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SPECIMENS 
 
 OF 
 
 ENGLISH SONNETS 
 
 SELECTED BY 
 
 THE REV. ALEXANDER DYCE 
 
 LONDON 
 
 WILLIAM PICKERING 
 1833 
 
C, WHITTINCHAM, TOOKS COURT, 
 CHANCERY LANE. 
 
TO 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, ESQ. 
 
 THIS SELECTION OF SONNETS 
 
 IS INSCRIBED, 
 
 WITH MUCH RESPECT AND ESTEEM, 
 
 BY 
 
 ALEXANDER DYCE. 
 
 i 
 

THE Sonnet, first introduced into our language by Ford 
 Surrey, continued to be a favourite species of writing with 
 most of the eminent men who adorned our poetic annals, till 
 the Restoration ; but, when that event had wrought a change 
 in the character of our literature, it experienced a long 
 period of neglect. French models became the study of our 
 poets; and from the time of Milton* to that of Edwards, 
 about the middle of the eighteenth century, this kind of 
 composition may be considered as entirely abandoned. 
 
 From the time of 'Edwards jto the present, — our taste for 
 Italian poetry having revived, — the Sonnet has been rendered 
 popular in this country by a series of distinguished writers. 
 
 * Though Milton's Sonnets were not all published, they were all 
 composed, before the Restoration. 
 
VI PREFACE. 
 
 The success with which it has been recently cultivated by Mr. 
 Wordsworth, would alone have conferred an enduring cele- 
 brity on his name, even if he had achieved no other triumphs. 
 
 The object of this volume is to exhibit specimens of 
 best Sonnet-writers, both ancient and modern, — to lay bt ; », „ 
 the public productions of intrinsic merit, not to gratify the 
 curious antiquary by extracts from the rare works of for- 
 gotten rhymers. 
 
 All the " Passions" in Watson's Centurie of Love exceed 
 by four lines the limits prescribed to the Sonnet : one of 
 them, however, I have inserted, not choosing to exclude from 
 the selection a writer (by no means contemptible) who has 
 acquired some notoriety of late years from the preposterous 
 declaration of Steevens, — that he was u a more elegant 
 sonnetteer than Shakespeare." 
 
 The arrangement of the following pieces has been made, 
 not according to the dates of their authors deaths, but with 
 reference to the time of their first appearance : thus, the 
 beautiful Echo and Silence of my friend Sir Egerton 
 Brydges, having been published in 1785, is placed earlier in 
 the volume than Sonnets by various writers who have long 
 been in the grave. 
 
 ALEXANDER DYCE. 
 
 London, June 1, 1833. 
 
LIST OF SONNET-WRITERS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey 1 — 3 
 
 Sir Philip Sidney 4 — 14 
 
 Thomas Watson 15 
 
 Sir Walter Raleigh 16 
 
 Samuel Daniel , 17—28 
 
 Michael Drayton '29—33 
 
 Henry Constable 34—36 
 
 Barnaby Barnes 37 — 40 
 
 Edmund Spenser , 41 — 52 
 
 William Shakespeare 53—90 
 
 William Drummond 91—107 
 
 John Donne 108 
 
 Sir Richard Fanshawe 109 
 
 John Milton , 110—126 
 
 Thomas Edwards 127 
 
 Thomas Gray 132 
 
 Thomas Warton 133—139 
 
Vlil LIST OF SONNET-WRITERS. 
 
 Page 
 
 John Bampfylde 140—150 
 
 Charlotte Smith 151—159 
 
 Sir Egerton Brydges 160 
 
 Thomas Russell 161—164 
 
 William Lisle Bowles 165—171 
 
 Helen Maria Williams 172 
 
 William Mason 173 
 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge 174—175 
 
 Charles Lamb 176 
 
 Anna Seward „ 177—184 
 
 Robert Southey 185 
 
 William Cowper 186 
 
 William Crowe 187 
 
 Henry Kirke White 188—189 
 
 William Wordsworth 190—204 
 
 John Keats 205 
 
 Edward, Lord Thurlow.... 206 
 
 William Stewart Rose 207 
 
 John Mitford 208—209 
 
 John Leyden (Notes) 223 
 
I 
 
 HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY. 
 
 From Tuscane came my Lady's worthy race ; 
 Fair Florence was sometime her ancient seat. 
 The western isle, whose pleasant shore doth face 
 Wild Camber's cliffs, did give her lively heat. 
 Foster'd she was with milk of Irish breast: 
 Her sire an earl; her dame of princes' blood. 
 From tender years in Britain she doth rest 
 With king's child, where she tasteth costly food. 
 Honsdon did first present her to mine eyne : 
 Bright is her hue, and Geraldine she hight. 
 Hampton me taught to wish her first for mine ; 
 And Windsor, alas ! doth chase me from her sight. 
 Her beauty of kind ; her virtues from above : 
 Happy is he that can obtain her love ! 
 
 B 
 
HENRY HOWARD,. EARL OF SURREY. 
 
 Set me whereas the sun doth parch the green. 
 Or where his beams do not dissolve the ice ; 
 In temperate heat, where he is felt and seen ; 
 In presence prest of people, mad, or wise - f 
 Set me in high, or yet in low degree ; 
 In longest night y or in the shortest day ; 
 In clearest sky, or where clouds thickest be ; 
 In lusty youth, or when my hairs are gray ; 
 Set me in heaven, in earth, or else in hell \ 
 In hill, or dale, or in the foaming flood ; 
 Thrall, or at large, alive whereso I dwell. 
 Sick or in health, in evil fame or good ; 
 Hers will I be, and only with this thought 
 Content myself, although my chance be nought. 
 
HEXRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY. 
 
 The soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings, 
 With green hath clad the hill and eke the vale: - 
 The nightingale with feathers new she sings ; 
 The turtle to her make bath told her tale: 
 Summer is come, for every spray now springs ; 
 The hart hath hung his old head on the pale ; 
 The buck in brake his winter coat he flings , 
 
 The fishes flete with new-repaired scale ; 
 
 The adder all her slough away she slings ; 
 
 The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale ; 
 
 The busy bee her honey now she mings ; 
 
 Winter is worn that was the flowers' bale : 
 
 And thus I see among these pleasant things 
 
 Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs. 
 
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 Alas ! have I not pain enough, my friend, 
 Upon whose breast a fiercer gripe doth tire 
 Than did on him who first stale down the fire, 
 While Love on me doth all his quiver spend ; 
 But with your rhubarb words ye must contend 
 To grieve me worse, in saying, that desire 
 Doth plunge my well-formed soul even in the mire 
 Of sinful thoughts, which do in ruin end ? 
 If that be sin, which doth the manners frame, 
 Well staid with truth in word and faith of deed, 
 Ready of wit, and fearing nought but shame ; 
 If that be sin, which in fix'd hearts doth breed 
 A loathing of all loose unchastity, 
 Then love is sin, and let me sinful be. 
 
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 Because I oft, in dark abstracted guise, 
 Seem most alone in greatest company, 
 With dearth of words, or answers quite awry, 
 To them that would make speech of speech arise ; 
 They deem, and of their doom the rumour flies, 
 That poison foul of bubbling pride doth lie 
 So in my swelling breast, that only I 
 Fawn on myself, and others do despise. 
 Yet pride, I think, doth not my soul possess, 
 Which looks too oft in his unflattering glass : 
 But one worse fault, ambition, I confess, 
 That makes me oft my best friends overpass, 
 Unseen, unheard, while thought to highest place 
 Bends all his power, even unto Stella's grace. 
 
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY- 
 
 With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climVst the skies! 
 
 How silently, and with how wan a face ! 
 
 What ! may it be, that even in heavenly place 
 
 That busy archer his sharp arrows tries ? 
 
 Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes 
 
 Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case ; 
 
 I read it in thy looks, thy languished grace 
 
 To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. 
 
 Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, 
 
 Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit ? 
 
 Are beauties there as proud as here they be ? 
 
 Do they above love to be lov'd, and yet 
 
 Those lovers scorn, whom that love doth possess? 
 
 Do they call virtue there ungratefulness ? 
 
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 Come, Sleep — O Sleep, the certain knot of peace, 
 The baiting place of wit, the balm of woe, 
 The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, 
 Th' indifferent judge between the high and low! 
 With shield of proof, shield me from out the prease 
 Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw : 
 
 make in me those civil wars to cease I 
 
 1 will good tribute pay, if thou do so. 
 
 Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed ; 
 A chamber deaf to noise, and blind to light; 
 A rosy garland, and a weary head : 
 And if these things, as being thine by right, 
 Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt* in me, 
 Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see. 
 
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 As good to write, as for to lie and groan : 
 
 O Stella dear, how much thy power hath wrought, 
 
 That hast my mind, none of the basest, brought 
 
 My still kept course, while others sleep, to moan ! 
 
 Alas ! if from the height of Virtue's throne, 
 
 Thou canst vouchsafe the influence of a thought 
 
 Upon a wretch that long thy grace hath sought ; 
 
 Weigh then, how I by thee am overthrown : 
 
 And then, think thus, although thy beauty be 
 
 Made manifest by such a victory, 
 
 Yet noble conquerors do wrecks avoid : 
 
 Since then thou hast so far subdued me, 
 
 That in my heart I offer still to thee, 
 
 O do not let thy temple be destroy'd! 
 
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 Because I breathe not love to every one, 
 Nor do not use set colours for to wear, 
 Nor nourish special locks of vowed hair, 
 Nor give each speech a full point of a groan ; 
 The courtly nymphs, acquainted with the moan 
 Of them who in their lips Love's standard bear, 
 What, he ? say they of me, now I dare swear 
 He cannot love ! no, no ; let him alone. 
 And think so still, so Stella know my mind ! 
 Profess indeed I do not Cupid's art ; 
 But you, fair maids, at length this true shall find, 
 That his right badge is but worn in the heart. 
 Dumb swans, not chattering pies, do lovers prove : 
 They love indeed, who quake to say they love. 
 
10 
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 No more, my dear, no more these counsels try, 
 
 give my passions leave to run their race ! 
 Let fortune lay on me her worst disgrace, 
 
 Let folk overcharged with brain against me cry ; 
 Let clouds bedim my face, break in mine eye, 
 Let me no steps but of lost labour trace ; 
 Let all the earth with scorn recount my case ; 
 But do not will me from my love to fly. 
 
 1 do not envy Aristotle's wit, 
 
 Nor do aspire to Caesar's bleeding fame ; 
 Nor ought do care though some above me sit ; 
 Nor hope nor wish another course to frame, 
 But that which once may win thy cruel heart : 
 Thou art my wit, and thou my virtue art. 
 
11 
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance, 
 Guided so well, that I obtained the prize, 
 Both by the judgment of the English eyes, 
 And of some sent from that sweet enemy, France ; 
 Horsemen, my skill in horsemanship advance, 
 Town-folks, my strength ; a daintier judge applies 
 His praise to sleight, which from good use doth rise ; 
 Some lucky wits impute it but to chance ; 
 Others, because of both sides I do take 
 My blood from them who did excell in this, 
 Think nature me a man of arms did make : 
 How far they shot awry ! the true cause is, 
 Stella look'd on, and from her heavenly face 
 Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race. 
 
12 
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 O kiss, which dost those ruddy gems impart 
 
 Or gems, or fruits of new-found Paradise, 
 
 Breathing all bliss, and sweetening to the heart, 
 
 Teaching dumb lips a nobler exercise ! 
 
 O kiss, which souls, even souls, together ties 
 
 By links of love, and only nature's art ! 
 
 How fain would I paint thee to all men's eyes, 
 
 Or of thy gifts at least shade out some part ! 
 
 But she forbids ; with blushing words, she says, 
 
 She builds her fame on higher-seated praise : 
 
 But my heart burns, I cannot silent be. 
 
 Then since, dear life, you fain would have me peace, 
 
 And I, mad with delight, want wit to cease, 
 
 Stop you my mouth with still still kissing me. 
 
13 
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 Stella, think not that I by verse seek fame, 
 
 Who seek, who hope, who love, who live but thee; 
 
 Thine eyes my pride, thy lips mine history : 
 
 If thou praise not, all other praise is shame. 
 
 Nor so ambitious am I, as to frame 
 
 A nest for my young praise in laurel tree : 
 
 In truth I swear, I wish not there should be 
 
 Grav'd in my epitaph a poet's name. 
 
 Ne, if I would, I could just title make, 
 
 That any laud to me thereof should grow, 
 
 Without my plumes from others' wings I take, 
 
 For nothing from my wit or will doth flow ; 
 
 Since all my words thy beauty doth indite, 
 
 And Love doth hold my hand, and makes me write. 
 
14 
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY, 
 
 When far-spent night persuades each mortal eye, 
 To whom nor art nor nature granteth light, 
 To lay his then mark- wanting shafts of sight, 
 Clos'd with their quivers, in sleep's armoury ; 
 With windows ope, then most my mind doth lie, 
 Viewing the shape of darkness and delight ; 
 Takes in that sad hue, which with th' inward night 
 Of his maz'd powers keeps perfect harmony : 
 But when birds charm, and that sweet air which is 
 Morn's messenger, with rose-enamell'd skies, 
 Calls each wight to salute the flower of bliss ; 
 In tomb of lids then buried are mine eyes, 
 Forced by their lord, who is asham'd to find 
 Such light in sense, with such a darkened mind. 
 
15 
 
 THOMAS WATSON, 
 
 When May is in his prime and youthful spring 
 
 Doth clothe the tree with leaves, and ground with flowers. 
 
 And time of year reviveth every thing, 
 
 And lovely nature smiles, and nothing lours ; 
 
 Then Philomela most doth strain her breast 
 
 With night-complaints, and sits in little rest. 
 
 This bird's estate I may compare with mine, 
 
 To whom fond love doth work such wrongs by day, 
 
 That in the night my heart must needs repine 
 
 And storm with sighs, to ease me as I may, 
 
 Whilst others are becalm'd, or lie them still, 
 
 Or sail secure, with tide and wind at will. 
 
 And as all those which hear this bird complain 
 
 Conceive in all her tunes a sweet delight, 
 
 Without remorse or pitying her pain ; 
 
 So she, for whom I wail both day and night, 
 
 Doth sport herself in hearing my complaint ; 
 
 A just reward for serving such a saint. 
 
16 
 
 SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 
 
 on spenser's faery queene. 
 
 Methought I saw the grave where Laura lay, 
 Within that temple where the vestal flame 
 Was wont to burn ; and passing by that way, 
 To see that buried dust of living fame, 
 Whose tomb fair Love and fairer Virtue kept, 
 All suddenly I saw the Faery Queen ; 
 At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept, 
 And from thenceforth those Graces were not seen ; 
 For they this Queen attended ; in whose stead 
 Oblivion laid him down on Laura's hearse : 
 Hereat the hardest stones were seen to bleed, 
 And groans of buried ghosts the heavens did pierce, 
 Where Homer's sprite did tremble all for grief, 
 And curs'd th' access of that celestial thief. 
 
17 
 
 SAMUEL DANIEL. 
 
 Unto the boundless ocean of thy beauty- 
 Runs this poor river, charged with streams of zeal ; 
 Returning thee the tribute of my duty, 
 Which here my love, my youth, my plaints reveal. 
 Here I unclasp the book of my charg'd soul, 
 Where I have castth' accounts of all my care : 
 Here have I summed my sighs ; here I enroll 
 How they were spent for thee ; look what they are : 
 Look on the dear expenses of my youth, 
 And see how just I reckon with thine eyes ; 
 Examine well thy beauty with my truth, 
 And cross my cares, ere greater sums arise. 
 Read it, sweet maid, though it be done but slightly : 
 Who can shew all his love, doth love but lightly. 
 
 c 
 
18 
 
 SAMUEL DANIEL. 
 
 Fair is my love, and cruel as she's fair ; 
 
 Her brow shades frowns, although her eyes are sunny ? 
 
 Her smiles are lightning, though her pride despair, 
 
 And her disdains are gall, her favours honey : 
 
 A modest maid, deck'd with a blush of honour, 
 
 Whose feet do tread green paths of youth and love ; 
 
 The wonder of all eyes that look upon her, 
 
 Saered on earth, designed a saint above. 
 
 Chastity and Beauty, which were deadly foes, 
 
 Live reconciled friends within her brow ; 
 
 And had she Pity to conjoin with those, 
 
 Then who had heard the plaints I utter now ? 
 
 For had she not been fair, and thus unkind, 
 
 My Muse had slept, and none had known my mind. 
 
19 
 
 SAMUEL DANIEL. 
 
 Why should I sing in verse, why should I frame 
 These sad neglected notes for her dear sake ? 
 Why should I offer up unto her name 
 The sweetest sacrifice my youth can make ? 
 Why should I strive to make her live for ever, 
 That never deigns to give me joy to live ? 
 Why should my afflicted Muse so much endeavour 
 Such honour unto cruelty to give ? 
 If her defects have purchased her this fame, 
 What should her virtues do, her smiles, her love ? 
 If this her worst, how should her best inflame? 
 What passions would her milder favours move I 
 Favours, I think, would sense quite overcome, 
 And that makes happy lovers ever dumb. 
 
20 
 
 SAMUEL DANIEL. 
 
 Restore thy tresses to the golden ore, 
 Yield Cytherea's son those arcs of love ; 
 Bequeath the heavens the stars that I adore, 
 And to th' orient do thy pearls remove ; 
 Yield thy hand's pride unto the ivory white, 
 Th' Arabian odours give thy breathing sweet, 
 Restore thy blush unto Aurora bright, 
 To Thetis give the honour of thy feet ; 
 Let Venus have thy graces, her resigned, 
 And thy sweet voice give back unto the spheres ; 
 But yet restore thy fierce and cruel mind 
 To Hyrcan tigers and to ruthless bears ; 
 Yield to the marble thy hard heart again : 
 So shalt thou cease to plague, and I to pain. 
 
21 
 
 SAMUEL DANIEL. 
 
 And yet I cannot reprehend the flight, 
 
 Or blame th' attempt presuming so to soar ; 
 
 The mounting venture for a high delight 
 
 Did make the honour of the fall the more : 
 
 For* who gets wealth that puts not from the shore ? 
 
 Danger hath honour, great designs their fame, 
 
 Glory doth follow, courage goes before ; 
 
 And though th* event oft answers not the same, 
 
 Suffice that high attempts have never shame. 
 
 The mean observer, whom base safety keeps, 
 
 Lives without honour, dies without a name, 
 
 And in eternal darkness ever sleeps : 
 
 And therefore, Delia, 'tis to me no blot, 
 
 To have attempted, though attained thee not. 
 
22 
 
 SAMUEL DANIEL. 
 
 I once may see when years shall wreak my wrongs 
 
 When golden hairs shall change to silver wire ; 
 
 And those bright rays that kindle all this fire 
 
 Shall fail in force, their working not so strong. 
 
 Then Beauty, now the burthen of my song, 
 
 Whose glorious blaze the world doth so admire, 
 
 Must yield up all to tyrant Time's desire ; 
 
 Then fade those flowers that deck'd her pride so long\ 
 
 When, if she grieve to gaze her in her glass, 
 
 Which then presents her winter-wither'd hue, 
 
 Go you, my verse, go tell her what she was ; 
 
 For, what she was she best shall find in you : 
 
 Your fiery heat lets not her glory pass, 
 
 But (Phoenix-like) shall make her live anew, 
 
23 
 
 SAMUEL DAXIEL. 
 
 Look, Delia, how w'esteem the half-blown rose, 
 
 The image of thy blush and summer's honour ; 
 
 Whilst yet her tender bud doth undisclose 
 
 That full of beauty Time bestows upon her. 
 
 No sooner spreads her glory in the air, 
 
 But straight her wide-blown pomp comes to decline ; 
 
 She then is scorn'd that late adorn'd the fair ; 
 
 So fade the roses of those cheeks of thine. 
 
 No April can revive thy withered flowers, 
 
 Whose springing grace adorns thy glory now ; 
 
 Swift speedy Time, feather'd with flying hours, 
 
 Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow : 
 
 Then do not thou such treasure waste in vain, 
 
 But love now whilst thou may'st be lov'd again. 
 
24 
 
 SAMUEL DANIEL, 
 
 When men shall find thy flower, thy glory pass? 
 And thou, with careful brow sitting alone, 
 Received hast this message from thy glass, 
 That tells the truth, and says that all is gone ; 
 Fresh shalt thou see in me the wounds thou madest, 
 Though spent thy flame, in me the heat remaining ; 
 I that have lov'd thee thus before thou fadest, 
 My faith shall wax, when thou art in thy waning. 
 The world shall find this miracle in me, 
 That fire can burn when all the matter's spent : 
 Then what my faith hath been thyself shalt see, 
 And that thou wast unkind, thou may'st repent. 
 Thou may'st repent that thou hast scorn' d my tears, 
 When winter snows upon thy sable hairs. 
 
25 
 
 SAMUEL DANIEL. 
 
 Beauty, sweet love, is like the morning dew, 
 Whose short refresh upon the tender green 
 Cheers for a time, but till the sun doth shew, 
 And straight 'tis gone as it had never been. 
 Soon doth it fade that makes the fairest flourish, 
 Short is the glory of the blushing rose ; 
 The hue which thou so carefully dost nourish, 
 Yet which at length thou must be forc'd to lose. 
 When thou, surcharged with burthen of thy years, 
 Shalt bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth, 
 And that in beauty's lease, expired, appears 
 The date of age, the calends of our death — 
 But ah, no more ! — this must not be foretold, 
 For women grieve to think they must be old. 
 
26 
 
 SAMUEL DANIEL. 
 
 I must not grieve my love, whose eyes would read 
 Lines of delight, whereon her youth might smile ; 
 Flowers have a time before they come to seed, 
 And she is young, and now must sport the while. 
 And sport, sweet maid, in season of these years, 
 And learn to gather flowers before they wither ; 
 And where the sweetest blossom first appears, 
 Let Love and Youth conduct thy pleasures thither. 
 Lighten forth smiles to clear the clouded air, 
 And calm the tempest which my sighs do raise ; 
 Pity and smiles do best become the fair, 
 Pity and smiles must only yield thee praise. 
 Make me to say, when all my griefs are gone, 
 Happy the heart that sigh'd for such a one. 
 
27 
 
 SAMUEL DANIEL. 
 
 Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night, 
 Brother to Death, in silent darkness born, 
 Relieve my languish, and restore the light, 
 With dark forgetting of my care's 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. 
 
28 
 
 SAMUEL DANIEL. 
 
 Let others sing of Knights and Palladines, 
 
 In aged accents and untimely words ; 
 
 Paint shadows in imaginary lines, 
 
 Which well the reach of their high wits records : 
 
 But I must sing of thee, and those fair eyes 
 
 Authentic shall my verse in time to come, 
 
 When yet th' unborn shall say, lo, where she lies, 
 
 Whose beauty made him speak, that else was dumb ! 
 
 These are the arcs, the trophies I erect, 
 
 That fortify thy name against old age ; 
 
 And these thy sacred virtues must protect 
 
 Against the dark, and Time's consuming rage. 
 
 Though th' error of my youth in them appear, 
 
 Suffice, they shew I liv'd, and lov'd thee dear. 
 
29 
 
 MICHAEL DRAYTON. 
 
 Why should your fair eyes with such sovereign grace 
 
 Disperse their rays on every vulgar spirit, 
 
 Whilst I in darkness, in the self-same place, 
 
 Get not one glance to recompense my merit? 
 
 So doth the ploughman gaze the wandering star, 
 
 And only rests contented with the light, 
 
 That never learned what constellations are, 
 
 Beyond the bent of his unknowing sight. 
 
 O, why should Beauty (custom to obey) 
 
 To their gross sense apply herself so ill ! 
 
 Would God I were as ignorant as they, 
 
 When I am made unhappy by my skill ! 
 
 Only compeird on this poor good to boast, 
 
 Heavens are not kind to them that know them most. 
 
30 
 
 MICHAEL DRAYTON. 
 
 Whilst thus my pen strives to eternize thee, 
 
 Age rules my lines with wrinkles in my face, 
 
 Where, in the map of all my misery, 
 
 Is modelFd out the world of my disgrace : 
 
 Whilst in despite of tyrannizing times, 
 
 Medea-like, I make thee young again, 
 
 Proudly thou scorn'st my world-out-wearing rhymes, 
 
 And murther'st virtue with thy coy disdain : 
 
 And though, in youth, my youth untimely perish, 
 
 To keep thee from oblivion and the grave, 
 
 Ensuing ages yet my rhymes shall cherish, 
 
 Where I entomb'd my better part shall save ; 
 
 And though this earthly body fade and die, 
 
 My name shall mount upon eternity. 
 
31 
 
 MICHAEL DRAYTON* 
 
 In pride of wit, when high desire of fame 
 Gave life and courage to my labouring pen, 
 And first the sound and virtue of my name 
 Won grace and credit in the ears of men ; 
 With those the thronged theatres that press, 
 I in the circuit for the laurel strove, 
 Where, the full praise, I freely must confess. 
 In heat of blood, a modest mind might move. 
 With shouts and claps, at every little pause, 
 When the proud round on every side hath rung, 
 Sadly I sit unmov'd with the applause, 
 As though to me it nothing did belong : 
 No public glory vainly I pursue ; 
 The praise I strive, is to eternize you. 
 
32 
 
 MICHAEL DRAYTON. 
 
 Clear Anker, on whose silver-sanded shore, 
 
 My soul-shrin'd saint, my fair Idea, lies ; 
 
 O blessed brook, whose milk-white swans adore 
 
 That crystal stream refined by her eyes ! 
 
 Where sweet myrrh-breathing Zephyr in the spring 
 
 Gently distils his nectar -dropping showers, 
 
 Where nightingales in Arden sit and sing 
 
 Amongst the dainty dew-impearled flowers ; 
 
 Say thus, fair brook, when thou shalt see thy queen,- 
 
 Lo, here thy shepherd spent his wandering years, 
 
 And in these shades, dear nymph, he oft hath been, 
 
 And here to thee he sacrific'd his tears : 
 
 Fair Arden, thou my Tempe art alone, 
 
 And thou, sweet Anker, art my Helicon. 
 
33 
 
 MICHAEL DRAYTON-. 
 
 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 hrows 
 
 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 would'st, when all have given him over, 
 
 From death to life thou might'st him yet recover. 
 
 D 
 
34 
 
 HENRY CONSTABLE. 
 
 Much sorrow in itself my love doth move, 
 More my despair, to love a hopeless bliss ; 
 My folly most, to love whom sure to miss : 
 Oh, help me but this last grief to remove ! 
 All pain, if you command, it joy shall prove, 
 And wisdom to seek joy: then say but this ; 
 Because my pleasure in thy torment is, 
 I do command thee without hope to love. 
 So, when this thought my sorrow shall augment, 
 That my own folly did procure my pain, 
 Then shall I say, to give myself content, 
 Obedience only made me love in vain : 
 It was your will, and not my want of wit; 
 I have the pain, bear you the blame of it. 
 
35 
 
 HENRY CONSTABLE. 
 
 If ever sorrow spoke from soul that loves, 
 
 As speaks a spirit in a man possest, 
 
 In me her spirit speaks, my soul it moves, 
 
 Whose sigh-swoln words breed whirlwinds in my breast : 
 
 Or, like the echo of a passing bell, 
 
 Which sounding on the water seems to howl, 
 
 So rings my heart a fearful heavy knell, 
 
 And keeps all night in consort with the owl. 
 
 My cheek with a thin ice of tears is clad ; 
 
 Mine eyes like morning stars are blear'd and red : 
 
 What resteth then but I be raging mad, 
 
 To see that she, my care's chief conduit-head, 
 
 When all streams else help quench my burning heart, 
 
 Shuts up her springs, and will no grace impart ? 
 
36 
 
 HENRY CONSTABLE. 
 
 To live in hell, and heaven to behold ; 
 To welcome life, and die a living death ; 
 To sweat with heat, and yet be freezing cold ; 
 To grasp at stars, and lie the earth beneath ; 
 To tread a maze, that never shall have end ; 
 To burn in sighs, and starve in daily tears ; 
 To climb a hill, and never to descend ; 
 Giants to kill, and quake at childish fears ; 
 To pine for food, and watch th' Hesperian tree ; 
 To thirst for drink, and nectar still to draw ; 
 To live accurst, whom men hold blest to be, 
 And weep those wrongs which never creature saw 
 If this be love, if love in these be founded, 
 My heart is love, for these in it are grounded. 
 
BARN A BY BARNES. 
 
 Unto my spirit lend an angel's wing, 
 
 By which it might mount to that place of rest, 
 
 Where Paradise may me relieve, opprest ! 
 
 Lend to my tongue an angel's voice to sing ! 
 
 Thy praise my comfort ; and for ever bring 
 
 My notes thereof from the bright east to west ! 
 
 Thy mercy lend unto my soul distrest ! 
 
 Thy grace unto my wits ! then shall the sling 
 
 Of righteousness that monster Sathan kill, 
 
 Who with despair my dear salvation dar'd, 
 
 And, like the Philistine, stood breathing still - 
 
 Proud threats against my soul, for heaven prepar'd : 
 
 At length, I like an angel shall appear, 
 
 In spotless white, an angel's crown to wear ! 
 
38 
 
 BARNABY BARNES* 
 
 The Sun of our soul's light Thee would I call I 
 
 But for our light Thou didst the bright sun make ; 
 
 Nor reason that thy majesty should take 
 
 Thy chief est subjects' epithets at alL 
 
 Our chief direction's Star celestial, 
 
 (But that the stars for our direction's sake 
 
 Thou fixed, and canst at thy pleasure shake,) 
 
 I, would thee name ! The Rock substantial 
 
 Of our assurance I would term thy name ! 
 
 But that all rocks by thy command were made* 
 
 If King of kings thy majesty became, 
 
 Monarch of monarchs I Thee would have said I 
 
 But thou gives kingdoms, and makes crowns unstable : 
 
 By these I know thy name ineffable I 
 
39 
 
 BARNABY BARNES. 
 
 A blast of wind, a momentary breath, 
 
 A watry bubble symboliz'd with air, 
 
 A sun-blown rose but for a season fair, 
 
 A ghostly glance, a skeleton of death, 
 
 A morning dew, pearling the grass beneath, 
 
 Whose moisture sun's appearance doth impair ; 
 
 A lightning glimpse, a muse of thought and care, 
 
 A planet's shot, a shade which followeth, 
 
 A voice which vanisheth so soon as heard, 
 
 The thriftless heir of time, a rolling wave, 
 
 A show no more in action than regard, 
 
 A mass of dust, world's momentary slave, 
 
 Is Man, in state of our old Adam made, 
 
 Soon born to die, soon flourishing to fade. 
 
40 
 
 BARNABY BARNES. 
 
 The world's bright comforter, whose beamsome light 
 
 Poor creatures cheereth, mounting from the deep, 
 
 His course doth in prefixed compass keep ; 
 
 And as courageous giant takes delight 
 
 To run his race, and exercise his might, 
 
 Till him, down gallopping the mountain's steep, 
 
 Clear Hesperus, smooth messenger of sleep, 
 
 Views ; and the silver ornament of night 
 
 Forth brings, with stars past number in her train ; 
 
 All which with sun's long borrowed splendour shine ; 
 
 The seas, with full tide swelling, ebb again ; 
 
 All years to their old quarters new resign ; 
 
 The winds forsake their mountain-chambers wild ; 
 
 And all in all things with God's virtue fill'd. 
 
41 
 
 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 New year, forth looking out of Janus' gate, 
 
 Doth seem to promise hope of new delight ; 
 
 And, bidding th' old adieu, his passed date 
 
 Bids all old thoughts to die in dumpish spright ; 
 
 And calling forth out of sad Winter's night 
 
 Fresh Love, that long hath slept in cheerless bower, 
 
 Wills him awake, and soon about him dight 
 
 His wanton wings and darts of deadly power ; 
 
 For lusty Spring now r in his timely hour 
 
 Is ready to come forth him to receive, 
 
 And warns the Earth with divers- colour'd flower 
 
 To deck herself, and her fair mantle weave : 
 
 Then you, fair flower, in whom fresh youth doth reign, 
 
 Prepare yourself new love to entertain. 
 
42 
 
 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 Rudely thou wrongest my dear heart's desire, 
 
 In finding fault with her too portly pride : 
 
 The thing which I do most in her admire, 
 
 Is of the world unworthy most envied : 
 
 For in those lofty looks is close implied 
 
 Scorn of hase things, and 'sdeign of foul dishonour* 
 
 Threatening rash eyes which gaze on her so wide, 
 
 That loosely they ne dare to look upon her. 
 
 Such pride is praise, such portliness is honour, 
 
 That bolden'd innocence bears in her eyes ; 
 
 And her fair countenance, like a goodly banner, 
 
 Spreads in defiance of all enemies. 
 
 Was never in this world ought worthy tried, 
 
 Without some spark of such self-pleasing pride. 
 
43 
 
 EDMUXD SPENSER. 
 
 One day as I unwarily did gaze 
 On those fair eyes, my love's immortal light ; 
 The whiles my 'stonish'd heart stood in amaze, 
 Through sweet illusion of her look's delight ; 
 I mote perceive how, in her glancing sight, 
 Legions of Loves with little wings did fly, 
 Darting their deadly arrows, fiery bright, 
 At every rash beholder passing by. 
 One of those archers closely I did spy, 
 Aiming his arrow at my very heart : 
 When suddenly, with twinkle of her eye, 
 The Damsel broke his misintended dart. 
 Had she not so done, sure I had been slain ; 
 Yet as it was, I hardly scap'd with pain. 
 
44 
 
 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 The rolling wheel that runneth often round, 
 The hardest steel in tract of time doth tear ; 
 And drizzling drops, that often do redound, 
 The firmest flint doth in continuance wear : 
 Yet cannot I, with many a dropping tear 
 And long entreaty, soften her hard heart, 
 That she will once vouchsafe my plaint to hear, 
 Or look with pity on my painful smart. 
 But, when I plead, she bids me play my part ; 
 And, when I weep, she says, Tears are but water : 
 And, when I sigh, she says, I know the art ; 
 And, when I wail, she turns herself to laughter. 
 So do I weep, and wail, and plead in vain, 
 Whiles she as steel and flint doth still remain. 
 
45 
 
 EDMUXD SPENSER. 
 
 The laurel-leaf, which you this day do wear, 
 
 Gives me great hope of your relenting mind ; 
 
 For since it is the badge which I do bear, 
 
 Ye, bearing it, do seem to me inclined : 
 
 The power thereof, which oft in me I find, 
 
 Let it likewise your gentle breast inspire 
 
 With sweet infusion, and put you in mind 
 
 Of that proud maid, whom now those leaves attire. 
 
 Proud Daphne, scorning Phoebus' lovely fire, 
 
 On the Thessalian shore from him did fly : 
 
 For which the gods, in their revengeful ire, 
 
 Did her transform into a laurel-tree. 
 
 Then fly no more, fair Love, from Phoebus' chace, 
 
 But in your breast his leaf and love embrace. 
 
46 
 
 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 Like as a ship, that through the ocean wide, 
 By conduct of some star, doth make her way, 
 Whenas a storm hath dimm'd her trusty guide, 
 Out of her course doth wander far astray ; 
 So I, whose star, that wont with her bright ray 
 Me to direct, with clouds is overcast, 
 Do wander now, in darkness and dismay, 
 Through hidden perils round about me plast u 
 Yet hope I well that, when this storm is past, 
 My Helice, the lodestar of my life, 
 Will shine again, and look on me at last, 
 With lovely light to clear my cloudy grief. 
 Till then I wander careful, comfortless, 
 In secret sorrow, and sad pensiveness. 
 
47 
 
 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 Of this world's Theatre in which we stay, 
 My Love, like the spectator, idly sits ; 
 Beholding me, that all the Pageants play, 
 Disguising diversely my troubled wits. 
 Sometimes I joy when glad occasion fits, 
 And mask in mirth like to a Comedy ; 
 Soon after, when my joy to sorrow flits, 
 I wail, and make my woes a Tragedy. 
 Yet she, beholding me with constant eye, 
 Delights not in my mirth, nor rues my smart : 
 But, when I laugh, she mocks ; and, when I cry, 
 She laughs, and hardens evermore her heart. 
 What then can move her? if nor mirth, nor moan, 
 She is no woman, but a senseless stone. 
 
48 
 
 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 So oft as I her beauty do behold, 
 
 And therewith do her cruelty compare, 
 
 I marvel of what substance was the mould, 
 
 The which her made attonce so cruel fair. 
 
 Not earth ; for her high thoughts more heavenly are : 
 
 Not water ; for her love doth burn like fire : 
 
 Not air ; for she is not so light or rare : 
 
 Not fire ; for she doth freeze with faint desire. 
 
 Then needs another element inquire 
 
 Whereof she mote be made ; that is, the sky : 
 
 For, to the heaven her haughty looks aspire ; 
 
 And eke her love is pure, immortal, high. 
 
 Then, sith to heaven ye liken'd are the best, 
 
 Be like in mercy as in all the rest. 
 
EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 The doubt which ye misdeem, fair love, is vain, 
 That fondly fear to lose your liberty ; 
 When, losing one, two liberties ye gain, 
 And make him bond that bondage erst did fly. 
 Sweet be the bands, the which true love doth tie 
 Without constraint or dread of any ill : 
 The gentle bird feels no captivity 
 Within her cage, but sings and feeds her fill. 
 There pride dare not approach, nor discord spill 
 The league twixt them that loyal love hath bound : 
 But simple Truth and mutual Good-will 
 Seeks with sweet peace to salve each other's wound : 
 There Faith doth fearless dwell in brazen tower, 
 And spotless Pleasure builds her sacred bower. 
 
 E 
 
50 
 
 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 Like as a huntsman after weary chace, 
 Seeing the game from him escap'd away, 
 Sits down to rest him in some shady place, 
 With panting hounds beguiled of their prey: 
 So, after long pursuit and vain assay, 
 When I all weary had the chace forsook, 
 The gentle deer returned the self-same way, 
 Thinking to quench her thirst at the next brook : 
 There she, beholding me with milder look, 
 Sought not to fly, but fearless still did bide ; 
 Till I in hand her yet half-trembling took, 
 And with her own good-will her firmly tied. 
 Strange thing, me seem'd, to see a beast so wild, 
 So goodly won, with her own will beguil'd ! 
 
51 
 
 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 Fresh Spring, the herald of love's mighty king, 
 
 In whose coat-armour richly are displayed 
 
 All sorts of flowers, the which on earth do spring, 
 
 In goodly colours gloriously array'd ; 
 
 Go to my love, where she is careless laid, 
 
 Yet in her winter's bower not well awake ; 
 
 Tell her the joyous time will not be stay'd, 
 
 Unless she do him by the forelock take ; 
 
 Bid her therefore herself soon ready make> 
 
 To wait on Love amongst his lovely crew, 
 
 Where every one that misseth then her make, 
 
 Shall be by him amerc'd with penance due. 
 
 Make haste, therefore, sweet love, whilst it is prime ; 
 
 For none can call again the passed time> 
 
 
52 
 
 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 Like as the culver, on the bared bough, 
 Sits mourning for the absence of her mate. 
 And in her songs sends many a wishful vow 
 For his return, that seems to linger late : 
 So I alone, now left disconsolate, 
 Mourn to myself the absence of my love ; 
 And, wandering here and there all desolate, 
 Seek with my plaints to match that mournful dove 
 Ne joy of ought that under heaven doth hove, 
 Can comfort me, but her own joyous sight ; 
 Whose sweet aspect both God and man can move, 
 In her unspotted pleasance to delight. 
 Dark is my day, whiles her fair light I miss, 
 And dead my life, that wants such lively bliss. 
 
53 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Lo, in the orient when the gracious light 
 Lifts up his burning head, each under eye 
 Doth homage to his new-appearing sight, 
 Serving with looks his sacred majesty; 
 And having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill, 
 Resembling strong youth in his middle age, 
 Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still, 
 Attending on his golden pilgrimage ; 
 But when from high-most pitch, with weary car. 
 Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day, 
 The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are 
 From his low tract, and look another way : 
 So thou, thyself outgoing in thy noon, 
 Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son. 
 
54 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 When I do count the clock that tells the time, 
 
 And see the brave day sunk in hideous night ; 
 
 When I behold the violet past prime, 
 
 And sable, curls, all silver'd o'er with white ; 
 
 When lofty trees I see barren of leaves, 
 
 Which erst from heat did canopy the herd, 
 
 And summer's green all girded up in sheaves, 
 
 Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard ; 
 
 Then of thy beauty do I question make, 
 
 That thou among the wastes of time must go> 
 
 Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake* 
 
 And die as fast as they see others grow ; 
 
 And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence, 
 
 Save breed, to brave him > when he takes thee hence. 
 
55 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws, 
 And make the earth devour her own sweet brood ; 
 Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws, 
 And burn the long-liv'd phoenix in her blood ; 
 Make glad and sorry seasons, as thou fleets, 
 And do whate'er thou wilt, swift- footed Time, 
 To the wide world, and all her fading sweets ; 
 But I forbid thee one most heinous crime : 
 O carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow, 
 Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen ! 
 Him in thy course untainted do allow, 
 For beauty's pattern to succeeding men. 
 Yet, do thy worst, old Time : despite thy wrong, 
 My love shall in my verse ever live young. 
 
56 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, 
 
 The dear repose for limbs with travel tir'd ; 
 
 But then begins a journey in my head, 
 
 To work my mind, when body's work's expired : 
 
 For then my thoughts (from far where I abide) 
 
 Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee, 
 
 And keep my drooping eyelids open wide, 
 
 Looking on darkness which the blind do see ; 
 
 Save that my soul's imaginary sight 
 
 Presents thy shadow to my sightless view, 
 
 Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night, 
 
 Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new. 
 
 Lo, thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind, 
 
 For thee, and for myself, no quiet find. 
 
57 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 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 possess'd, 
 Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, 
 With what I most enjoy contented least; 
 Yet in these thoughts myself 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. 
 
58 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 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, unus'd 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 fore-gone, 
 
 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. 
 
59 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 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 outstripped 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 inarch in ranks of better equipage : 
 
 But since he died, and poets better prove, 
 
 Theirs for their style Til read, his for his love. 
 
60 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Full many a glorious morning have I seen 
 
 Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye, 
 
 Kissing with golden face the meadows green, 
 
 Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchymy ; 
 
 Anon permit the basest clouds to ride 
 
 With ugly rack on his celestial face, 
 
 And from the forlorn world his visage hide, 
 
 Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace : 
 
 Even so my sun one early morn did shine, 
 
 With all triumphant splendour on my brow ; 
 
 But out, alack ! he was but one hour mine, 
 
 The region cloud hath masked him from me now. 
 
 Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth ; 
 
 Suns of the world may stain, when heaven's sun staineth. 
 
61 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 So am I as the rich, whose blessed key 
 Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure, 
 The which he will not every hour survey, 
 For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure. 
 Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare, 
 Since seldom coming, in the long year set, 
 Like stones of worth they thinly placed are, 
 Or captain jewels in the carcanet. 
 So is the time that keeps you, as my chest, 
 Or as the wardrobe, which the robe doth hide, 
 To make some special instant special-blest, 
 By new unfolding his imprisoned pride. 
 Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope, 
 Being had, to triumph, being lack'd, to hope. 
 
62 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 O how much more doth beauty beauteous seem, 
 
 By that sweet ornament which truth doth give ! 
 
 The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem 
 
 For that sweet odour which doth in it live. 
 
 The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye, 
 
 As the perfumed tincture of the roses, 
 
 Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly 
 
 When summer's breath their masked buds discloses ; 
 
 But, for their virtue only is their show, 
 
 They live unwoo'd, and unrespected fade ; 
 
 Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so ; 
 
 Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made : 
 
 And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, 
 
 When that shall fade, by verse distills your truth. 
 
63 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Not marble, nor the gilded monuments 
 
 Of princes, shall out-live this powerful rhyme ; 
 
 But you shall shine more bright in these contents 
 
 Than unswept stone, besmear'd with sluttish time. 
 
 When wasteful war shall statues overturn, 
 
 And broils root out the work of masonry, 
 
 Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn 
 
 The living record of your memory. 
 
 'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity 
 
 Shall you pace forth ; your praise shall still find room 
 
 Even in the eyes of all posterity, 
 
 That wear this world out to the ending doom. 
 
 So, till the judgment that yourself arise, 
 
 You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes. 
 
64 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 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. 
 
65 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 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. 
 
66 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 When I have seen by Time's fell hand defac'd 
 The rich-prond cost of outworn buried age ; 
 When sometime lofty towers I see down-ras'd, 
 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. 
 
67 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, 
 
 Tir'd 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 : 
 
 Tir'd with all these, from these would I be gone, 
 
 Save that, to die, I leave my love alone. 
 
68 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn, 
 When beauty liv'd and died, as flowers do now, 
 Before these bastard signs of fair were borne, 
 Or durst inhabit on a living brow ; 
 Before the golden tresses of the dead, 
 The right of sepulchres, were shorn away, 
 To live a second life on second head, 
 Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay : 
 In him those holy antique hours are seen, 
 Without all ornament, itself, and true, 
 Making no summer of another's green, 
 Robbing no old to dress his beauty new ; 
 And him as for a map doth nature store, 
 To show false art what beauty was of yore. 
 
69 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 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. 
 
70 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 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 death-bed whereon it must expire, 
 
 Consumed with that which it was nourished by. 
 
 This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong, 
 
 To love that well which thou must leave ere long. 
 
71 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, 
 
 Why is my verse so barren of new pride ? 
 
 So far from variation or quick change ? 
 
 Why, with the time, do I not glance aside 
 
 To new-found methods and to compounds strange . ? 
 
 Why write I still all one, ever the same, 
 
 And keep invention in a noted weed, 
 
 That every word doth almost tell my name, 
 
 Showing their birth, and where they did proceed? 
 
 O know, sweet love, I always write of you, 
 
 And you and love are still my argument ; 
 
 So all my best is dressing old words new, 
 
 Spending again what is already spent : 
 
 For as the sun is daily new and old, 
 
 So is my love still telling what is told. 
 
72 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Then hate me when thou wilt ; if ever, now ; 
 
 Now while the world is bent my deeds to cross, 
 
 Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow, 
 
 And do not drop in for an after-loss : 
 
 Ah ! do not, when my heart hath scap'd this sorrow, 
 
 Come in the rearward of a conquered woe ; 
 
 Give not a windy night a rainy morrow, 
 
 To linger out a purposed overthrow. 
 
 If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last, 
 
 When other petty griefs have done their spite,. 
 
 But in the onset come ; so shall I taste 
 
 At first the very worst of fortune's might ; 
 
 And other strains of woe, which now seem woe, 
 
 Compar'd with loss of thee, will not seem so. 
 
73 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Some glory in their birth, some in their skill, 
 Some in their wealth, some in their body's force ; 
 Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill ; 
 Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse : 
 And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure, 
 Wherein it finds a joy above the rest; 
 But these particulars are not my measure, 
 All these I better in one general best. 
 Thy love is better than high birth to me, 
 Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost, 
 Of more delight than hawks or horses be ; 
 And having thee, of all men's pride I boast. 
 Wretched in this alone, that thou may'st take 
 All this away, and me most wretched make. 
 
74 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 But do thy worst to steal thyself away, 
 For term of life thou art assured mine ; 
 And life no longer than thy love will stay, 
 For it depends upon that love of thine. 
 Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs, 
 When in the least of them my life hath end. 
 I see a better state to me belongs 
 Than that which on thy humour doth depend. 
 Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind, 
 Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie. 
 O what a happy title do I find, 
 Happy to have thy love, happy to die ! 
 But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot ?- 
 Thou may'st be false, and yet I know it not. 
 
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 So shall I lire, supposing* thou art true. 
 
 Like a deceived husband ; so love's face 
 
 May still seem love to me, though alter'd-new ; 
 
 Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place : 
 
 For there can live no hatred in thine eye, 
 
 Therefore in that I cannot know thy change. 
 
 In many's looks the false heart's history 
 
 Is writ, in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange ; 
 
 But heaven in thy creation did decree, 
 
 That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell ; 
 
 Whate'er thy thoughts or thy heart's workings be, 
 
 Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell 
 
 How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow, 
 
 If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show ! 
 
76 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame. 
 Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose, 
 Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name ! 
 O, in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose ! 
 That tongue that tells the story of thy days, 
 Making lascivious comments on thy sport, 
 Cannot dispraise but in a kind of praise ; 
 Naming thy name blesses an ill report. 
 O what a mansion have those vices got, 
 Which for their habitation chose out thee ! 
 Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot, 
 And all things turn to fair, that eyes can see ! 
 Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege ; 
 The hardest knife ill-us'd doth lose his edge. 
 
77 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 How like a winter hath my absence been 
 From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting- year ! 
 What freezings hare I felt, w r hat dark days seen ! 
 What old December's bareness every where ! 
 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. 
 
78 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 From you hare I been absent in the spring, 
 
 When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim, 
 
 Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing 
 
 That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leaped with him. 
 
 Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell 
 
 Of different flowers in odour and in hue, 
 
 Could make me any summer's story tell, 
 
 Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew : 
 
 Nor did I wonder at the lilies white, 
 
 Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose ; 
 
 They were but sweet, but figures of delight, 
 
 Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. 
 
 Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away, 
 
 As with your shadow I with these did play. 
 
79 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, 
 
 My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming; 
 
 I love not less, though less the show appear ; 
 
 That love is merchandize, whose rich esteeming 
 
 The owner's tongue doth publish every where. 
 
 Our love was new, and then hut in the spring, 
 
 When I was wont to greet it with my lays ; 
 
 As Philomel in summer's front doth sing, 
 
 And stops his pipe in growth of riper days : 
 
 Not that the summer is less pleasant now 
 
 Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night, 
 
 But that wild musick burthens every bough, 
 
 And sweets grown common lose their dear delight. 
 
 Therefore, like her, I sometime hold my tongue, 
 
 Because I would not dull you with my song. 
 
80 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Let not my love be call'd idolatry, 
 
 Nor my beloved as an idol show, 
 
 Since all alike my songs and praises be, 
 
 To one, of one, still such, and ever so. 
 
 Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind, 
 
 Still constant in a wondrous excellence ; 
 
 Therefore my verse to constancy confin'd, 
 
 One thing expressing, leaves out difference . 
 
 Fair, kind, and true, is all my argument, 
 
 Fair, kind, and true, varying to other words; 
 
 And in this change is my invention spent, 
 
 Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords. 
 
 Fair, kind, and true, have often liv'd alone, 
 
 Which three, till now, never kept seat in one. 
 
81 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 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 expressed 
 
 Even such a beauty as you master now. 
 
 So all their praises are but prophecies 
 
 Of this our time, all you prefiguring ; 
 
 And, for they looked 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. 
 
 G 
 
82 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Not mine own fears, nor the prophetick soul 
 Of the wide world dreaming on things to come, 
 Can yet the lease of my true love control, 
 Suppos'd as forfeit to a confin'd doom. 
 The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur'd, 
 And the sad augurs mock their own presage ; 
 Incertainties now crown themselves assur'd, 
 And peace proclaims olives of endless age. 
 Now with the drops of this most balmy time 
 My love looks fresh, and death to me subscribes, 
 Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme, 
 While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes : 
 And thou in this shalt find thy monument, 
 When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent. 
 
83 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 What's in the brain that ink may character, 
 Which hath not figur'd to thee my true spirit ? ' 
 What's new to speak, what now to register, 
 That may express my love, or thy dear merit? 
 Nothing, sweet boy ; but yet, like prayers divine. 
 I must each day say o'er the very same ; 
 Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine, 
 Even as when first I hallow'd thy fair name. 
 So that eternal love in love's fresh case 
 Weighs not the dust and injury of age, 
 Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place, 
 But makes antiquity for aye his page ; 
 Finding the first conceit of love there bred, 
 Where time and outward form would show it dead. 
 
84 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 O, never say that I was false of heart, 
 Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify I 
 As easy might I from myself depart, 
 As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie : 
 That is my home of love : if I have rang'd, 
 Like him that travels, I return again ; 
 Just to the time, not with the time exchange- 
 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. 
 
85 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 O, for my sake do you with fortune chide, 
 
 The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds, 
 
 That did not better for my life provide, 
 
 Than publick means, which publick manners breeds. 
 
 Thence comes it that my name receives a brand, 
 
 And almost thence my nature is subdu'd 
 
 To what it works in, like the dyer's hand : 
 
 Pity me then, and wish I were renew'd ; 
 
 Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drink 
 
 Potions of eysell, 'gainst my strong infection ; 
 
 No bitterness that I will bitter think, 
 
 Nor double penance, to correct correction. 
 
 Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye, 
 
 Even that your pity is enough to cure me. 
 
86 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Since I left you, mine eye Is in my mind, 
 
 And that which governs me to go about, 
 
 Doth part his function, and is partly blind, 
 
 Seems seeing, but effectually is out ; 
 
 For it no form delivers to the heart 
 
 Of bird, of flower, or shape, which it doth latch ; 
 
 Of his quick objects hath the mind no part, 
 
 Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch ; 
 
 For if it see the rud'st or gentlest sight, 
 
 The most sweet favour, or deformed'st creature, 
 
 The mountain or the sea, the day or night, 
 
 The crow or dove, it shapes them to your feature : 
 
 Incapable of more, replete with you, 
 
 My most true mind thus maketh mine untrue. 
 
87 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Or whether doth my mind, being crown'd with you, 
 
 Drink up the monarch's plague, this flattery, 
 
 Or whether shall I say, mine eye saith true, 
 
 And that your love taught it this alchymy, 
 
 To make of monsters and things indigest, 
 
 Such cherubins as your sweet self resemble, 
 
 Creating every bad a perfect best, 
 
 As fast as objects to his beams assemble ? 
 
 O, 'tis the first ; 'tis flattery in my seeing, 
 
 And my great mind most kingly drinks it up : 
 
 Mine eye well knows what with his gust is 'greeing, 
 
 And to his palate doth prepare the cup : 
 
 If it be poison'd, 'tis the lesser sin 
 
 That mine eye loves it, and doth first begin. 
 
88 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, 
 
 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 : 
 
 no ; it is an ever-fixed mark, 
 
 That looks on tempests, and is never shaken ; 
 
 It is the star to every wandering hark, 
 
 Whose worth's unknown, although his height he 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 even to the edge of doom. 
 
 If this be error, and upon me prov'd, 
 
 1 never writ, nor no man ever lov'd. 
 
89 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Accuse me thus ; that I have scanted all 
 
 Wherein I should your great deserts repay ; 
 
 Forgot upon your dearest love to call, 
 
 Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day ; 
 
 That I have frequent been with unknown minds, 
 
 And given to time your own dear-purchas'd right ; 
 
 That I have hoisted sail to all the winds 
 
 Which should transport me farthest from your sight : 
 
 Book both my wilfulness and errors down, 
 
 And on just proof, surmise accumulate, 
 
 Bring me within the level of your frown, 
 
 But shoot not at me in your waken'd hate : 
 
 Since my appeal says, I did strive to prove 
 
 The constancy and virtue of your love. 
 
90 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 The expense of spirit in a waste of shame 
 
 Is lust in action ; and till action, lust 
 
 Is perjur'd, murderous, bloody, full of blame, 
 
 Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust ; 
 
 Enjoy'd no sooner, but despised straight; 
 
 Past reason hunted ; and no sooner had, 
 
 Past reason hated, as a swallowed bait, 
 
 On purpose laid to make the taker mad : 
 
 Mad in pursuit, and in possession so ; 
 
 Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme ; 
 
 A bliss in proof, — and prov'd, a very woe ; 
 
 Before, a joy proposed ; behind, a dream : 
 
 All this the world well knows ; yet none knows well 
 
 To shun the heaven that le^ads men to this hell. 
 
91 
 
 WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 
 
 I know that all beneath the moon decays, 
 And what by mortals in this world is brought, 
 In Time's great periods shall return to nought ; 
 That fairest states have fatal nights and days : 
 I know how r all the Muses' heavenly lays, 
 With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought, 
 As idle sounds, of few or none are sought, 
 And that nought lighter is than airy praise : 
 I know frail beauty like the purple flower, 
 To w r hich one morn oft birth and death affords ; 
 That love a jarring is of minds' accords, 
 Where sense and will envassal reason's power : 
 Know what I list, this all cannot me move, 
 But that, (Oh me !) I both must write and love. 
 
92 
 
 WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 
 
 Now, while the Night her sable veil hath spread, 
 And silently her resty coach doth roll, 
 Rousing with her from Tethys' azure bed 
 Those starry nymphs which dance about the pole ; 
 While Cynthia, in purest Cyprus cled, 
 The Latmian shepherd in a trance descries, 
 And whiles looks pale from height of all the skies* 
 Whiles dyes her beauties in a bashful red ; 
 While Sleep, in triumph closed hath all eyes, 
 And birds and beasts a silence sweet do keep, 
 And Proteus' monstrous people in the deep 
 The winds and waves hush'd up to rest entice ; 
 I wake, muse, weep, and who my heart hath slain 
 See still before me to augment my pain. 
 
93 
 
 WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 
 
 Sleep, Silence' child, sweet father of soft rest, 
 Prince, whose approach peace to all mortals brings, 
 Indifferent host to shepherds and to kings,, 
 Sole comforter of minds with grief opprest ; 
 Lo, by thy charming rod all breathing things 
 Lie slumbering, with forgetfulness possesst ! 
 And yet o'er me to spread thy drowsy wings 
 Thou spares, alas, who cannot be thy guest I 
 Since I am thine, O come, but with that face 
 To inward light, which thou art wont to show, 
 With feigned solace ease a true-felt woe ! 
 Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace, 
 Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt bequeath ! 
 I long to kiss the image of my death, 
 
94 
 
 WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 
 
 Trust not, sweet soul, those curled waves of gold 
 
 With gentle tides which on your temples flow ; 
 
 Nor temples spread with flakes of virgin snow, 
 
 Nor snow of cheeks with Tyrian grain enrolled. 
 
 Trust not those shining lights, which wrought my woe, 
 
 When first I did their burning rays behold ; 
 
 Nor voice whose sounds more strange effects do shew 
 
 Than of the Thracian harper have been told. 
 
 Look to this dying lily, fading rose, 
 
 Dark hyacinth, of late whose blushing beams 
 
 Made all the neighbouring herbs and grass rejoice, 
 
 And think how little is 'twixt life's extremes : 
 
 The cruel tyrant that did kill those flowers, 
 
 Shall once, aye me ! not spare that spring of yours. 
 
95 
 
 WILLIAM DRUMMONIK 
 
 If crost with all mishaps be my poor life, 
 
 If one short day I never spent in mirth, 
 
 If my spirit with itself holds lasting strife, 
 
 If sorrow's death is but new sorrow's birth ; 
 
 If this vain world be but a sable stage, 
 
 Where slave-born man plays to the scoffing stars, 
 
 If youth be toss'd with love, with weakness age, 
 
 If knowledge serve to hold our thoughts in wars ; 
 
 If time can close the hundred mouths of Fame, 
 
 And make what long since past like that to be, 
 
 If virtue only be an idle name, 
 
 If I, when I was born, was born to die ; 
 
 Why seek I to prolong these loathsome days ? 
 
 The fairest rose in shortest time decays. 
 
96 
 
 WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 
 
 Dear quirister, who from those shadows sends, 
 
 Ere that the blushing dawn dare shew her light, 
 
 Such sad lamenting strains, that night attends, 
 
 (Become all ear), stars stay to hear thy plight ; 
 
 If one, whose grief even reach of thought transcends # 
 
 Who ne'er (not in a dream) did taste delight, 
 
 May thee importune, who like case pretends, 
 
 And seems to joy in woe, in woe's despite ; 
 
 Tell me, (so may thou fortune milder try, 
 
 And long, long sing!) for what thou thus complains, 
 
 Sith, winter gone, the sun in dappled sky 
 
 Enamour' d smiles on woods and flowery plains? 
 
 The bird, as if my questions did her move, 
 
 With trembling wings, sobb'd forth, I love, I love. 
 
WTLLIAM DRUMMOXD. 
 
 Dear wood, and you, sweet solitary place, 
 Where from the vulgar I estranged live, 
 Contented more with what your shades me give 
 Than if I had what Thetis doth embrace ; 
 What snaky eye, grown jealous of my peace, 
 Now from your silent horrors would me drive, 
 When Sun, progressing in his glorious race 
 Beyond the Twins, doth near our pole arrive ? 
 What sweet delight a quiet life affords, 
 And what it is to be of bondage free, 
 Far from the madding worldling's hoarse discords, 
 Sweet flowery place, I first did learn of thee ! 
 Ah ! if I were mine own, your dear resorts 
 I would not change with princes' stately courts. 
 
 H 
 
98 
 
 WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 
 
 Alexis, here she stay'd; among these pines. 
 
 Sweet hermitress, she did alone repair ; 
 
 Here did she spread the treasure of her hair, 
 
 More rich than that brought from the Colehian mines. 
 
 She set her by these musket eglantines, 
 
 The happy place the print seems yet to bear ; 
 
 Her voice did sweeten here thy sugred lines, 
 
 To which winds, trees, beasts, birds, did lend an ear. 
 
 Me here she first perceived, and here a morn 
 
 Of bright carnations did overspread her face ; 
 
 Here did she sigh, here first my hopes were born, 
 
 And I first got a pledge of promised grace. 
 
 But ah ! what serv'd it to be happy so, 
 
 Sith passed pleasures double but new woe ? 
 
99 
 
 WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 
 
 My lute, be as thou wast when thou didst grow 
 
 With thy green mother in some shady grove. 
 
 When immelodious winds but made thee move. 
 
 And birds on thee their ramage did bestow. 
 
 Sith that dear voice which did thy sounds approve. 
 
 Which us'd 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 wailings to the fainting ear, 
 
 Each stop a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear. 
 
 Be therefore silent as in woods before ; 
 
 Or if that any hand to touch thee deign, 
 
 Like widow'd turtle still her loss complain. 
 
100 
 
 WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 
 
 Sweet Spring, thou turn'st, with all thy goodly train, 
 
 Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flowers ! 
 
 The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain, 
 
 The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their showers. 
 
 Thou turn'st, sweet youth ! but, ah ! my pleasant hours 
 
 And happy days with thee come not again ; 
 
 The sad memorials only of my pain 
 
 Do with thee turn, which turn my sweets in sours. 
 
 Thou art the same which still thou wast before, 
 
 Delicious, lusty, amiable, fair ; 
 
 But she whose breath embalmed thy wholesome air 
 
 Is gone ; nor gold nor gems her can restore. 
 
 Neglected Virtue ! seasons go and come, 
 
 While thine forgot lie closed in a tomb. 
 
101 
 
 WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 
 
 What doth it serve, to see sun's burning face, 
 And skies enamell'd with both th' Indies' gold ? 
 Or moon at night in jetty chariot roll'd, 
 And all the glory of that starry place ? 
 What doth it serve, earth's beauty to behold, 
 The mountains' pride, the meadows' flowery grace, 
 The stately comeliness of forests old, 
 The sport of floods which would themselves embrace ? 
 What doth it serve, to hear the sylvans' songs, 
 The wanton merle, the nightingale's sad strains, 
 Which in dark shades seem to deplore my wrongs ! 
 For what doth serve all that this world contains ? 
 Sith she, for whom those once to me were dear, 
 No part of them can have now with me here. 
 
102 
 
 WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 
 
 Look how the flower which lingeringly doth fade, 
 The morning's darling late, the summer's queen, 
 Spoil'd of that juice which kept it fresh and green, 
 As high as it did raise bows low the head ; 
 Right so my life, contentments being dead, 
 Or in their contraries but only seen, 
 With swifter speed declines than erst it spread, 
 And blasted scarce now shews what it hath been. 
 As doth the pilgrim, therefore, whom the night 
 By darkness would imprison on his way, 
 Think on thy home, my soul, and think aright 
 Of what yet rests thee of life's wasting day : 
 Thy sun posts westward, passed is thy morn, 
 And twice it is not given thee to be born* 
 
103 
 
 WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 
 
 The weary mariner so fast not flies 
 
 An howling tempest, harbour to attain ; 
 
 Nor shepherd hastes, when frays of wolves arise, 
 
 So fast to fold, to save his bleating train ; 
 
 As I, wing'd with contempt and just disdain, 
 
 Now fly the world and what it most doth prize, 
 
 And sanctuary seek, free to remain 
 
 From wounds of abject times and envy's eyes. 
 
 Once did this world to me seem sweet and fair, 
 
 While senses' light mind's prospective kept blind : 
 
 Now like imagin'd landscape in the air, 
 
 And weeping rain-bows, her best joys I find ; 
 
 Or if ought here is had that praise should have, 
 
 It is a life obscure, and silent grave 
 
104 
 
 WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 
 
 Thrice happy he, who, by some shady grove, 
 
 Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own ; 
 
 Though solitary, who is not alone, 
 
 But doth converse with that Eternal Love. 
 
 O how more sweet is birds' harmonious moan, 
 
 Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow' d dove, 
 
 Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne, 
 
 Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve ! 
 
 O how more sweet is Zephyr's wholesome breath, 
 
 And sighs embalmed which new-born flowers unfold, 
 
 Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath ! 
 
 How sweet are streams to poison drunk in gold ! 
 
 The world is full of horrors, troubles, slights ; 
 
 Woods' harmless shades have only true delights. 
 
105 
 
 WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 
 
 Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours, 
 
 Of winters past or coming void of care, 
 
 Well-pleased with delights which present are, 
 
 Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers! 
 
 To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leavy bowers 
 
 Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, 
 
 And what de'ar gifts on thee he did not spare ; 
 
 A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. 
 
 What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs, 
 
 Attir'd in sweetness, sweetly is not driven 
 
 Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs, 
 
 And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven ! 
 
 Sw r eet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise 
 
 To airs of spheres, yes, and to angels' lays. 
 
106 
 
 WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 
 
 As when it happeneth, that some lovely town 
 
 Unto a barbarous besieger falls, 
 
 Who there by sword and flame himself instals, ■ 
 
 And, cruel, it in tears and blood doth drown ; 
 
 Her beauty spoil'd, her citizens made thralls, 
 
 His spite yet so cannot her all throw down, 
 
 But that some statue, arch, fane of renown, 
 
 Yet lurks unmaim'd within her weeping walls : 
 
 So, after all the spoil, disgrace, and wreck, 
 
 That time, the world, and death, could bring combin'd, 
 
 Amidst that mass of ruins they did make 
 
 Safe and all scarless yet remains my mind : 
 
 From this so high transcending rapture springs, 
 
 That I, all else defaced, not envy kings. 
 
107 
 WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 
 
 TO SIR WILLIAM ALEXANDER, EARL OF STERLINE. 
 
 Though I have twice been at the doors of Death, 
 
 And twice found shut those gates which ever mourn, 
 
 This but a lightning is, truce ta'en to breath, 
 
 For late-born sorrows augur fleet return. 
 
 Amidst thy sacred cares, and courtly toils, 
 
 Alexis, when thou shalt hear wandering fame 
 
 Tell, Death hath triumphed o'er my mortal spoils, 
 
 And that on earth I am but a sad name ; 
 
 If thou e'er held me dear, by all our love, 
 
 By all that bliss, those joys heaven here us gave, 
 
 I conjure thee, and by the Maids of Jove, 
 
 To grave this short remembrance on my grave — 
 
 Here Damon lies, whose songs did some time grace 
 
 The murmuring Esk : may roses shade the place ! 
 
108 
 
 JOHN DONNE. 
 
 Death, be not proud, though some have called thee 
 
 Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so ; 
 
 For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow, 
 
 Die not, poor Death ; nor yet canst thou kill me. 
 
 From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, 
 
 Much pleasure ; then from thee much more must flow : 
 
 And soonest our best men with thee do go, 
 
 Rest of their bones, and bOuls' delivery. 
 
 Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, 
 
 And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, 
 
 And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well, 
 
 And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then ? 
 
 One short sleep past, we wake eternally ; 
 
 And death shall be no more — Death, thou shalt die. 
 
109 
 
 SIR RICHARD FANSHAWE. 
 
 A ROSE. 
 
 Blown in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon : 
 
 What boots a life, which in such haste forsakes thee ? 
 
 Thou'rt wondrous frolic, being to die so soon, 
 
 And passing proud a little colour makes thee. 
 
 If thee thy brittle beauty so deceives, 
 
 Know then the thing that swells thee is thy bane ; 
 
 For the same beauty doth in bloody leaves 
 
 The sentence of thy early death contain. 
 
 Some clown's coarse lungs will poison thy sweet flower, 
 
 If by the careless plough thou shalt be torn ; 
 
 And many Herods lie in wait each hour 
 
 To murder thee as soon as thou art born ; 
 
 Nay, force thy bud to blow, their tyrant breath 
 
 Anticipating life, to hasten death. 
 
110 
 
 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 TO THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 O Nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray 
 Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still ! 
 Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill, 
 While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May. 
 Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day, 
 First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill, 
 Portend success in love ; O, if Jove's will 
 Have link'd that amorous power to thy soft lay, 
 Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate 
 Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh ; 
 As thou from year to year hast sung too late 
 For my relief, yet hadst no reason why : 
 Whether the Muse, or Love, call thee his mate, 
 Both them I serve, and of their train am I. 
 
Ill 
 
 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 ON HIS BEING ARRIVED TO THE AGE OF TWENTY-THREE, 
 
 How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, 
 
 StoFn on his wing my three and twentieth year ! 
 
 My hasting days fly on with full career, 
 
 But my late spring no bud or blossom show'th. 
 
 Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth. 
 
 That I to manhood am arriv'd so near ; 
 
 And inward ripeness doth much less appear, 
 
 That some more timely-happy spirits endu'lh. 
 
 Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow r , 
 
 It shall be still in strictest measure even 
 
 To that same lot, however mean or high, 
 
 Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven ; 
 
 All is, if I have grace to use it so, 
 
 As ever in my great Task-Master's eye. 
 
112 
 
 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 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. 
 
113 
 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 TO A VIRTUOUS YOUNG LADY. 
 
 Lady, that in the prime of earliest youth 
 Wisely hast shunn'd the broad way and the green, 
 And with those few art eminently seen, 
 That labour up the hill of heavenly truth, 
 The better part with Mary and with Ruth 
 Chosen thou hast; and they that overween, 
 And at thy growing virtues fret their spleen, 
 No anger find in thee, but pity and ruth. 
 Thy care is fix'd, and zealously attends 
 To fill thy odorous lamp with deeds of light, 
 And hope that reaps not shame. Therefore be sure 
 Thou, when the bridegroom with his feastful friends 
 Passes to bliss at the mid hour of night, 
 Hast gain'd thy entrance, Virgin wise and pure. 
 
 i 
 
114 
 
 JOHNT MILTON. 
 
 TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY. 
 
 Daughter to that good Earl, once President 
 Of England's Council, and her Treasury, 
 Who liv'd in both, unstain'd with gold or fee, 
 And left them both, more in himself content, 
 Till sad the breaking of that Parliament 
 Broke him, as that dishonest victory 
 At Chaeronea, fatal to liberty, 
 Kill'd with report that old man eloquent : 
 Though later born than to have known the days 
 Wherein your father flourished, 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. 
 
115 
 
 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 ON THE DETRACTION WHICH FOLLOWED UPON MY WRITING 
 CERTAIN TREATISES. 
 
 I did but prompt the age to quit their clogs 
 
 By the known rules of ancient liberty, 
 
 When straight a barbarous noise environs me 
 
 Of owls and cuckoos, asses, apes, and dogs : 
 
 As when those hinds that were transform'd to frogs 
 
 Rail'd at Latona's twin-born progeny, 
 
 Which after held the sun and moon in fee. 
 
 But this is got by casting pearl to hogs ; 
 
 That bawl for freedom in their senseless mood, 
 
 And still revolt when truth would set them free. 
 
 License they mean when they cry Liberty"; 
 
 For who loves that, must first be wise and good ; 
 
 But from that mark how far they rove we see, 
 
 For all this waste of wealth, and loss of blood. 
 
its 
 
 JOHN MILTON. 
 TO MR. H. LAWES ON THE PUBLISHING HIS AIRS. 
 
 Harry, whose tuneful and well measur'd song 
 First taught our English music how to span 
 Words with just note and accent, not to scan 
 With Midas' ears, committing short and long ; 
 Thy worth and skill exempts thee from the throng, 
 With praise enough for envy to look wan ; 
 To after age thou shalt he writ the man, 
 That with smooth air couldst humour best our tongue. 
 Thou honour's t verse, and verse must lend her wing 
 To honour thee, the priest of Phoebus' quire, 
 That tun'st their happiest lines in hymn, or story. 
 Dante shall give fame leave to set thee higher 
 Than his Casella, whom he woo'd to sing 
 Met in the milder shades of Purgatory. 
 
117 
 
 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 ON THE RELIGIOUS MEMORY OF MRS. CATHARINE THOMSON, 
 MY CHRISTIAN FRIEND, DECEASED 16TH DEC. 1646. 
 
 When Faith and Love, which parted from thee never, 
 Had ripen' d thy just soul to dwell with God, 
 Meekly thou didst resign this earthly load 
 Of death, calFd life ; which us from life doth sever. 
 Thy works, and alms, and all thy good endeavour, 
 Stay'd not behind, nor in the grave were trod ; 
 But, as Faith pointed with her golden rod, 
 Follow'd thee up to joy and bliss for ever. 
 Love led them on, and Faith, who knew them best 
 Thy handmaids, clad them o'er with purple beams 
 And azure wings, that up they flew so drest, 
 And spake the truth of thee on glorious themes 
 Before the Judge ; who thenceforth bid thee rest, 
 And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams. 
 
118 
 
 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 TO THE LORD GENERAL FAIRFAX. 
 
 Fairfax, whose name in arms through Europe rings, 
 
 Filling each mouth with envy or with praise, 
 
 And all her jealous monarchs with amaze 
 
 And rumours loud, that daunt remotest kings ; 
 
 Thy firm unshaken virtue ever brings 
 
 Victory home, though new rebellions raise 
 
 Their Hydra heads, and the false North displays 
 
 Her broken league to imp their serpent wings. 
 
 O yet a nobler task awaits thy hand, 
 
 (For what can war, but endless war still breed?) 
 
 Till truth and right from violence be freed, 
 
 And publick faith clear'd from the shameful brand 
 
 Of publick fraud. In vain doth Valour bleed, 
 
 While Avarice and Rapine share the land. 
 
119 
 JOHX MILTON, 
 
 TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL. 
 
 Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud 
 
 Not of war only, but detractions rude, 
 
 Guided by faith and matchless fortitude, 
 
 To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed, 
 
 And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud 
 
 Hast rear'd God's trophies, and his work pursued, 
 
 While Darwen stream, w r ith blood of Scots imbrued, 
 
 And Dunbar field resounds thy praises loud, 
 
 And Worcester's laureat wreath. Yet much remains 
 
 To conquer still ; Peace hath her victories 
 
 No less renown'd than War : new 7 foes arise 
 
 Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains : 
 
 Help us to save free conscience from the paw 
 
 Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw. 
 
120 
 
 JOHN MILTON. 
 TO SIR HENRY VANE THE YOUNGER. 
 
 Vane, young in years, but in sage counsel old, 
 
 Than whom a better senator ne'er held 
 
 The helm of Rome, when gowns, not arms, repell'd 
 
 The fierce Epirot and the African bold; 
 
 Whether to settle peace, or to unfold 
 
 The drift of hollow states hard to be spelVd ; 
 
 Then to advise how War may, best upheld, 
 
 Move by her two main nerves, iron and gold, 
 
 In all her equipage : besides to know 
 
 Both spiritual power and civil, what each means, 
 
 What severs each, thou hast learn'd, which few have done : 
 
 The bounds of either sword to thee we owe : 
 
 Therefore on thy firm hand Religion leans 
 
 In peace, and reckons thee her eldest son. 
 
121 
 
 JOHN MILTON. 
 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 worshipp'd 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 matyr'd blood and ashes sow 
 O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway 
 The triple Tyrant ; that from these may grow 
 A hundred fold, who, having learn'd thy way, 
 Early may fly the Babylonian woe. 
 
122 
 
 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 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, 
 
 Lodg'd 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." 
 
123 
 
 JOHX MILTON. 
 
 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 clothe 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 touched, 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. 
 
124 
 
 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 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. 
 
125 
 
 JOHN MILTON. 
 TO CYRIACK SKINNER. 
 
 Cyriack, this three years day these eyes, though clear, 
 
 To outward view, of blemish or of spot, 
 
 Bereft of light, their seeing hare forgot ; 
 
 Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear 
 
 Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, 
 
 Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not 
 
 Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot 
 
 Of heart or hope ; but still bear up and steer 
 
 Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask ? 
 
 The conscience, Friend, to have lost them overplied 
 
 In liberty's defence, my noble task, 
 
 Of which all Europe rings from side to side. 
 
 This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask 
 
 Content though blind, had I no better guide. 
 
126 
 
 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 ON HIS DECEASED WIFE. 
 
 Methought I saw my late espoused saint 
 Brought to me, like Alcestis, from the grave, 
 Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave, 
 Rescued from Death by force, though pale and faint. 
 Mine, as whom wash'd from spot of child-bed taint 
 Purification in the old Law did save, 
 And such, as yet once more I trust to have 
 Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint, 
 Came, vested all in white, pure as her mind : 
 Her face was veil'd ; yet to my fancied sight 
 Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shin'd 
 So clear, as in no face with more delight. 
 But O, as to embrace me she inclined, 
 I wak'd ; she fled ; and day brought back my night. 
 
127 
 
 THOMAS EDWARDS. 
 
 TO RICHARD OWEN CAMBRIDGE, ESQ. 
 
 Cambridge, with whom, my pilot and my guide, 
 Pleas'd I have travers'd thy Sabrina's flood, 
 Both where she foams impetuous soil'd with mud. 
 And where she peaceful rolls her golden tide ; 
 Never, O never let ambition's pride, 
 (Too oft pretexed with our country's good) 
 And tinseird pomp, despis'd w 7 hen understood, 
 Or thirst of wealth thee from her banks divide ! 
 Reflect how calmly, like her infant wave, 
 Flows the clear current of a private life ; 
 See the wide publick stream, by tempests tost, 
 Of every changing wind the sport or slave, 
 Soil'd with corruption, vex'd with party strife, 
 Cover'd with wrecks of peace and honour lost. 
 
128 
 
 THOMAS EDWARDS. 
 
 ON A FAMILY-PICTURE. 
 
 When pensive on that portraiture I gaze, 
 
 Where my four brothers round about me stand, 
 
 And" four fair sisters smile with graces bland, 
 
 The goodly monument of happier days ; 
 
 And think, how soon insatiate Death, who preys 
 
 On all, has cropped the rest with ruthless hand, 
 
 While only I survive of all that band 
 
 Which one chaste bed did to my father raise ; 
 
 It seems, that like a column left alone, 
 
 The tottering remnant of some splendid fane, 
 
 • Scap'd from the fury of the barbarous Gaul, 
 
 And wasting Time, which has the rest overthrown. 
 
 Amidst our house's ruins I remain 
 
 Single, unpropp'd, and nodding to my fall. 
 
129 
 
 THOMAS EDWARDS. 
 
 TO THE AUTHOR OF OBSERVATIONS ON THE CONVERSION 
 AND APOSTLESHIP OF ST. PAUL. 
 
 O lyttelton, great meed shalt thou receive, 
 Great meed of fame, thou and thy learned compeer, 
 Who, 'gainst the sceptic's douht and scorner's sneer, 
 Assert those heaven-born truths, which you believe ! 
 In elder time thus heroes wont t' atchieve 
 Renown ; they held the faith of Jesus dear, 
 And round their ivy crown or laurell'd spear 
 Blush'd not Religion's olive branch to weave ; 
 Thus Raleigh, thus immortal Sidney shone, 
 (Illustrious names !) in great Eliza's days. 
 Nor doubt his promise firm, that such who own 
 In evil times, undaunted though alone, 
 His glorious truth, such He will crown with praise, 
 And glad agnize before his Father's throne. 
 
 K 
 
130 
 
 THOMAS EDWARDS. 
 
 FOR THE ROOT-HOUSE AT WREST, THE SEAT OF THE EARL 
 OF HARDWICKE. 
 
 Stranger, or guest, whome'er this hallow'd grove 
 
 Shall chance receive, where sweet contentment dwells, 
 
 Bring here no heart that with ambition swells, 
 
 With avarice pines, or burns with lawless love : 
 
 Vice-tainted souls will all in vain remove 
 
 To sylvan shades, and hermits' peaceful cells, 
 
 In vain will seek retirement's lenient spells, 
 
 Or hope that bliss which only good men prove : 
 
 If heaven-born truth, and sacred virtue's lore, 
 
 Which cheer, adorn, and dignify the mind, 
 
 Are constant inmates of thy honest breast, 
 
 If, unrepining at thy neighbour's store, 
 
 Thou count'st as thine the good of all mankind, 
 
 Then welcome share the friendly groves of Wrest. 
 
131 
 
 THOMAS EDWARDS. 
 
 TO MR. 1. PAICE. 
 
 Joseph, the worthy son of worthy sire, 
 
 Who well repay'st thy pious parents' care 
 
 To train thee in the ways of Virtue fair, 
 
 And early with the love of truth inspire ; 
 
 What farther can my closing eyes desire 
 
 To see, but that by wedlock thou repair 
 
 The waste of death ; and raise a virtuous heir 
 
 To build our house, ere I in peace retire ? 
 
 Youth is the time for love : then choose a wife, 
 
 With prudence choose ; 'tis Nature's genuine voice, 
 
 And what she truly dictates must be good ; 
 
 Neglected once that prime, our remnant life 
 
 Is sour'd, or sadden'd, by an ill-tim'd choice, 
 
 Or lonely, dull, and friendless solitude, 
 
132 
 THOMAS GRAY. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF RICHARD WEST. 
 
 In vain to me the smiling mornings shine, 
 And reddening Phoebus lifts his golden fire : 
 The birds in vain their amorous descant join ; 
 Or chearful fields resume their green attire : 
 These ears, alas ! for other notes repine, 
 A different object do these eyes require : 
 My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine ; 
 And in my breast the imperfect joys expire. 
 Yet morning smiles the busy race to chear, 
 And new-born pleasure brings to happier men ; 
 The fields to all their wonted tribute bear : 
 To warm their little loves the birds complain : 
 I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear, 
 And weep the more, because I w r eep in vain. 
 
133 
 
 THOMAS WARTOX. 
 
 WRITTEN AT WINSLADE, IN HAMPSHIRE. 
 
 Wixslade, thy beech-capt hills, with waving grain 
 Mantled, thy chequer 'd views of wood and lawn, 
 Whilom could charm, or when the gradual dawn 
 'Gan the grey mist with orient purple stain, 
 Or evening glimmer'd o'er the folded train : 
 Her fairest landscapes whence my Muse has drawn, 
 Too free with servile courtly phrase to fawn, 
 Too weak to try the buskin's stately strain : 
 Yet now no more thy slopes of beech and corn, 
 Nor views invite, since He far distant strays, 
 With whom I trac'd their sweets at eve and morn, 
 From Albion far, to cull Hesperian bays ; 
 In this alone they please, howe'er forlorn, 
 That still they can recall those happier days. 
 
134 
 
 THOMAS WARTON. 
 
 ON BATHING. 
 
 When late the trees were stript by winter pale, 
 Young Health, a dryad-maid in vesture green, 
 Or like the forest's silver-quiver'd queen, 
 On airy uplands met the piercing gale ; 
 And, ere its earliest echo shook the vale, 
 Watching the hunter's joyous horn was seen. 
 But since, gay-throned in fiery chariot sheen, 
 Summer has smote each daisy-dappled dale, 
 She to the cave retires, high-arch ? d beneath 
 The fount that laves proud Isis' towery brim : 
 And now, all glad the temperate air to breathe, 
 While cooling drops distil from arches dim, 
 Binding her dewy locks with sedgy wreath, 
 She sits amid the quire of Naiads trim. 
 
135 
 
 THOMAS WARTON. 
 
 WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF DUGDALE's MONASTICON. 
 
 Deem not, devoid of elegance, the sage, 
 
 By fancy's genuine feelings unbeguird, 
 
 Of painful pedantry the poring child, 
 
 Who turns, of these proud domes, th' historic page, 
 
 Now sunk by time, and Henry's fiercer rage. 
 
 Think'st thou the warbling Muses never smil'd 
 
 On his lone hours ? Ingenuous views engage 
 
 His thoughts, on themes, unclassic falsely styl'd, 
 
 Intent. While cloister'd Piety displays 
 
 Her mouldering roll, the piercing eye explores 
 
 New manners, and the pomp of elder days, 
 
 Whence culls the pensive bard his pictur'd stores. 
 
 Nor rough, nor barren, are the winding ways 
 
 Of hoar Antiquity, but strown with flowers, 
 
136 
 
 THOMAS WARTON- 
 
 WRITTEN AT STONEHENGE. 
 
 Thou noblest monument of Albion's isle ! 
 Whether by Merlin's aid from Scythia's shore, 
 To Amber's fatal plain Pendragon bore, 
 Huge frame of giant-hands, the mighty pile, 
 T' entomb his Britons slain by Hengist's guile ; 
 Or Druid priests, sprinkled with human gore, 
 Taught 'mid thy massy maze their mystic lore ; 
 Or Danish chiefs, enrieh'd with savage spoil, 
 To Victory's idol vast, an unhewn shrine, 
 Rear'd the rude heap ; or in thy hallow'd round, 
 Repose the kings of Brutus' genuine line ; 
 Or here those kings in solemn state were crown'd ; 
 Studious to trace thy wondrous origine, 
 We muse on many an ancient tale renown'd. 
 
137 
 
 THOMAS WARTOX. 
 WRITTEN AFTER SEEING WILTON-HOUSE. 
 
 From Pembroke's princely dome, where mimic Art 
 
 Decks with a magic hand the dazzling bowers, 
 
 Its living hues where the warm pencil pours, 
 
 And breathing forms from the rude marble start, 
 
 How to life's humbler scene can I depart ! 
 
 My breast all glowing from those gorgeous towers, 
 
 In my low cell how cheat the sullen hours ! 
 
 Vain the complaint : for Fancy can impart 
 
 (To Fate superior and to Fortune's doom) 
 
 Whatever adorns the stately-storied hall : 
 
 She, 'mid the dungeon's solitary gloom, 
 
 Can dress the Graces in their Attic pall ; 
 
 Bid the green landscape's vernal beauty bloom, 
 
 And in bright trophies clothe the twilight wall. 
 
138 
 
 THOMAS WARTON. 
 on king Arthur's round-table, at Winchester. 
 
 Where Venta's Norman castle still uprears 
 
 Its rafter'd hall, that o'er the grassy foss, 
 
 And scattered flinty fragments clad in moss, 
 
 On yonder steep in naked state appears ; 
 
 High -hung remains, the pride of warlike years, 
 
 Old Arthur's Board : on the capacious round 
 
 Some British pen has sketch'd the names renown'd, 
 
 In marks ohscure, of his immortal peers. 
 
 Though join'd by magic skill, with many a rhyme, 
 
 The Druid frame, unhonour'd, falls a prey 
 
 To the slow vengeance of the wizard Time, 
 
 And fade the British characters away ; 
 
 Yet Spenser's page, that chaunts in verse sublime 
 
 Those chiefs, shall live, unconscious of decay. 
 
139 
 
 THOMAS WARTOtf. 
 
 TO THE RIVER LODON. 
 
 Ah ! what a weary race my feet have run, 
 Since first I trod thy banks with alders crown'd, 
 And thought my way was all through fairy ground, 
 Beneath thy azure sky and golden sun : 
 Where first my Muse to lisp her notes begun ! 
 While pensive Memory traces back the round, 
 Which fills the varied interval between ; 
 Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene. 
 Sweet, native stream, those skies and suns so pure 
 No more return, to cheer my evening road ! 
 Yet still one joy remains, that not obscure, 
 Nor useless, all my vacant days have flow'd, 
 From youth's gay dawn to manhood's prime mature 
 Nor with the Muse's laurel unbestow'd. 
 
140 
 
 JOHN BAMPFYLDE. 
 
 TO THE RED-BREAST. 
 
 When that the fields put on their gay attire, 
 
 Thou silent sit'st near brake or river's brim, 
 
 Whilst the gay thrush sings loud from covert dim ; 
 
 But when pale Winter lights the social fire, 
 
 And meads with slime are sprent and ways with mire, 
 
 Thou charm'st us with thy soft and solemn hymn 
 
 From battlement, or barn, or hay-stack trim ; 
 
 And now not seldom tun'st, as if for hire, 
 
 Thy thrilling pipe to me, waiting to catch 
 
 The pittance due to thy well-warbled song : 
 
 Sweet bird, sing on ! for oft near lonely hatch, 
 
 Like thee, Myself have pleas'd the rustic throng, 
 
 And oft for entrance, 'neath the peaceful thatch, 
 
 Full many a tale have told and ditty long. 
 
141 
 
 JOHN BAMPFYLDE. 
 
 As when, to one who long hath watch'd, the Morn 
 Advancing, slow fore-warns th' approach of day, 
 (What time the young and flowery-kirtled May 
 Decks the green hedge and dewy grass unshorn 
 With cowslips pale and many a whitening thorn ;) 
 And now the Sun comes forth, with level ray 
 Gilding the high-wood top and mountain grey ; 
 And, as he climbs, the meadows 'gins adorn ; 
 The rivers glisten to the dancing beam, 
 Th' awaken'd birds begin their amorous strain, 
 And hill and vale with joy and fragrance teem ; 
 Such is the sight of thee ; thy wish'd return 
 To eyes, like mine, that long have wak'd to mourn, 
 That long have watch'd for light, and wept in vain. 
 
142 
 
 JOHN BAMPFYLDE. 
 
 ON THE MORNING. 
 
 Rings the shrill peal of dawn, gay chanticleer 
 Thrice warning that the day-star climbs on high, 
 And pales his beam as Phoebus' car draws nigh. 
 Now, ere the lawns or distant cribs appear, 
 Or ere the crows from wattled sheep-cote veer 
 Their early flight, or wakeful herdsman's eye 
 Discerns the smoky hamlet, let me ply 
 My daily task, to guide the labouring steer, 
 Plant the low shrub, remove th' unsightly mound, 
 Or nurse the flower, or tend the humming swarms : 
 Thus ever with the Morn may I be found, 
 Far from the hunter-band's discordant yell ; 
 So in my breast Content and Health shall dwell, 
 And conscious Bliss, and Love of Nature's charms. 
 
143 
 
 JOHN BAMFFYLDE. 
 
 ON THE EVENING. 
 
 Slow sinks the glimmering beam from western sky, 
 
 The woods and hills, obscur'd by Evening* grey, 
 
 Vanish from mortal sight, and fade away. 
 
 Now with the flocks and yearlings let me hie 
 
 To farm, or cottage lone, where, perch'd hard by 
 
 On mossy pale, the red-breast tunes his lay, 
 
 Soft twittering, and bids farewell to day : 
 
 Then, whilst the watch-dog barks, and ploughmen lie 
 
 Lull'd by the rocking winds, let me unfold 
 
 Whate'er in rhapsody, or strain most holy, 
 
 The hoary minstrel sang in times of old ; 
 
 For, well I ween, from them the Nine inspire 
 
 Wisdom shall flow, and Virtue's sacred fire, 
 
 And Peace, and Love, and heavenly Melancholy. 
 
144 
 
 JOHN BAMPFYLDE. 
 
 ON A STORMY SEA-PROSPECT. 
 
 How fearful 'tis to walk the sounding shore, 
 
 When lowers the sky, and winds are piping loud ! 
 
 And round the beach the tearful maidens crowd, 
 
 Scar'd at the swelling surge and thunder's roar. 
 
 High o'er the cliffs the screaming sea-mews soar, 
 
 Lost is th' adventurous bark in stormy cloud, 
 
 The shrill blast whistles through the fluttering shroud ; 
 
 And, lo, the gallant crew, that erst before 
 
 Secure rode tilting o'er the placid wave, 
 
 Scarce know to stem the black and boisterous main, 
 
 And view with eyes aghast their watery grave. 
 
 So fares it with the breast of him, the Swain, 
 
 Who quits Content for mad Ambition's lore ; 
 
 Short are his days, and distant far the shore. 
 
145 
 
 JOHN BAMPFYLDE. 
 
 OX A CALM SEA-PROSPECT. 
 
 How pleasant 'tis to walk the silent shore, 
 When scarce the humming tide can reach mine ear ! 
 Of scattered mist the sun dispels the rear, 
 And birds of calm the distant wave explore ; 
 And safe in craggy bay the bark doth moor, 
 Whose streamers proud and slacken'd sails appear 
 Deep in the glassy pool reflected clear : 
 And, lo, the crew, all blithe, to part no more 
 From happy native fields, in artless rounds 
 Provoke the lively dance ! the smiling main 
 With shouts and mirth and merriment resounds : 
 So fares it with the breast of him, the Swain, 
 Who quits Ambition for Contentment's lore ; 
 For joyful are his days, and near the shore. 
 
 L 
 
146 
 
 JOHN BAMPFYLDE. 
 
 WRITTEN AT A FARM. 
 
 Around my porch and lowly casement spread, 
 The myrtle never-sere, and gadding vine, 
 With fragrant sweet-briar love to intertwine ; 
 And in my garden's box-encircled bed 
 The pansy pied^ and musk-rose white and red, 
 The pink and tulip, and honied woodbine, 
 Fling odours round ; the flaunting eglantine 
 Decks my trim fence, 'neath which, by silence led. 
 The wren hath wisely plac'd her mossy cell ; 
 And, far from noise, in courtly land so rife, 
 Nestles her young to rest, and warbles well. 
 Here in this safe retreat and peaceful glen 
 I pass my sober moments, far from men ; 
 Nor wishing death too soon, nor asking life. 
 
147 
 JOHN BAMPFYLDE. 
 
 0\ A FRIGHTFUL DREAM. 
 
 This morn ere yet had rung the matin peal, 
 The cursed Merlin, with his potent spell, 
 Aggriev'd me sore, and from his wizard cell 
 (First fixing on mine eyes a magic seal) 
 Millions of ghosts and shadowy shapes let steal ; 
 Who, swarming round my couch, with horrid yell, 
 Chatter'd and moe'd, as though from deepest hell 
 They had escap'd. I oft, with fervent zeal, 
 Essayed, and prayer, to mar th' enchanter's power. 
 In vain; for thicker still the crew came on, 
 And now had weighed me down, but that the day 
 Appeared, and Pboebus, from his eastern tower, 
 With new-trick'd beam, like Truth immortal, -shone, 
 And clias'd the visionary forms away. 
 
148 
 
 JOHN BAMPFYLDE. 
 
 ON THE EVENING* 
 
 What numerous votaries /neath thy shadowy wing, 
 O mild and modest Evening, find delight ! 
 First to the grove, his lingering fair to bring, 
 The warm and youthful lover, hating light, 
 Sighs oft for thee. And next the boisterous string 
 Of school-imps, freed from dame's all-dreaded sight, 
 Round village-cross, in many a wanton ring, 
 Wishes thy stay. Then too with vasty might 
 From steeple's side to urge the bounding ball. 
 The lusty hinds await thy fragrant call. 
 I, friend to all by turns, am join'd with al}, 
 Lover, and elfin gay, and harmless hind ; 
 Nor heed the proud, to real wisdom blind, 
 So as my heart be pure, and free my mind. 
 
149 
 
 JOHN BAMPFYLDE. 
 
 ON CHRISTMAS. 
 
 With footstep slow, in furry pall yclad, 
 His brows enwreath'd with holly never-sere, 
 Old Christmas comes, to close the waned year ; 
 And aye the shepherd's heart to make right glad ; 
 Who, when his teeming flocks are homeward had, 
 To blazing hearth repairs and nut-brown beer, 
 And views, well pleas'd, the ruddy prattlers dear 
 Hug the grey mongrel ; meanwhile maid and lad 
 Squabble for roasted crabs. Thee, sire, we hail, 
 Whether thine aged limbs thou dost enshroud 
 In vest of snowy white and hoary veil, 
 Or wrapp'st thy visage in a sable cloud ; 
 Thee we proclaim with mirth and cheer, nor fail 
 To greet thee well with many a carol loud. 
 
150 
 
 JOHN BAMPFYLDE- 
 ON A WET SUMMER. 
 
 All ye who far from town, in rural hall, 
 
 Like me, were wont to dwell near pleasant field, 
 
 Enjoying all the sunny day did yield, 
 
 With me the change lament, in irksome thrall 
 
 By rains incessant held ; for now no call 
 
 From early swain invites my hand to wield 
 
 The scythe ; in parlour dim I sit conceal'd, 
 
 And mark tl>e lessening sand from hour-glass fall, 
 
 Or 'neath my window view the wistful train 
 
 Of dripping poultry, whom the vine's broad leaves 
 
 Shelter no more. Mute is the mournful plain, 
 
 Silent the swallow sits beneath the thatch, 
 
 And vacant hind hangs pensive o'er his hatch, 
 
 Counting the frequent drop from reeded eaves. 
 
151 
 
 CHARLOTTE SMITH. 
 
 WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF SPRING. 
 
 The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove, 
 
 Each simple flow r er, which she had nurs'd in dew, 
 
 Anemonies, that spangled every grove, 
 
 The primrose wan, and hare-bell, mildly blue. 
 
 No more shall violets linger in the dell, 
 
 Or purple orchis variegate the plain, 
 
 Till Spring again shall call forth every bell, 
 
 And dress with humid hands her wreaths again. 
 
 Ah, poor humanity ! so frail, so fair, 
 
 Are the fond visions of thy early day, 
 
 Till tyrant passion, and corrosive care, 
 
 Bid all thy fairy colours fade away ! 
 
 Another May new buds and flowers shall bring ; 
 
 All ! why has happiness — no second Spring? 
 
152 
 
 CHARLOTTE SMITH. 
 
 TO THE MOON. 
 
 Queen of the silver bow, by thy pale beam, 
 Alone and pensive, I delight to stray, 
 And watch thy shadow trembling in the stream, 
 Or mark the floating clouds that cross thy way. 
 And while I gaze, thy mild and placid light 
 Sheds a soft calm upon my troubled breast ; 
 And oft I think, fair planet of the night, 
 That in thy orb the wretched may have rest : 
 The suiFerers of the earth perhaps may go, 
 Released by death, to thy benignant sphere, 
 And the sad children of despair and woe 
 Forget in thee their cup of sorrow here. 
 Oh, that I soon may reach thy World serene, 
 Poor wearied pilgrim in this toiling scene ! 
 
153 
 
 CHARLOTTE SMITH. 
 ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 Sweet poet of the woods, a long adieu ! 
 Farewell, soft minstrel of the early year ! 
 Ah ! 'twill be long ere thou shalt sing anew, 
 And pour thy music on * the night's dull ear/ 
 Whether on Spring thy wandering flights await, 
 Or whether silent in our groves you dwell, 
 The pensive Muse shall own thee for her mate, 
 And still protect the song, she loves so well. 
 With cautious step, the love-lorn youth shall glide 
 Through the lone brake that shades thy mossy nest : 
 And shepherd girls from eyes profane shall hide 
 The gentle bird, who sings of pity best ; 
 For still thy voice shall soft affections move, 
 And still be dear to sorrow, and to love. 
 
154 
 
 CHARLOTTE SMITH. 
 
 TO SPRING. 
 
 Again the wood, and long-withdrawing vale, 
 In many a tint of tender green are drest, 
 Where the young leaves unfolding, scarce conceal 
 Beneath their early shade the half-formed nest 
 Of finch or wood-lark ; and the primrose pale, 
 And lavish cowslip, wildly scatter'd round, 
 Give their sweet spirits to the sighing gale. 
 Ah, season of delight ! could aught be found 
 To soothe awhile the tortur'd bosom's pain, 
 Of Sorrow's rankling shaft to cure the wound, 
 And bring life's first delusions once again, 
 'Twere surely met in thee ! Thy prospect fair, 
 Thy sounds of harmony, thy balmy air, 
 Have power to cure all sadness — but despair. 
 
155 
 
 CHARLOTTE SMITH. 
 
 Sighing I see yon little troop at play ; 
 
 By sorrow yet untouched ; unhurt by care ; 
 
 While free and sportive they enjoy to-day, 
 
 " Content and careless of to-morrow's fare !" 
 
 O happy age ! when Hope's unclouded ray 
 
 Lights their green path, and prompts their simple mirth, 
 
 Ere yet they feel the thorns that lurking lay 
 
 To wound the wretched pilgrims of the earth, 
 
 Making them rue the hour that gave them birth, 
 
 And threw them on a world so full of pain, 
 
 Where prosperous folly treads on patient worth, 
 
 And to deaf pride misfortune pleads in vain ! 
 
 Ah, for their future fate how many fears 
 
 Oppress my heart, and fill mine eyes with tears I 
 
156 
 
 CHARLOTTE SMITH. 
 
 Should the lone Wanderer, fainting on his way, 
 
 Rest for a moment of the sultry hours, 
 
 And, though his path through thorns and roughness lay, 
 
 Pluck the wild rose, or woodbine's gadding flowers ; 
 
 Weaving gay wreaths beneath some sheltering tree. 
 
 The sense of sorrow he awhile may lose ; 
 
 So have I sought thy flowers, fair Poesy ! 
 
 So charmed my way with Friendship and the Muse. 
 
 But darker now grows life's unhappy day, 
 
 Dark with new clouds of evil yet to come, 
 
 Her pencil sickening Fancy throws away, 
 
 And weary Hope reclines upon the tomb ; 
 
 And points my wishes to that tranquil shore, 
 
 Where th^e pale spectre Care pursues no more. 
 
157 
 
 CHARLOTTE SMITH. 
 
 TO NIGHT. 
 
 I love thee, mournful sober-suited Night, 
 
 When the faint moon, yet lingering in her wane, 
 
 And veil'd in clouds, with pale uncertain light 
 
 Hangs o'er the waters of the restless main. 
 
 In deep depression sunk, the enfeebled mind 
 
 Will to the deaf, cold elements complain, 
 
 And tell the embosomed grief, however vain, 
 
 To sullen surges and the viewless wind. 
 
 Though no repose on thy dark breast I find, 
 
 I still enjoy thee, cheerless as thou art; 
 
 For in thy quiet gloom, the exhausted heart 
 
 Is calm, though wretched ; hopeless, yet resigned : 
 
 While to the winds and waves its sorrows given, 
 
 May reach, though lost on earth, the ear of Heaven ! 
 
158 
 
 CHARLOTTE SMITH. 
 
 TO TRANQUILLITY. 
 
 In this tumultuous sphere, for thee unfit, 
 How seldom art thou found, Tranquillity ! 
 Unless 'tis when, with mild and downcast eye, 
 By the low cradles thou delight'st to sit 
 Of sleeping infants, watching the soft breath, 
 And bidding the sweet slumberers easy lie ; 
 Or sometimes hanging o'er the bed of death, 
 Where the poor languid sufferer hopes to die. 
 
 beauteous sister of the halcyon peace ! 
 
 1 sure shall find thee in that heavenly scene, 
 Where care and anguish shall their power resign ; 
 Where hope alike and vain regret shall cease ; 
 And Memory, lost in happiness serene, 
 
 Repeat no more that misery has been mine ! 
 
159 
 
 CHARLOTTE SMITH. 
 
 SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN IN A CHURCH-YARD, 
 OVER THE GRAVE OF A YOUNG WOMAN OF NINETEEN. 
 
 thou, who sleep'st where hazle bands entwine 
 The vernal grass, with paler violets drest ! 
 
 1 would, sweet Maid, thy humble bed were mine, 
 And mine thy calm and enviable rest. 
 
 For never more by human ills opprest, 
 Shall thy soft spirit fruitlessly repine : 
 Thou canst not now thy fondest hopes resign 
 Even in the hour that should have made thee blest. 
 Light lies the turf upon thy virgin breast ; 
 And lingering here, to love and sorrow true, 
 The youth who once thy simple heart possest 
 Shall mingle tears with April's early dew ; 
 While still for him shall faithful Memory save 
 Thy form and virtues from the silent grave. 
 
160 
 
 SIR EGERTON BRYDGES. 
 
 ON ECHO AND SILENCE. 
 
 In eddying course when leaves began to fly, 
 
 And Autumn in her lap the store to strew, 
 
 As mid wild scenes I chanc'd the Muse to woo, 
 
 Through glens untrod and woods that frown'd on high, 
 
 Two sleeping Nymphs with wonder mute I spy ! — 
 
 And lo, she's gone ! — in robe of dark-green hue, 
 
 'Twas Echo from her sister Silence flew : 
 
 For quick the hunter's horn resounded to the sky ! 
 
 In shade affrighted Silence melts away. 
 
 Not so her sister ! — hark, for onward still 
 
 With far-heard step she takes her listening way, 
 
 Bounding from rock to rock, and hill to hill ! 
 
 Ah, mark the merry maid in mockful play 
 
 With thousand mimic tones the laughing forest fill ! 
 
161 
 
 THOMAS RUSSELL. 
 TO VALCLUSA. 
 
 What though, Valclusa, the fond bard be fled, 
 That woo'd his fair in thy sequestered bowers, 
 Long lov'd her living, long bemoan' d her dead, 
 And hung her visionary shrine with flowers ! 
 What though no more he teach thy shades to mourn 
 The hapless chances that to love belong, 
 As erst, when drooping o'er her turf forlorn, 
 He charm'd wild Echo with his plaintive song ! 
 Yet still, enamour'd of the tender tale, 
 Pale Passion haunts thy grove's romantic gloom, 
 Yet still soft music breathes in every gale, 
 ' Still undecay'd the fairy garlands bloom, 
 Still heavenly incense fills each fragrant vale, 
 Still Petrarch's Genius weeps o'er Laura's tomb. 
 
 M 
 
162 
 
 THOMAS RUSSELL. 
 
 Could then the babes from yon unsheltered cot 
 
 Implore thy passing charity in rain? 
 
 Too thoughtless youth, what though thy happier lot 
 
 Insult their life of poverty and pain ! 
 
 What though their Maker doom'd them thus forlorn 
 
 To brook the mockery of the taunting throng, 
 
 Beneath tV oppressor's iron scourge to mourn, 
 
 To mourn, but not to murmur at his wrong ! 
 
 Yet when their last late evening shall decline, 
 
 Their evening cheerful, though their day distrest, 
 
 A hope perhaps more heavenly-bright than thine, 
 
 A grace by thee unsought and unpossest, 
 
 A faith more fix'd, a rapture more divine, 
 
 Shall gild their passage to eternal rest. 
 
163 
 
 THOMAS RUSSELL. 
 
 Too long, alas! through life's tempestuous tide, 
 Heedless of Heaven, my giddy course I steer'd, 
 Link/d with the scoffing crew, nor ought rever'd 
 Great Nature's God : such erring dreams belied 
 My fancy, swoln with unsubstantial pride : 
 While, uglier far than have been feign'd or fear'd, 
 Ten thousand phantoms to my sight appear'd, 
 And drew me darkling far from truth aside. 
 But vigorous now, with eagle-ken restor'd, 
 By nobler means aiming at nobler ends, 
 To the mild bosom of its saving Lord, 
 Elate with ardent hope, my soul ascends, 
 While o'er the dreadful gulph, yet unexplored, 
 Religion's golden sun its evening-beam extends. 
 
164 
 
 THOMAS RUSSELL. 
 
 SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN AT LEMNOS. 
 
 On this lone isle, whose rugged rocks affright 
 
 The cautious pilot, ten revolving years 
 
 Great Paean's son, unwonted erst to tears, 
 
 Wept o'er his wound : alike each rolling light 
 
 Of heaven he watch'd, and blam'd its lingering flight : 
 
 By day the sea-mew, screaming round his cave, 
 
 Drove slumber from his eyes, the chiding wave, 
 
 And savage howlings chas'd his dreams by night. 
 
 Hope still was his : in each low breeze, that sigh'd 
 
 Through his rude grot, he heard a coming oar, 
 
 In each white cloud a coming sail he spied ; 
 
 Nor seldom listened to the fancied roar 
 
 Of Oeta's torrents, or the hoarser tide 
 
 That parts fam'd Trachis from th' Euboic shore. 
 
165 
 
 WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. 
 
 AT BAMBOROUGH CASTLE. 
 
 Ye holy towers that shade the wave-worn steep, 
 Long may ye rear your aged brows sublime, 
 Though, hurrying silent by, relentless Time 
 Assail you, and the winter whirlwind's sweep ! 
 For far from blazing Grandeur's crowded halls, 
 Here Charity hath fix'd her chosen seat, 
 Oft listening tearful when the wild winds beat 
 With hollow bodings round your ancient walls ; 
 And Pity, at the dark and stormy hour 
 Of midnight, when the moon is hid on high, 
 Keeps her lone watch upon the topmost tower, 
 And turns her ear to each expiring cry ; 
 Blest if her aid some fainting wretch might save, 
 And snatch him cold and speechless from the wave. 
 
166 
 
 WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. 
 
 TO THE RIVER ITCHIN. 
 
 Itchin, when I behold thy banks again, 
 Thy crumbling margin, and thy silver breast, 
 On which the self-same tints still seem to rest, 
 Why feels my heart the shivering sense of pain ? 
 Is it — that many a summer's day has past 
 Since, in life's morn, I carolFd on thy side ? 
 Is it— that oft, since then, my heart has sigh'd, 
 As Youth, and Hope's delusive gleams, flew fast? 
 Is it — that those, who circled on thy shore, 
 Companions of my youth, now meet no more ? 
 Whatever the cause, upon thy banks I bend, 
 Sorrowing, yet feel such solace at my heart, 
 As at the meeting of some long-lost friend, 
 From whom, in happier hours, we wept to part. 
 
167 
 
 WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. 
 
 AT OSTEND. 
 
 How sweet the tuneful bells' responsive peal ! 
 As when, at opening morn, the fragrant breeze 
 Breathes on the trembling sense of wan disease, 
 So piercing to my heart their force I feel ! 
 And hark ! with lessening cadence now they fall, 
 And now, along the white and level tide, 
 They fling their melancholy music wide ; 
 Bidding me many a tender thought recall 
 Of summer-days, and those delightful years 
 When by my native streams, in life's fair prime, 
 The mournful magic of their mingling chime 
 First w r ak'd my wondering childhood into tears ! 
 But seeming now, when all those days are o'er, 
 The sounds of joy once heard, and heard no more. 
 
168 
 
 WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. 
 
 time, who know'st a lenient hand to lay- 
 Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence 
 (Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) 
 
 The faint pang stealest unperceiv'd away ! 
 On thee I rest my only hope at last, 
 And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear 
 That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear, 
 
 1 may look back on every sorrow past, 
 
 And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile — 
 As some lone bird, at day's departing hour, 
 Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower 
 Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while : 
 Yet ah ! how much must that poor heart endure, 
 Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure ! 
 
169 
 
 WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. 
 ON THE RHINE. 
 
 'Twas morn, and beauteous on the mountain's brow, 
 (Hung with the beamy clusters of the vine) 
 Streamed the blue light, when on the sparkling Rhine 
 We bounded, and the white waves round the prow 
 In murmurs parted ; varying as we go, 
 Lo ! the woods open, and the rocks retire, 
 Some convent's ancient walls, or glistening spire, 
 'Mid the bright landscape's track, unfolding slow. 
 Here dark, with furrow' d aspect, like despair, 
 Frowns the bleak cliff — there on the woodland's side 
 The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming tide ; 
 Whilst Hope, enchanted with the scene so fair, 
 Would wish to linger many a summer's day, 
 Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away. 
 
170 
 
 WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES, 
 
 Go then, and join the roaring city's throng! 
 Me thou dost leave to solitude and tears, 
 To busy phantasies, and boding fears, 
 Lest ill betide thee : but 'twill not be long, 
 And the hard season shall be past : till then 
 Live happy : sometimes the forsaken shade 
 Remembering, and these trees now left to fade ; 
 Nor, 'mid the busy scenes and " hum of men," 
 Wilt thou my cares forget : in heaviness 
 To me the hours shall roll, weary and slow, 
 Till mournful autumn past, and all the snow 
 Of winter pale ! the glad hour I shall bless, 
 That shall restore thee from the crowd again, 
 To the green hamlet in the peaceful plain. 
 
171 
 
 WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. 
 
 How shall I meet thee, Summer, wont to fill 
 
 My heart with gladness, when thy pleasant tide 
 
 First came, and on each coomb's romantic side 
 
 Was heard the distant cuckoo's hollow bill 1 
 
 Fresh flowers shall fringe the wild brink of the stream, 
 
 As with the songs of joyance and of hope 
 
 The hedge-rows shall ring loud, and on the slope 
 
 The poplars sparkle in the transient beam ; 
 
 The shrubs and laurels which I lov'd to tend, 
 
 Thinking their May-tide fragrance might delight, 
 
 With many a peaceful charm, thee, my best friend, 
 
 Shall put forth their green shoot, and cheer the sight ! 
 
 But I shall mark their hues with sickening eyes, 
 
 And w r eep for her who in the cold grave lies ! 
 
172 
 
 HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS. 
 
 TO HOPE. 
 
 O ever skill'd to wear the form we love ! 
 To bid the shapes of fear and grief depart ; 
 Come, gentle Hope ! with one gay smile remove 
 The lasting sadness of an aching heart. 
 Thy voice, benign Enchantress ! let me hear ; 
 Say that for me some pleasures yet shall bloom, 
 That Fancy's radiance, Friendship's precious tear, 
 Shall soften, or shall chase, misfortune's gloom. 
 But come not, glowing in the dazzling ray, 
 Which once with dear illusions charm'd my eye ; 
 O, strew no more, sweet flatterer ! on my way 
 The flowers I fondly thought too bright to die ; 
 Visions less fair will soothe my pensive breast, 
 That asks not happiness, but longs for rest ! 
 
173 
 
 WILLIAM MASON. 
 
 A plaintive sonnet flow'd from Milton's pen, 
 When Time had stolen his three and twentieth year : 
 Say, shall not I then shed one tuneful tear, 
 RobVd by the thief of threescore years and ten ? 
 No ! for the foes of all life-lengthen'd men, 
 Trouble and toil, approach not yet too near ; 
 Reason, meanwhile, and health, and memory dear 
 Hold unimpaired their weak yet wonted reign : 
 Still round my shelter'd lawn I pleas'd can stray ; 
 Still trace my sylvan blessings to their spring : 
 Being of Beings ! Yes, that silent lay, 
 Which musing Gratitude delights to sing, 
 Still to thy sapphire throne shall Faith convey, 
 And Hope, the cherub of unwearied wing. 
 
174 
 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 TO THE AUTHOR OF THE ROBBERS. 
 
 Schiller ! that hour I would have wish'd to die, 
 If through the shuddering midnight I had sent 
 From the dark dungeon of the tower time-rent 
 That fearful voice, a famish'd Father's cry — 
 Lest in some after moment aught more mean 
 Might stamp me mortal ! A triumphant shout 
 Black Horror screamed, and all her goblin rout 
 Diminished shrunk from the more withering scene ! 
 Ah Bard tremendous in sublimity ! 
 Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood 
 Wandering at eve with finely-frenzied eye 
 Beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood ! 
 A while with mute awe gazing I would brood ; 
 Then weep aloud in a wild ecstasy ! 
 
175 
 
 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 TO THE RIVER OTTER. 
 
 Dear native Brook ! wild Streamlet of the West ! 
 How many various-fated years have past, 
 What happy, and what mournful hours, since last 
 I skimm'd the smooth thin stone along thy breast, 
 Numbering its light leaps ! yet so deep imprest 
 Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes 
 I never shut amid the sunny ray, 
 But straight with all their tints thy waters rise, 
 Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows grey, 
 And bedded sand that vein'd with various dies 
 Gleam'd through thy bright transparence ! On my way 
 Visions of childhood ! oft have ye beguiFd 
 Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs : 
 Ah ! that once more I were a careless child ! 
 
176 
 
 CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 We were two pretty babes, the youngest she, 
 The youngest and the loveliest far, I ween, 
 And Innocence her name. The time has been, 
 We two did love each other's company ; 
 Time was we two had wept to have been apart. 
 But when by show of seeming good beguil'd, 
 I left the garb and manners of a child, 
 And my first love for man's society, 
 Defiling with the world my virgin heart, 
 My lov'd companion dropped a tear, and fled, 
 And hid in deepest shades her awful head. 
 Beloved, who shall tell me where thou art, 
 In what delicious Eden to be found, 
 That I may seek thee the wide world around ? 
 
177 
 
 ANNA SEWARD. 
 
 Farewell, false friend! our scenes of kindness close ! 
 
 To cordial looks, to sunny smiles farewell ! 
 
 To sweet consolings, that can grief expel, 
 
 And every joy soft sympathy bestows ! 
 
 For alter'd looks, where truth no longer glows, 
 
 Thou hast prepared my heart ; and it was well 
 
 To bid thy pen th' unlook'd for story tell, 
 
 Falsehood avow'd, that shame nor sorrow knows. 
 
 O, when we meet, (to meet we're destin'd, try 
 
 To avoid it as thou may'st) on either brow, 
 
 Nor in the stealing consciousness of eye, 
 
 Be seen the slightest trace of what, or how 
 
 We once were to each other ; nor one sigh 
 
 Flatter with weak regret a broken vow ! 
 
 N 
 
178 
 
 ANNA SEWARD. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 In April's gilded morn when south winds blow, 
 And gently shake the hawthorn's silver crown, 
 Wafting its scent the forest-glade adown, 
 The dewy shelter of the hounding doe, 
 Then, under trees, soft tufts of primrose show 
 Their palely-yellowing flowers ; to the moist sun 
 Blue harebells peep, while cowslips stand unblown, 
 Plighted to riper May ; and lavish flow 
 The larks loud carols in the wilds of air. 
 O ! not to Nature's glad enthusiast cling 
 Avarice and pride. Through her now blooming sphere 
 Charm'd as he roves, his thoughts enraptur'd spring 
 To Him, who gives frail man's appointed time 
 These cheering hours of promise and of prime. 
 
179 
 ANNA SEWARD. 
 
 DECEMBER MORNING. 
 
 I love to rise ere gleams the tardy light, 
 Winter's pale dawn ; and as warm fires illume, 
 And cheerful tapers shine around the room, 
 Through misty windows bend my musing sight, 
 Where, round the dusky lawn, the mansions white, 
 With shutters clos'd, peer faintly through the gloom, 
 That slow recedes ; while yon grey spires assume, 
 Rising from their dark pile, an added height 
 By indistinctness given. Then to decree 
 The grateful thoughts to God, ere they unfold 
 To friendship or the Muse, or seek with glee 
 Wisdom's rich page ! O hours more worth than gold, 
 By whose blest use we lengthen life, and free 
 From drear decays of age, outlive the old I 
 
180 
 
 ANNA SEWARD. 
 
 INVITATION TO A FRIEND. 
 
 Since dark December shrouds the transient day, 
 And stormy winds are howling in their ire, 
 Why com'st not Thou, who always can'st inspire 
 The soul of cheerfulness, and best array 
 A sullen hour in smiles ? O haste to pay 
 The cordial visit sullen hours require ! 
 Around the circling walls a glowing fire 
 Shines ; but it vainly shines in this delay 
 To blend thy spirit's warm Promethean light. 
 Come then, at Science' and at Friendship's call, 
 Their vow'd disciple ; come, for they invite ! 
 The social Powers without thee languish all. 
 Come, that I may not hear the winds of night, 
 Nor count the heavy eave -drops as they fall ! 
 
181 
 
 ANNA SEWARD. 
 
 Lo, the year's Final Day ! Nature performs 
 
 Its obsequies with darkness, wind, and rain ; 
 
 But man is jocund. Hark, th' exultant strain 
 
 From towers and steeples drowns the wintry storms ! 
 
 No village-spire but to the cots and farms, 
 
 Right merrily, its scant and tuneless peal 
 
 Rings round. Ah, joy ungrateful, mirth insane ! 
 
 Wherefore the senseless triumph, ye, who feel 
 
 This annual portion of brief life the while 
 
 Depart for ever ? Brought it no dear hours 
 
 Of health and night-rest ? none that saw the smile 
 
 On lips belov'd ? O, with as gentle powers 
 
 Will the next pass ? ye pause — yet careless hear 
 
 Strike these last clocks, that knell th' Expiring Year ! 
 
182 
 
 ANNA SEWARD. 
 
 Rapt Contemplation, bring thy waking dreams 
 
 To this umbrageous vale at noon-tide hour, 
 
 While full of thee seems every bending flower, 
 
 Whose petals tremble o'er the shadow'd streams ! 
 
 Give thou Honora's image, when her beams, 
 
 Youth, beauty r kindness, shone ; what time she wore 
 
 That smile, of gentle yet resistless power 
 
 To soothe each painful passion's wild extremes. 
 
 Here shall no empty, vain intruder chase, 
 
 With idle converse, thy enchantment warm, 
 
 That brings, in all its interest, all its grace, 
 
 The dear, persuasive, visionary Form. 
 
 Can real life a rival blessing boast, 
 
 When thou canst thus restore Honora early lost I 
 
183 
 
 ANNA SEWARD. 
 
 Now young-ey'd Spring, on gentle breezes borne, 
 
 Mid the deep woodlands, hills, and vales, and bowers, 
 
 Unfolds her leaves, her blossoms, and her fiow r ers, 
 
 Pouring their soft luxuriance on the morn. 
 
 O, how unlike the wither'd, w r an, forlorn, 
 
 And limping Winter, that o'er russet moors, 
 
 Grey, ridgy fields, and ice-encrusted shores, 
 
 Strays ! and commands his rising winds to mourn. 
 
 Protracted Life, thou art ordain' d to wear 
 
 A form like his ; and, should thy gifts be mine, 
 
 I tremble lest a kindred influence drear 
 
 Steal on my mind ; but pious Hope benign, 
 
 The soul's bright day-spring, shall avert the fear, 
 
 And gild existence in her dim decline. 
 
184 
 
 ANNA SEWARD. 
 TO SYLVIA, ON HER APPROACHING NUPTIALS. 
 
 Hope comes to Youth, gliding through azure skies, 
 
 With amaranth crown : her full robe, snowy white, 
 
 Floats on the gale, and our exulting sight 
 
 Marks it afar. From Waning Life she flies 
 
 Wrapt in a mist, covering her starry eyes 
 
 With her fair hand. But now, in floods of light, 
 
 She meets thee, Sylvia, and with glances, bright 
 
 As lucid streams, when Spring's clear mornings rise. 
 
 From Hymen's kindling torch, a yellow ray 
 
 The shining texture of her spotless vest 
 
 Gilds ; and the Month that gives the early day, 
 
 The scent odorous, and the carol blest, 
 
 Pride of the rising year, enamoured May, 
 
 Paints its redundant folds with florets gay. 
 
185 
 
 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 A wrinkled, crabbed man they picture thee, 
 
 Old Winter, with a rugged beard as grey 
 
 As the long moss upon the apple-tree ; 
 
 Blue-lipt, an ice-drop at thy sharp blue nose ; 
 
 Close muffled up, and on thy dreary way 
 
 Plodding alone through sleet and drifting snows. 
 
 They should have drawn thee by the high-heap t hearth, 
 
 Old Winter ! seated in thy great arm'd-chair, 
 
 Watching the children at their Christmas mirth, 
 
 Or circled by them as thy lips declare 
 
 Some merry jest or tale of murder dire, 
 
 Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night, 
 
 Pausing at times to rouse the mouldering fire, 
 
 Or taste the old October brown and bright. 
 
186 
 
 WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 TO MRS. UN WIN. 
 
 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 undebas'd 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. 
 
187 
 
 WILLIAM CROWE. 
 
 TO PETRARCH. 
 
 O for that shell, whose melancholy sound, 
 
 Heard in Valclusa, by the lucid stream 
 
 Of laurel-shaded Sorga, spread thy theme, 
 
 Fair Laura and her scorn, to all around 
 
 High-built Avignon, on the rocky mound 
 
 That banks the impetuous Rhone ; and like a steam 
 
 From spme rich incense rising, to the extreme 
 
 Of desolate Hesperia did rebound, 
 
 And gently wak'd the Muses ! — so might I, 
 
 Studious of song like thee, and ah ! too like 
 
 In sad complaint of ill-requited love, 
 
 So might I, hopeless now, have power to strike 
 
 Such notes, as lovers' tears should sanctify, 
 
 And cold Fidele's melting sighs approve. 
 
188 
 
 HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 
 
 Yes, 'twill be over soon. This sickly dream 
 Of life will vanish from my feverish brain ; 
 And death my wearied spirit will redeem 
 From this wild region of unvaried pain. 
 Yon brook will glide as softly as before, 
 Yon landscape smile, yon golden harvest grow, 
 Yon sprightly lark on mounting wing will soar, 
 When Henry's name is heard no more below. 
 I sigh when all my youthful friends caress ; 
 They laugh in health, and future evils brave ; 
 Them shall a wife and smiling children bless, 
 While I am mouldering in my silent grave. 
 God of the just, — thou gav'st the bitter cup ! 
 I bow to thy behest, and drink it up. 
 
189 
 
 HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 
 
 Gently, most gently, on thy victim's head, 
 Consumption, lay thine hand ! let me decay, 
 Like the expiring lamp, unseen, away, 
 And softly go to slumber with the dead. 
 And if 'tis true what holy men have said, 
 That strains angelic oft foretell the day 
 Of death, to those good men who fall thy prey, 
 O let the aerial music round my bed, 
 Dissolving sad in dying symphony, 
 Whisper the solemn warning in mine ear ; 
 That I may bid my weeping friends good Vye, 
 Ere I depart upon my journey drear; 
 And smiling faintly on the painful past, 
 Compose my decent head, and breathe my last ! 
 
190 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 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 ; 
 By turns have all been thought of, yet 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 ! 
 
191 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go ? 
 
 Festively she puts forth in trim array ; 
 
 As vigorous as a Lark at break of day : 
 
 Is she for tropic suns or polar snow ? 
 
 What boots the enquiry ? — Neither friend nor foe 
 
 She cares for ; let her travel where she may, 
 
 She finds familiar names, a beaten way 
 
 Ever before her, and a wind to blow. 
 
 Yet still I ask, what Haven is her mark ? 
 
 And, almost as it was when ships were rare, 
 
 (From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and there 
 
 Crossing the waters) doubt, and something dark, 
 
 Of the old Sea some reverential fear, 
 
 Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark ! 
 
192 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 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 every thing, 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. 
 
193 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Scorn not the Sonnet ; Critic, you have frown'd, 
 Mindless of its just honours ; with this Key 
 Shakespeare unlock'd his heart ; the melody 
 Of this small Lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound ; 
 A thousand times this Pipe did Tasso sound ; 
 Cam bens sooth'd with it an Exile's grief; 
 The Sonnet glitter'd a gay myrtle Leaf 
 Amid the cypress with which Dante crown'd 
 His visionary brow : a glow-worm Lamp, 
 It cheer'd mild Spenser, call'd from Faery-land 
 To struggle through dark ways ; and, when a damp 
 Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand 
 The Thing became a Trumpet, whence he blew 
 Soul-animating strains — alas, too few ! 
 
 o 
 
194 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 TO THE LADY BEAUMONT. 
 
 Lady ! the songs of Spring were in the grove 
 While I was shaping beds for winter flowers ; 
 While I was planting green unfading bowers, 
 And shrubs to hang upon the warm alcove, 
 And sheltering wall ; and still, as Fancy wove 
 The dream, to time and nature's blended powers 
 I gave this paradise for winter hours, 
 A labyrinth, Lady ! which your feet shall rove. 
 Yes ! when the sun of life more feebly shines, 
 Becoming thoughts, I trust, of solemn gloom 
 Or of high gladness you shall hither bring ; 
 And these perennial bowers and murmuring pines 
 Be gracious as the music and the bloom 
 And all the mighty ravishment of spring. 
 
195 
 
 .WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1803, 
 
 Earth has not any thing to show more fair : 
 Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 
 A sight so touching m 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 ! 
 
196 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 1801. 
 
 I griev'd for Buonaparte, with a vain 
 And an unthinking grief ! for, who aspires 
 To genuine greatness but from just desires, 
 And knowledge such as he could never gain ? 
 'Tis not in battles that from youth we train 
 The Governor who must be wise and good, 
 And temper with the sternness of the brain 
 Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood. 
 Wisdom doth live with children round her knees : 
 Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk 
 Man holds with week-day man in the hourly walk 
 Of the mind's business : these are the degrees 
 By which true Sway doth mount ; this is the stalk 
 True Power doth grow on ; and her rights are these. 
 
197 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 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 seduc'd, 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 reached its final day : 
 
 Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade 
 
 Of that which once was great, is pass'd away. 
 
198 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 TO TOUSSA1NT i/oUVERTURE. 
 
 Toussaint, the most unhappy Man of Men ! 
 
 Whether the whistling Rustic tend his plough 
 
 Within thy hearing, or thy head he now 
 
 Pillow'd in some deep dungeon's earless den ; — 
 
 O miserable Chieftain ! where and when 
 
 Wilt thou find patience ? Yet die not ; do thou 
 
 Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow : 
 
 Though fallen Thyself, never to rise again, 
 
 Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind 
 
 Powers that will work for thee ; air, earth, and skies ; 
 
 There's not a breathing of the common wind 
 
 That will forget thee ; thou hast great allies ; 
 
 Thy friends are exultations, agonies, 
 
 And love, and Man's unconquerable mind* 
 
199 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH- 
 1802. 
 
 Inland, within a hollow Vale, I stood ; 
 
 And saw, while sea was calm and air was clear, 
 
 The Coast of France, the Coast of France how near! 
 
 Drawn almost into frightful neighbourhood. 
 
 I shrunk, for verily the barrier flood 
 
 Was like a Lake, or River bright and fair, 
 
 A span of waters ; yet what power is there ! 
 
 What mightiness for evil and for good ! 
 
 Even so doth God protect us if we be 
 
 Virtuous and wise. Winds blow, and Waters roll, 
 
 Strength to the brave, and Power, and Deity, 
 
 Yet in themselves are nothing ! One decree 
 
 Spake laws to them, and said that. by the Soul 
 
 Only the Nations shall be great and free. 
 
200 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE SUBJUGATION OF 
 SWITZERLAND. 
 
 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 foughf st against Him ; but hast vainly striven : 
 
 Thou from thy Alpine Holds at length art 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 ! 
 
201 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 1802. 
 
 Milton! thou should'st 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 bowe 
 Have forfeited their ancient English dower 
 Of inward happiness. We are selfish men ; 
 Oh ! 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. 
 
202 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 TO THE MEN OF KENT. 1803. 
 
 Vanguard of Liberty, ye Men of Kent, 
 
 Ye Children of a Soil that doth advance 
 
 Her haughty brow against the coast of France, 
 
 Now is the time to prove your hardiment! 
 
 To France be words of invitation sent ! 
 
 They from their Fields can see the countenance 
 
 Of your fierce war, may ken the glittering lance, 
 
 And hear you shouting forth your brave intent. 
 
 Left single, in bold parley, Ye, of yore, 
 
 Did from the Norman win a gallant wreath ; 
 
 Confirmed the charters that were yours before ; — 
 
 No parleying now ! In Britain is one breath ; 
 
 We all are with you now from Shore to Shore :— 
 
 Ye Men of Kent, 'tis Victory or Death ! 
 
203 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 seclusion. (From Ecclesiastical Sketches,) 
 
 Methinks that to some vacant Hermitage 
 My feet would rather turn — to some dry nook 
 Scoop'd out of living rock, and near a brook 
 HurFd down a mountain-cove from stage to stage, 
 Yet tempering, for my sight, its bustling rage 
 In the soft heaven of a translucent pool ; 
 Thence creeping under forest arches cool, 
 Fit haunt of shapes whose glorious equipage 
 Would elevate my dreams. A beechen bowl, 
 A maple dish, my furniture should be ; 
 Crisp, yellow leaves my bed ; the hooting Owl 
 My night-watch : nor should e'er the crested Fowl 
 From thorp or vill his matins sound for me, 
 Tir'd of the world and all its industry. 
 
204 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 walton's book of lives. (From the same.) 
 
 There are no colours in the fairest sky 
 
 So fair as these. The feather whence the pen 
 
 Was shap'd that trac'd the lives of these good men, 
 
 Dropped from' an Angel's wing. With moisten'd eye 
 
 We read of Faith and purest Charity 
 
 In Statesman, Priest, and humhle Citizen : 
 
 O could we copy their mild virtues, then 
 
 What joy to live, what blessedness to die ! 
 
 Me thinks their very names shine still and bright ; 
 
 Apart, like glow-worms on a summer night ; 
 
 Or lonely tapers when from far they fling 
 
 A guiding ray ; or seen, like stars on high, 
 
 Satellites burning in a lucid ring 
 
 Around meek Walton's heavenly memory. 
 
205 
 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER. 
 
 Much have I travelled 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 rul'd 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 star'd at the Pacific — and all his men 
 Look'd at each other with a wild surmise — 
 Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 
 
206 
 
 EDWARD LORD THURLOW. 
 
 TO A BIRD, THAT HAUNTED THE WATERS OF LAKEN, 
 IN THE WINTER. 
 
 O melancholy bird, a winter's day 
 
 Thou standest by the margin of the pool ; 
 
 And, taught by God, dost thy whole being school 
 
 To Patience, which all evil can allay : 
 
 God has appointed thee the fish thy prey ; 
 
 And given thyself a lesson to the fool 
 
 Unthrifty, to submit to moral rule, 
 
 And his unthinking course by thee to weigh. 
 
 There need not schools, nor the professor's chair, 
 
 Though these be good, true wisdom to impart: 
 
 He, who has not enough for these to spare 
 
 Of time or gold, may yet amend his heart, 
 
 And teach his soul by brooks and rivers fair : 
 
 Nature is always wise in every part. 
 
207 
 
 WILLIAM STEWART ROSE. 
 TO CONSTANTINOPLE. 
 
 A glorious form thy shining city wore, 
 'Mid cypress thickets of perennial green, 
 With minaret and golden dome between, 
 While thy sea softly kiss'd its grassy shore : 
 Darting across whose blue expanse was seen 
 Of sculptured barques and galleys many a score ; 
 Whence noise was none save that of plashing oar ; 
 Nor word was spoke to break the calm serene. 
 Unheard is whisker* d boatman's hail or joke ; 
 Who, mute as Sinbad's man of copper, rows, 
 And only intermits the sturdy stroke, 
 When fearless gull too nigh his pinnace goes. 
 I, hardly conscious if I dreamed or woke, 
 Mark'd that strange piece of action and repose. 
 
208 
 
 JOHN MITFORD. 
 
 AT GENOA, 1822. 
 
 Rise, Genoa, rise in beauty from the sea, 
 
 Old Doria's blood is flowing in thy veins ! 
 
 Rise, peerless in thy beauty ! what remains 
 
 Of thy old glory is enough for me. 
 
 Flow then, ye emerald waters, bright and free ; 
 
 And breathe, ye orange groves, along her plains ; 
 
 Ye fountains, sparkle through her marble fanes : 
 
 And hang aloft, thou rich and purple sky, 
 
 Hang up thy gorgeous canopy : thou Sun, 
 
 Shine on her marble palaces that gleam 
 
 Like silver in thy never-dying beam : 
 
 Think of the years of glory she has won ; 
 
 She must not sink before her race is run, 
 
 Nor her long age of conquest seem a dream. 
 
209 
 
 JOHX MITFORD. 
 
 AT DOVER CASTLE. 
 
 Look upward on yon desolated pile, 
 And as you mark its ruins lone and grey, 
 Mourn not, O mourn not for its long decay ! 
 But see how gentle Nature, with a smile, 
 Sweet as a mother's, anxious to beguile 
 Her infant to her bosom, gone astray, 
 Calls on the ocean-gales from yonder bay 
 To breathe upon its mouldering towers ; the while 
 The fox-glove, and the wild flower, o'er the walls 
 Drop silently their seeds ; and sun, and rain, 
 And summer dews with fairy hands unchain 
 Each granite link ; and then anon it falls, 
 Obedient to that voice, which once again 
 So tenderly her offspring lost recalls. 
 
 p 
 
NOTES. 
 
 Sonnets by Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, p. 1 — 2.] From 
 his Songes and Sonnettes, 1557. In the 6th line of the second 
 Sonnet, p. 2.— 
 
 " In longest night, or in the shortest day," — 
 
 (which stands so in all the editions), Selden proposed to 
 read " the longest day," that two distinct seasons might be 
 described. 
 
 Sonnets by Sir Philip Sidney, p. 4 — 14.] From Astrophel 
 and Stella, which was not printed till 1591, though its 
 illustrious author died in 1586. The ed. I have used is 
 that annexed to the Arcadia, 1598. These Sonnets — some- 
 what disfigured by conceits, but truly poetical, and cha- 
 racteristic of their author — I have placed earlier in the 
 volume than the Sonnets of Watson and Raleigh ; because 
 there is every reason to believe that Sidney's works were 
 handed about in manuscript long before they were given 
 to the press. 
 
 Sonnet by Thomas Watson, p. 15. J Is the 26th " Passion" 
 of the EKATOMHA0IA, or Passionate Centurie of Love, 
 n. d., but entered on the Stationers' Books, 1581. Wat- 
 
212 NOTES. 
 
 son's volume, perhaps, contains no sonnets (if pieces of 
 18 lines can be so termed) superior to the one I have 
 selected : — and yet Steevens preferred them to Shake- 
 speare's ! — For some account of the writings of Watson, 
 who was an elegant classical scholar, see my note on 
 Peele's Works, ii. 222, sec. ed. 1829. A production of 
 Watson, not mentioned by any bibliographer, The Tears of 
 Fancie, or hue disdained. In lx Sonnets, 1593, has been 
 recently added to Mr. Heber's unrivalled collection of 
 English Poetry. 
 
 Sonnet by Sir Walter Raleigh, p. 16.] Entitled A Vision 
 upon this Conceipt of the Faery Queene, and signed W. R, is 
 appended to the three first books of Spenser's immortal 
 poem, 1590. 
 
 Sonnets by Samuel Daniel, p. 17 — 28.] From his Delia. 
 The first ed. 1592, contains all these pieces, except the 
 Sonnet at p. 21, which was subsequently added to the col- 
 lection. I have followed the author's improved text — 
 Works, Newly Augmented, 1602. 
 
 The Delia was, not undeservedly, popular in its day ; but 
 Daniel's claim to the approbation of posterity rests chiefly 
 on some of his other productions, — especially his moral 
 epistles, — which abound in original thought, expressed in 
 language, as clear, simple, and vigorous, as can be found 
 in the whole range of English poetry. 
 
 Sonnets by Michael Drayton, p. 29 — 33.] From his Idea, 
 first printed, I believe, in 1593. I have used the earliest 
 
NOTES. 213 
 
 edition of it I could procure — viz. that in his Poems, 1605 : 
 it does not contain, however, the ^Sonnet at p. 33., which 
 I have given from his Works, 4 vols. 1753. 
 
 Sonnets by Hairy Constable, p. 34 — 36.] From his Diana, 
 1594. The pieces of this writer which have descended 
 to our times by no means justify the very high applause 
 bestowed on his poetry by his contemporaries, several 
 examples of which might be cited. 
 
 Sonnets by Barnaby Barnes, p. 37 — 40.] From A Diuine 
 Centurie of Spirituall Sonnets, 1595. 
 
 Sonnets by Edmund Spenser, p. 41 — 52.] From his Amo- 
 retti, 1595. 
 
 Sonnets by William Shakespeare, p. 53 — 90.] From his 
 Sonnets, 1609. I have admitted into the text a few very 
 slight emendations made by Tyrwhitt and Malone, where 
 the old copy seemed corrupt. 
 
 The transcendent beauty of Shakespeare's Sonnets is 
 now universally felt and acknowledged ; and the insolent 
 contempt with which Steevens presumed to speak of them, 
 is only remembered to the injury of the critic's reputation. 
 They contain such a quantity of profound thought as must 
 astonish every reflecting reader ; they are adorned by 
 splendid and delicate imagery ; they are sublime, pathetic, 
 tender, or sweetly playful ; while they delight the ear by 
 their fluency, and their varied harmonies of rhythm. 
 Amid so much excellence, their occasional conceits and 
 quaintness are forgotten. 
 
214 NOTES. 
 
 Sonnets by William Drummond, p. 91 — 107.] Of these 
 Sonnets, — exquisitely tender, picturesque, and harmo- 
 nious, — the eleven first are from his Poems, 1616; the six 
 last from his Flowers of Sion, 1630, the first ed. of which 
 was in 1623. I have followed the text of the old copies, 
 except in two places, where I have adopted the reading 
 of the edition of his collected Poems, 1656, viz. in the 12th 
 line of Sonnet, p. 96., and in the 10th line of Sonnet, 
 p. 100. 
 
 Sonnet by John Donne, p. 108.] Deep- thou ghted, and 
 forcible — from the first edition of his Poems, 1633. 
 
 Sonnet by Sir Richard Fanshawe, p. 109.] From his Poems, 
 1648, appended to his translation of the Pastor Fido. 
 
 Sonnets by John Milton, p. 110—126.] The five first 
 appeared originally in the author's Poems, 1645 ; the others, 
 in the second ed. of his Poems, 1673 — with the exception 
 of five, viz. those addressed to H. Lawes, Fairfax, Crom- 
 w-ell, Sir Henry Vane, and the second of the two to 
 Cyriack Skinner : the Sonnet to H. Lawes was prefixed 
 to Choice Psalms put into music by II. and W. Lawes, 
 1648: it has escaped the observation of Milton's commen- 
 tators that the Sonnet to Sir Henry Vane was first printed 
 in the Life of that extraordinary man, 1662, p. 9&, where 
 we are told, that it was " composed by a learned gentle- 
 man, and sent him [Vane], July 3. 1652" : the Sonnets to 
 Fairfax, Cromwell, and the second of the two to Cyriack 
 Skinner were first published at the end of Phillips's Life of 
 
NOTES. 215 
 
 Milton, prefixed to Letters of State, 1694 : T. Warton, in 
 a note on the Sonnet to Fairfax, says erroneously ( — and 
 Mr. Todd has not noticed the mistake — ) that " the two 
 Sonnets to Cyriack Skinner were not inserted in the edi- 
 tion of 1673." 
 
 These Sonnets — in easy majesty and severe beauty, une- 
 qualled by any other compositions of the kind — are now 
 given from Mr. Todd's text, in which several readings from 
 the Cambridge MS. are introduced. 
 
 Sonnets by Thomas Edwards, p. 127 — 131.] From forty- 
 five Sonnets, appended to The Canons of Criticism, ed. 1765. 
 Thirteen of them (including those at p.p. 127, 128, 129, of 
 the present volume) had previously appeared in different 
 editions of Dodsley's Collection of Poems: the first ed. of that 
 once-popular miscellany, 3 vols. 1748, does not contain 
 them ; the second ed. I have not seen ; but they are in- 
 serted in vol. ii. of the third ed. 1751, and in all subsequent 
 editions. 
 
 Edwards did not possess genius ; but he was a man of 
 fine taste and highly-cultivated mind, who, when he at- 
 tempted poetry, kept his eye on the best models. In the 
 Sonnet On a Family-Picture (p. 128) he rises to pathos and 
 grandeur. 
 
 Sonnet by TJiomas Gray, p. 132.] From his Poems, ap- 
 pended to his Memoirs by Mason, 1775, where it was first 
 published. 
 
 Sonnets by Thomas Warton, p. 133 — 139.] I find the two 
 first of these Sonnets (differing, and for the worse, from 
 
216 NOTES. 
 
 their present text) in the ivth vol. which Dodsley added 
 to his Collection of Poems, in 1755 : the other five origi- 
 nally appeared in the author's Poems, 1777. They are now 
 given from Warton's Poetical Works (edited by Bishop 
 Mant), 2 vols. 1802. 
 
 These Sonnets are so rich in imagery, so polished in 
 diction, and so happily turned, that they are among the 
 most pleasing productions of the sort in our language. 
 Mr. Coleridge has characterised them as " severe and 
 masterly likenesses of the style of the Greek £7rtypa^ara ';" 
 but I must be allowed to think that they want the great 
 charm of the ancient epigrams, — simplicity. 
 
 Sonnets by John Bampfylde, p. 140 — 150.] From Sixteen 
 Sonnets, 1778. — Dr. Southey (Specimens of the Later Eng- 
 lish Poets, vol. iii. 434) observes, that Jackson of Exeter 
 " designed to republish the little collection of Bampfylde's 
 Sonnets, with what few of his pieces were still unedited, 
 and to prefix to them an account of the author, who was 
 truly a man of genius. From him I heard an interesting 
 and melancholy history, all of which he would not have 
 communicated to the public — what he thought allowable 
 to publish, may, perhaps, exist among his papers." 
 
 Some time after the appearance of the work just quoted, 
 Dr. Southey communicated to Sir Egerton Brydges the 
 particulars concerning Bampfylde which he had learned 
 from Jackson. They have been printed in one of Sir 
 Egerton's recent publications, The Anglo-Genevan Journal, 
 1831 : and from it I now extract them : 
 
7 
 
 NOTES. 21 
 
 " The circumstances which I did not mention concerning 
 him are these. They were related to me by Jackson of 
 Exeter, and minuted down immediately afterwards, when 
 the impression which they made upon me was warm. 
 
 " He was the brother of Sir Charles, as you say, and 
 you probably know that there is a disposition to insanity 
 in the family. At the time when Jackson became intimate 
 with him, he was just in his prime, and had no other wish 
 than to live in solitude, and amuse himself with poetry and 
 music. He lodged in a farm house, near Chudleigh, and 
 would oftentimes come to Exeter in a winter morning, un- 
 gloved and open-breasted, before Jackson was up, (though 
 he was an early riser), with a pocket-full of music or 
 poems, to know how he liked them. His relations thought 
 this was a sad life for a man of family, and forced him to 
 London ! The tears ran down Jackson's cheeks, when he 
 told me the story,— ' Poor fellow/ said he, 6 there did not 
 live a purer creature, — and, if they would have let him 
 alone, he might have been alive now/ When he was in 
 London, his feelings, having been forced out of their na- 
 tural and proper channel, took a wrong direction, and he 
 soon began to suffer the punishment of debauchery. The 
 Miss Palmer, to whom he dedicated his Sonnets (afterwards 
 and perhaps still Lady Inchiquin) was niece to Sir Joshua 
 Reynolds. Whether Sir Joshua objected to his addresses 
 on account of his irregularities in London, or of the family 
 disposition to insanity, I know not : but this was the 
 
218 NOTES. 
 
 commencement of his madness. He was refused admit- 
 tance into the house ; upon this, in a fit of half anger and 
 half derangement, he broke the windows, and was (little 
 to Sir Joshua's honour) sent to Newgate. Some weeks 
 after this had happened, Jackson went to London, and 
 one of his first enquiries was for Bampfylde. Lady B., his 
 mother, said, she knew little or nothing about him, — that 
 she had got him out of Newgate, and he was now in some 
 beggarly place. c Where V c In King's Street, Holborn/ 
 she believed, < but she did not know the number of the 
 house/ Away went Jackson, and knocked at every door, 
 till he found the right. It was a truly miserable place : 
 the woman of the house was one of the worst class of 
 women in London. She knew that Bampfylde had no 
 money, and that at that time he had been three days with- 
 out food. When Jackson saw him, there was all the levity 
 of madness in his manners, — his shirt was ragged, and 
 black as a coal-heaver's ; and his beard of a two months' 
 growth. Jackson sent out for food, said, he was come to 
 breakfast with him, and turned aside to a harpsichord in 
 the room, literally, he said, to let him gorge himself with- 
 out being noticed. He removed him from hence, and, after 
 giving his mother a severe lecture, obtained for him 
 a decent allowance ; and left him, when he himself 
 quitted town, in decent lodgings, earnestly begging him 
 to write. 
 
 " But he never wrote : i The next news was, that he was 
 
NOTES. 219 
 
 in a private mad-house, and I never saw him more.' Al- 
 most the last time they met, he shewed him several poems, — 
 among others a Ballad on the Murder of David Rizzio — i such 
 a ballad V said he. He came that day to dine with Jack- 
 son, and was asked for copies. 6 I burned them/ was the 
 reply : ' I wrote them, to please you : you did not seem to 
 like them; so I threw them in the fire.' After twenty 
 years* confinement, he recovered his senses, but not till he 
 was dying of a consumption. The apothecary urged him 
 to leave Sloane- Street, (where he had been always as 
 kindly treated as he could be), and go into his own coun- 
 try, saying, that his friends in Devonshire would be very 
 glad to see him. But he hirlhis face, and answered, ' No, 
 sir ! they, who knew me what I was, shall never see me 
 what I am!' Some of these facts I should have inserted 
 in the Specimens, had not Coleridge mislaid the letter in 
 which I had written them down ; and it was not found till 
 too late." 
 
 (Here is a chasm in the copy of Dr. Southey's letter: it 
 goes on) : 
 
 u He read the preface to me. I remember that it dwelt 
 much upon his miraculous genius for music, and even 
 made it intelligible to me, who am no musician. He knew 
 nothing of the science : — but would sit down to the harp- 
 sichord, and produce combinations so wild that no com- 
 poser would have ventured to think of, and yet so beautiful 
 
220 NOTES. 
 
 in their effect, that Jackson (an enthusiast concerning 
 music) spoke of them, after the lapse of twenty years, with 
 astonishment and tears." 
 
 Sonnets by Charlotte Smith, p. 151 — 159.] In which 
 softly-coloured description and touching sentiment are 
 most happily combined — from Elegiac Sonnets, seventh edi- 
 tion, 1795. The earliest edition of the work (which, how- 
 ever, does not contain some of the pieces I have given) was 
 in 1784. 
 
 Sonnet by Sir Egerton Brydges, p. 160.] This highly 
 imaginative Sonnet was first published among the author's 
 Poems, 1785. About the end of that century, it was by 
 mistake attributed to Henry Brooke (author of Gustavus 
 Vasa, Sec.) in a small collection of Sonnets privately 
 printed by Mr. Coleridge. — In 1825, Sir Egerton inserted 
 it in his Recollections of Foreign Travel, from which it is now 
 given. 
 
 The great labours of Sir Egerton Brydges in the cause 
 of English literature will be duly appreciated by posterity. 
 For some years past, he has resided at Geneva, where he 
 still devotes himself to his favourite pursuits with an en- 
 thusiasm, which neither age nor sickness can subdue. 
 
 Sonnets by Thomas Russell, p. 161 — 164.] From Sonnets 
 and Miscellaneous Poems, 1789. Whether the author (who 
 died in his 26th year, 1788,) intended his compositions 
 for publication, is uncertain ; that he was gifted with no 
 
221 
 
 ordinary genius, the magnificent Sonnet on Philoctetes 
 (p. 164) is an incontestable proof. 
 
 Sonnets by William Lisle Bowles, p. 165 — 171.] The four 
 first are a portion of Fourteen Sonnets, 1789 : the others are 
 found in enlarged editions of that publication. I have 
 followed the improved text in the ed. of 1805. 
 
 Sonnet by Helen Maria Williams, p. 172.] From Julia, a 
 Novel, interspersed with some Poetical Pieces, 2 vols. 1790. — 
 In a note on this Sonnet, in her Poems, 1823, the autho- 
 ress observes, u I commence the Sonnets with that to 
 Hope, from a predilection in its favour, for which I have a 
 proud reason : it is that of Mr. Wordsworth, who lately 
 honoured me with his visits while at Paris, having repeated 
 it to me from memory, after a lapse of many years." 
 
 Sonnet by William Mason, p. 173.] From his Poems, vol. 
 UL Now first published, 1797. 
 
 Sonnets by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, p. 174—175.] The 
 former first appeared in the author's Poems, 1796; the latter 
 in the second edition of his Poems, 1797. — They are now 
 printed from his Poetical Works, 3 vols. 1829. 
 
 Sonnet by Charles Lamb, p. 176.] First published in the 
 second edition of Mr. Coleridge's Poems, 1797, is now 
 given from Mr. Lamb's Works, 2 vols. 1818. 
 
 Sonnets by Anna Seward, p. 177 — 184.] From Original 
 Sonnets, &c, 1799 ; which are less encumbered by orna- 
 ment than her other writings. 
 
222 . NOTES. 
 
 Sonnet by Robert Southey, p. 185.] First printed in the 
 second vol. of The Annual Anthology, 1800, is now given, 
 as corrected by the author, from his Minor Poems, 3 vols. 
 1815. 
 
 Sonnet by William Cowper, p. 186.] First printed in 
 the sec. vol. of his Life by Hayley, 1803— from his Poems, 
 3 vols. 1817. 
 
 Sonnet by William Crowe, p. 187.] From the third edition 
 of Lewesdon Hill, with other Poems, 1804. 
 
 Sonnets by Henry Kirke White, p. 188 — 189.] These 
 affecting pieces (first published in the fifth vol. of the 
 Censura Literaria, 1807) are from his Remains, 2 vols. 
 4th ed. 1810. 
 
 Sonnets by William Wordsworth, p. 190 — 204.] In power 
 and poetic feeling superior to all similar compositions in 
 the language, save those of Shakespeare and Milton, — 
 appeared originally in Mr. Wordsworth's Poems, 2 vols. 
 1807, with the exception of three, (p. p. 193, 203, 204,) 
 which have been more recently published. They are now 
 given, with the author's last corrections, from his Poetical 
 Works, 4 vols., 1832. 
 
 Sonnet by John Keats, p. 205.] From Poems, 1817, 
 — the earliest publication of this extraordinary young 
 man, whose genius must be acknowledged even by those 
 readers, who are not satisfied with the correctness of his 
 taste. 
 
NOTES. 223 
 
 Sonnet by Edward, Lord Thurlow, p. 206.] Possessing 
 considerable moral beauty,— from the sec. ed. of his Poems, 
 1822. 
 
 So7inet by William Stewart Rose, p. 207.] From Thoughts 
 and Recollections by one of the last century, 1825. 
 
 Somiets by John Mitford, p. 208—209.] The first from 
 the Life of 31ilton, prefixed to his Poetical Works, 3 vols. 
 1832 ; the second from a periodical publication. 
 
 The following Sonnet, an early production of its author 
 (now given from his Poetical Remains, 1819), was acciden- 
 tally omitted in the body of the present volume : 
 
 JOHN LEYDEX. 
 ON THE SABBATH MORNING. 
 
 With silent awe I hail the sacred morn, 
 That slowly wakes while all the fields are still ! 
 A soothing calm on every breeze is borne ; 
 A graver murmur gurgles from the rill ; 
 And Echo answers softer from the hill ; 
 And softer sings the linnet from the thorn ; 
 The sky-lark warbles in a tone less shrill. 
 Hail, light serene! hail, sacred Sabbath -morn ! 
 
224 NOTES. 
 
 The rooks float silent by in airy drove ; 
 The sun a placid yellow lustre throws ; 
 The gales, that lately sigh'd along the grove, 
 Have hush'd their downy wings in dead repose; 
 The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move ; — 
 So smiFd the day when the first morn arose ! 
 
 FINIS. 
 
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