keys so different as the subtle
+sweetness of Shelley, the grandeur of Gray and Milton, or the delightful
+Pastoralism of the Elizabethan verse. Intelligent readers will gain
+hence a clear understanding of the vast imaginative, range of
+Poetry;--through what wide oscillations the mind and the taste of a
+nation may pass;--how many are the roads which Truth and Nature open to
+Excellence.
+
+
+Poem 166.
+
+_stout Cortez_: History requires here Balboa: (A.T.) It may be noticed,
+that to find in Chapman's Homer the "pure serene" of the original, the
+reader must bring with him the imagination of the youthful poet;--he
+must be "a Greek himself," as Shelley finely said of Keats.
+
+
+Poem 169.
+
+The most tender and true of Byron's smaller poems.
+
+
+Poem 170.
+
+This poem, with 236, exemplifies the peculiar skill with which Scott
+employs proper names: nor is there a surer sign of high poetical genius.
+
+
+Poem 191.
+
+The Editor in this and in other instances has risked the addition (or
+the change) of a Title, that the aim of the verses following may be
+grasped more clearly and immediately.
+
+
+Poem 198.
+
+_Nature's Eremite_: refers to the fable of the Wandering Jew.--This
+beautiful sonnet was the last word of a poet deserving the title
+"marvellous boy" in a much higher sense than Chatterton. If the
+fulfilment may ever safely be prophesied from the promise, England
+appears to have lost in Keats one whose gifts in Poetry have rarely been
+surpassed. Shakespeare, Milton, and Wordsworth, had their lives been
+closed at twenty-five, would (so far as we know) have left poems of less
+excellence and hope than the youth who, from the petty school and the
+London surgery, passed at once to a place with them of "high collateral
+glory."
+
+
+Poem 201.
+
+It is impossible not to regret that Moore has written so little in this
+sweet and genuinely national style.
+
+
+Poem 202.
+
+A masterly example of Byron's command of strong thought and close
+reasoning in verse:--as the next is equally characteristic of Shelley's
+wayward intensity, and 204 of the dramatic power, the vital
+identification of the poet with other times and characters, in which
+Scott is second only to Shakespeare.
+
+
+Poem 209.
+
+Bonnivard, a Genevese, was imprisoned by the Duke of Savoy in Chillon on
+the lake of Geneva for his courageous defence of his country against the
+tyranny with which Piedmont threatened it during the first half of the
+seventeenth century. This noble Sonnet is worthy to stand near Milton's
+on the Vaudois massacre.
+
+
+Poem 210.
+
+Switzerland was usurped by the French under Napoleon in 1800: Venice in
+1797 (211).
+
+
+Poem 215.
+
+This battle was fought Dec. 2, 1800, between the Austrians under
+Archduke John and the French under Moreau, in a forest near Munich.
+_Hohen Linden_ means _High Limetrees_.
+
+
+Poem 218.
+
+After the capture of Madrid by Napoleon, Sir J. Moore retreated before
+Soult and Ney to Corunna, and was killed whilst covering the embarcation
+of his troops. His tomb, built by Ney, bears this inscription--"John
+Moore, leader of the English armies, slain in battle, 1809."
+
+
+Poem 229.
+
+The Mermaid was the club-house of Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, and other
+choice spirits of that age.
+
+
+Poem 230.
+
+_Maisie_: Mary. Scott has given us nothing more complete and lovely than
+this little song, which unites simplicity and dramatic power to a
+wild-wood music of the rarest quality. No moral is drawn, far less any
+conscious analysis of feeling attempted:--the pathetic meaning is left
+to be suggested by the mere presentiment of the situation. Inexperienced
+critics have often named this, which may be called the Homeric manner,
+superficial, from its apparent simple facility: but first-rate
+excellence in it (as shown here, in 196, 156, and 129) is in truth one
+of the least common triumphs of Poetry.--This style should be compared
+with what is not less perfect in its way, the searching out of inner
+feeling, the expression of hidden meanings, the revelation of the heart
+of Nature and of the Soul within the Soul,--the analytical method, in
+short,--most completely represented by Wordsworth and by Shelley.
+
+
+Poem 234.
+
+_correi_: covert on a hillside; _Cumber_: trouble.
+
+
+Poem 235.
+
+Two intermediate stanzas have been here omitted. They are very
+ingenious, but, of all poetical qualities, ingenuity is least in
+accordance with pathos.
+
+
+Poem 243.
+
+This poem has an exaltation and a glory, joined with an exquisiteness of
+expression, which place it in the highest rank amongst the many
+masterpieces of its illustrious Author.
+
+
+Poem 252.
+
+_interlunar swoon_: interval of the Moon's invisibility.
+
+
+Poem 256.
+
+_Calpe_: Gibraltar; _Lofoden_: the Maelstrom whirlpool off the N.-W.
+coast of Norway.
+
+
+Poem 257.
+
+This lovely poem refers here and there to a ballad by Hamilton on the
+subject better treated in 127 and 128.
+
+
+Poem 268.
+
+_Arcturi_: seemingly used for _northern stars_.
+
+_And wild roses_, etc. Our language has no line modulated with more
+subtle sweetness. A good poet _might_ have written _And roses
+wild_:--yet this slight change would disenchant the verse of its peculiar
+beauty.
+
+
+Poem 270.
+
+_Ceres' daughter_: Proserpine; _God of Torment_: Pluto.
+
+
+Poem 271.
+
+This impassioned address expresses Shelley's most rapt imaginations, and
+is the direct modern representative of the feeling which led the Greeks
+to the worship of Nature.
+
+
+Poem 274.
+
+The leading idea of this beautiful description of a day's landscape in
+Italy is expressed with an obscurity not unfrequent with its author. It
+appears to be,--On the voyage of life are many moments of pleasure,
+given by the sight of Nature, who has power to heal even the worldliness
+and the uncharity of man.
+
+_Amphitrite_ was daughter to Ocean.
+
+_Sun-girt City_: It is difficult not to believe that the correct reading
+is _Seagirt_. Many of Shelley's poems appear to have been printed in
+England during his residence abroad: others were printed from his
+manuscripts after his death. Hence probably the text of no English Poet
+after 1660 contains so many errors. See the Note on No. 9.
+
+
+Poem 275.
+
+_Maenad_: a frenzied Nymph, attendant on Dionysus in the Greek
+mythology.
+
+_The sea-blooms_, etc.: Plants under water sympathise with the seasons
+of the laud, and hence with the winds which affect them.
+
+
+Poem 276.
+
+Written soon after the death, by shipwreck, of Wordsworth's brother
+John. This Poem should be compared with Shelley's following it. Each is
+the most complete expression of the innermost spirit of his art given by
+these great Poets:--of that Idea which, as in the case of the true
+Painter (to quote the words of Reynolds), "subsists only in the mind:
+The sight never beheld it, nor has the hand expressed it; it is an idea
+residing in the breast of the artist, which he is always labouring to
+impart, and which he dies at last without imparting."
+
+
+Poem 278.
+
+Proteus represented the everlasting changes united with ever-recurrent
+sameness, of the Sea.
+
+
+Poem 279.
+
+_the Royal Saint_: Henry VI.
+
+
+
+
+   INDEX OF WRITERS.
+
+
+   WITH DATES OF BIRTH AND DEATH.
+
+
+   ALEXANDER, William (1580-1640) 22
+
+   BACON, Francis (1561-1626) 57
+   BARBAULD, Anna Laetitia (1743-1825) 165
+   BARNEFIELD, Richard (16th Century) 34
+   BEAUMONT, Francis (1586-1616) 67
+   BURNS, Robert (1759-1796) 125, 132, 139, 144, 148, 149, 150, 151, 153,
+   155, 156
+   BYRON, George Gordon Noel (1788-1824) 169, 171, 173 190, 202; 209, 222,
+   232
+
+   CAMPBELL, Thomas (1777-1844) 181, 183, 187, 197, 206, 207, 215, 256,
+   262, 267, 283
+   CAREW, Thomas (1589-1639) 87
+   CAREY, Henry (-- -1743) 131
+   CIBBER, Colley (1671-1757) 119
+   COLERIDGE, Hartley (1796-1849) 175
+   COLERIDGE, Samuel Taylor (1772-1834) 168, 280
+   COLLINS, William (1720-1756) 124, 141, 146
+   COLLINS, --- (18th Century) 164
+   CONSTABLE, Henry (156-?-1604?) 15
+   COWLEY, Abraham (1618-1667) 102
+   COWPER, William (1731-1800) 129, 134, 143, 160, 161, 162
+   CRASHAW, Richard (1615?-1652) 79
+   CUNNINGHAM, Allan (1784-1842) 205
+
+   DANIEL, Samuel (1562-1619) 35
+   DEKKER, Thomas (-- -1638?) 54
+   DRAYTON, Michael (1563-1631) 37
+   DRUMMOND, William (1585-1649) 2, 38, 43, 55, 58, 59, 61
+   DRYDEN, John (1631-1700) 63, 116
+
+   ELLIOTT, Jane (18th Century) 126
+
+   FLETCHER, John (1576-1625) 104
+
+   GAY, John (1688-1732) 130
+   GOLDSMITH, Oliver (1728-1774) 138
+   GRAHAM, --- (1735-1797) 133
+   GRAY, Thomas (1716-1771) 117, 120, 123, 140, 142, 147, 158, 159
+
+   HERBERT, George (1593-1632) 74
+   HERRICK, Robert (1591-1674?) 82, 88, 92, 93, 96, 109, 110
+   HEYWOOD, Thomas (-- -1649?) 52
+   HOOD, Thomas (1798-1845) 224, 231, 235
+
+   JONSON, Ben (1574-1637) 73, 78, 90
+
+   KEATS, John (1795-1821) 166, 167, 191, 193, 198, 229, 244, 255, 270, 284
+
+   LAMB, Charles (1775-1835) 220, 233, 237
+   LINDSAY, Anne (1750-1825) 152
+   LODGE, Thomas (1556-1625) 16
+   LOGAN, John (1748-1788) 127
+   LOVELACE, Richard (1618-1658) 83, 99, 100
+   LYLYE, John (1554-1600) 51
+
+   MARLOWE, Christopher (1562-1593) 5
+   MARVELL, Andrew (1620-1678) 65, 111, 114
+   MICKLE, William Julius (1734-1788) 154
+   MILTON, John (1608-1674) 62, 64, 66, 70, 71, 76, 77, 85, 112, 113, 115
+   MOORE, Thomas (1780-1852) 185, 201, 217, 221, 225
+
+   NAIRN, Carolina (1766-1845) 157
+   NASH, Thomas (1567-1601?) 1
+
+   PHILIPS, Ambrose (1671-1749) 121
+   POPE, Alexander (1688-1744) 118
+   PRIOR, Matthew (1664-1721) 137
+
+   ROGERS, Samuel (1762-1855) 135, 145
+
+   SCOTT, Walter (1771-1832) 105, 170, 182, 186, 192, 194, 196, 204, 230,
+   234, 236, 239, 263
+   SEDLEY, Charles (1639-1701) 81, 98
+   SEWELL, George (-- -1726) 163
+   SHAKESPEARE, William (1564-1616) 3, 4, 6, 7, 8, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 18,
+   19, 20, 23, 24, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 36, 39, 42, 44, 45, 46, 48, 49
+   50, 56, 60
+   SHELLEY, Percy Bysshe (1792-1822) 172, 176, 184, 188, 195, 203, 226,
+   227, 241, 246, 252, 259, 260, 264, 265, 268, 271, 274, 275, 277, 285,
+   288
+   SHIRLEY, James (1596-1666) 68, 69
+   SIDNEY, Philip (1554-1586) 24
+   SOUTHEY, Robert (1774-1843) 216, 228
+   SPENSER, Edmund (1553-1598/9) 53
+   SUCKLING, John (1608/9-1641) 101
+   SYLVESTER, Joshua (1563-1618) 25
+   THOMSON, James (1700-1748) 122, 136
+
+   VAUGHAN, Henry (1621-1695) 75
+   VERE, Edward (1534-1604) 41
+
+   WALLER, Edmund (1605-1687) 89, 95
+   WEBSTER, John (-- -1638?) 47
+   WITHER, George (1588-1667) 103
+   WOLFE, Charles (1791-1823) 218
+   WORDSWORTH, William (1770-1850) 174, 177, 178, 179, 180, 189, 200, 208,
+   210, 211, 212, 213, 214, 219, 223, 238, 240, 242, 243, 245, 247, 248,
+   249, 250, 251, 253, 254, 257, 258, 261, 266, 269, 272, 273, 276, 278,
+   279, 281, 282, 286, 287
+   WOTTON, Henry (1568-1639) 72, 84
+   WYAT, Thomas (1503-1542) 21, 33
+
+   UNKNOWN: 9, 17, 40, 80, 86, 91, 94, 97, 106, 107, 108, 128
+
+
+
+
+
+   INDEX OF FIRST LINES.
+
+   Absence, hear thou my protestation
+   A Chieftain to the Highlands bound
+   A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by
+   Ah, Chloris! could I now but sit
+   Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh
+   All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd
+   All thoughts, all passions, all delights
+   And are ye sure the news is true?
+   And is this Yarrow?--This the Stream
+   And thou art dead, as young and fair
+   And wilt thou leave me thus?
+   Ariel to Miranda:--Take
+   Art thou pale for weariness
+   Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?
+   As it fell upon a day
+   As I was walking all alane
+   A slumber did my spirit seal
+   As slow our ship her foamy track
+   A sweet disorder in the dress
+   At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears
+    At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly
+   Avenge, O Lord! Thy slaughter'd Saints, whose bones
+   Awake, Aeolian lyre, awake
+   Awake, awake, my Lyre!
+   A weary lot is thine, fair maid
+   A wet sheet and a flowing sea
+   A widow bird sate mourning for her Love
+
+
+   Bards of Passion and of Mirth
+   Beauty sat bathing by a spring
+   Behold her, single in the field
+   Being your slave, what should I do but tend
+   Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed
+   Best and brightest, come away
+   Bid me to live, and I will live
+   Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy
+   Blow, blow, thou winter wind
+   Bright Star! would I were steadfast as thou art
+
+
+   Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren
+   Calm was the day, and through the trembling air
+   Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in Arms
+   Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night
+   Come away, come away, death
+   Come live with me and be my Love
+   Crabbed Age and Youth
+   Cupid and my Campaspe play'd
+   Cyriack, whose grandsire, on the royal bench
+
+
+   Daughter of Jove, relentless power
+   Daughter to that good earl, once President
+   Degenerate Douglas! O the unworthy lord!
+   Diaphenia like the daffadowndilly
+   Doth then the world go thus, doth all thus move?
+   Down in yon garden sweet and gay
+   Drink to me only with thine eyes
+   Duncan Gray cam here to woo
+
+
+   Earl March look'd on his dying child
+   Earth has not anything to show more fair
+   Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind!
+   Ethereal Minstrel! Pilgrim of the sky!
+   Ever let the Fancy roam
+
+
+   Fair Daffodils, we weep to see
+   Fair pledges of a fruitful tree
+   Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing
+   Fear no more the heat o' the sun
+   For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove
+   Forget not yet the tried intent
+   Four Seasons fill the measure of the year
+   From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony
+   From Stirling Castle we had seen
+   Full fathom five thy father lies
+
+
+   Gather ye rose-buds while ye may
+   Gem of the crimson-colour'd Even
+   Go fetch to me a pint o' wine
+   Go, lovely Rose!
+
+
+   Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
+   Happy the man, whose wish and care
+   Happy those early days, when I
+   He is gone on the mountain
+   He that loves a rosy cheek
+   Hence, all you vain delights
+   Hence, loathed Melancholy
+   Hence, vain deluding Joys
+   How delicious is the winning
+   How happy is he born and taught
+   How like a winter hath my absence been
+   How sleep the Brave, who sink to rest
+   How sweet the answer Echo makes
+   How vainly men themselves amaze
+
+
+   I am monarch of all I survey
+   I arise from dreams of thee
+   I dream'd that as I wander'd by the way
+   If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song
+   If doughty deeds my lady please
+   I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden
+   If Thou survive my well-contented day
+   If to be absent were to be
+   If women could be fair, and yet not fond
+   I have had playmates, I have had companions
+   I heard a thousand blended notes
+   I met a traveller from an antique land
+   I'm wearing awa', Jean
+   In a drear-nighted December
+   In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining
+   In the sweet shire of Cardigan
+   I remember, I remember
+   I saw where in the shroud did lurk
+   It is a beauteous evening, calm and free
+   It is not Beauty I demand
+   It is not growing like a tree
+   I travell'd among unknown men
+   It was a lover and his lass
+   It was a summer evening
+   I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking
+   I wander'd lonely as a cloud
+   I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile!
+   I wish I were where Helen lies
+
+
+   John Anderson, my jo, John
+
+
+   Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son
+   Let me not to the marriage of true minds
+   Life! I know not what thou art
+   Life of Life! thy lips enkindle
+   Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore
+   Like to the clear in highest sphere
+   Love not me for comely grace
+   Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours
+
+
+   Many a green isle needs must be
+   Mary! I want a lyre with other strings
+   Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour
+   Mine be a cot beside the hill
+   Mortality, behold and fear
+   Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes
+   Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold
+   Music, when soft voices die
+   My days among the Dead are past
+   My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
+   My heart leaps up when I behold
+   My Love in her attire doth show her wit
+   My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow
+   My thoughts hold mortal strife
+   My true-love hath my heart, and I have his
+
+
+   No longer mourn for me when I am dead
+   Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note
+   Not, Celia, that I juster am
+   Now the golden Morn aloft
+   Now the last day of many days
+
+
+   O blithe new-comer! I have heard
+   O Brignall banks are wild and fair
+   Of all the girls that are so smart
+   Of a' the airts the wind can blaw
+   Of Nelson and the North
+   O Friend! I know not which way I must look
+   Of this fair volume which we World do name
+   Oft in the stilly night
+   O if thou knew'st how thou thyself dost harm
+   Oh, lovers' eyes are sharp to see
+   Oh, snatch'd away in beauty's bloom!
+   O listen, listen, ladies gay!
+   O Mary, at thy window be
+   O me! what eyes hath love put in my head
+   O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
+   O my Luve's like a red, red rose
+   On a day, alack the day!
+   On a Poet's lips I slept
+   Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee
+   One more Unfortunate
+   One word is too often profaned
+   O never say that I was false of heart
+   On Linden, when the sun was low
+   O saw ye bonnie Lesley
+   O say what is that thing call'd Light
+   O talk not to me of a name great in story
+   Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd
+   Over the mountains
+   O waly waly up the bank
+   O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms
+   O Wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being
+   O World! O Life! O Time!
+
+
+   Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day
+   Phoebus, arise!
+   Pibroch of Donuil Dhu
+   Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth
+   Proud Maisie is in the wood
+
+
+   Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair
+
+
+   Rarely, rarely, comest thou
+   Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!
+
+
+   Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness
+   Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
+   Shall I, wasting in despair
+   She dwelt among the untrodden ways
+   She is not fair to outward view
+   She walks in beauty, like the night
+   She was a phantom of delight
+   Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea
+   Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part
+   Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile
+   Souls of Poets dead and gone
+   Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king
+   Star that bringest home the bee
+   Stern Daughter of the voice of God!
+   Surprised by joy--impatient as the wind
+   Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes
+   Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower
+   Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade
+   Swiftly walk over the western wave
+
+
+   Take, O take those lips away
+   Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense
+   Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind
+   Tell me where is Fancy bred
+   That time of year thou may'st in me behold
+   That which her slender waist confined
+   The curfew tolls the knell of parting day
+   The forward youth that would appear
+   The fountains mingle with the river
+   The glories of our blood and state
+   The last and greatest Herald of Heaven's King
+   The lovely lass o' Inverness
+   The merchant, to secure his treasure
+   The more we live, more brief appear
+   The poplars are fell'd! farewell to the shade
+   The sun is warm, the sky is clear
+   The sun upon the lake is low
+   The twentieth year is well-nigh past
+   The World is too much with us; late and soon
+   The World's a bubble, and the Life of Man
+   There be none of Beauty's daughters
+   There is a flower, the lesser Celandine
+   There is a garden in her face
+   There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away
+   There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream
+   They that have power to hurt, and will do none
+   This is the month, and this the happy morn
+   This life, which seems so fair
+   Three years she grew in sun and shower
+   Thy braes were bonnie, Yarrow stream
+   Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright
+   Timely blossom, Infant fair
+   Tired with all these, for restful death I cry
+   Toll for the brave
+   To me, fair Friend, you never can be old
+   'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won
+   'Twas on a lofty vase's side
+   Two Voices are there, one is of the Sea
+
+
+   Under the greenwood tree
+
+
+   Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying
+   Victorious men of earth, no more
+
+
+   Waken, lords and ladies gay
+   Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie
+   Were I as base as is the lowly plain
+   We talk'd with open heart, and tongue
+   We walk'd along, while bright and red
+   We watch'd her breathing thro' the night
+   Whenas in silks my Julia goes
+   When Britain first at Heaven's command
+   When first the fiery-mantled Sun
+   When God at first made Man
+   When he who adores thee has left but the name
+   When icicles hang by the wall
+   When I consider how my light is spent
+   When I have borne in memory what has tamed
+   When I have fears that I may cease to be
+   When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced
+   When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes
+   When in the chronicle of wasted time
+   When lovely woman stoops to folly
+   When Love with unconfined wings
+   When maidens such as Hester die
+   When Music, heavenly maid, was young
+   When Ruth was left half desolate
+   When the lamp is shatter'd
+   When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame
+   When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
+   When we two parted
+   Where art thou, my beloved Son
+   Where shall the lover rest
+   Where the remote Bermudas ride
+   While that the sun with his beams hot
+   Whoe'er she be
+   Why art thou silent? Is thy love a plant
+   Why, Damon, with the forward day
+   Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
+   Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?
+   With little here to do or see
+
+
+   Ye banks and braes and streams around
+   Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon
+   Ye distant spires, ye antique towers
+   Ye Mariners of England
+   Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!
+   Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more
+   You meaner beauties of the night
+
+
+
+
+
+   Corrections to Collins edition:
+
+   Poem 143--"W. COUPER" to "W. COWPER"
+   Poem 274--"like a green see" to "like a green sea"
+   Poem 280--"woful Ere" to "woeful Ere"
+   Palgrave's Notes--Poem 62: "mythe" to "myth"
+   Palgrave's Notes--Poem 85: "Parliamant" to "Parliament"
+   Palgrave's Notes--Poem 140: "Acolian lyre" to "Aeolian lyre"
+   Palgrave's Notes--Poem 140: "were Cytheria" to "where Cytheria"
+   Palgrave's Notes--Poem 275: "Geeek" to "Greek"
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Golden Treasury, by Various
+
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+jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize
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+status under the laws that apply to them.
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+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for
+eBook #19221 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/19221)