LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. | She It _ H-fe-^ $ UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. GOLDEN LEAVES THE GOLDEN LEAVES SERIES. I, Golden Leaves from the British Poets. II. Golden Leaves from the American Poetj. IIJ. Golden Leaves from the Dramatic Pcets. IV. Golden Leaves from the Late English Poets /,V XINIFOK^ voir "HJii: THE DESERTED VILLAGE. ^ ^-^ GOLDEN LEAVES BRITISH POETS COLLECTED BY JOHN W. S. HOWS -WITH SIX ILLTJSTR^TIOlsrS, New York : GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, 9 LAFAYETTE PLACE. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1S64, By jriMKs G. Gregory, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States tbi the Southern District of New York. ;i PREFACE. IN adding another compilation from the Poets to the many ahxady before the public, it seems necessary to offer some distinctive claim to origin- ality as an apology for the temerity of the attempt. This collection so far differs from previous ones, that no arbitrary or individual preferences have con- ♦^^rolled the Selections ; they are exclusively those specimens of "The British Poets," which, by long-established consent, have become '' Household words'' in our language, as exponents of all that is beautiful in thought, expression, and feeling. To collect these into one portable volume, that might with ease be made the companion of the Railroad car, the Steamboat, and the shady nook of a country retreat ; and from its elegance of typographical and mechanical beauty, would entitle it to a place on the Parlour table for reference and family use, seem- ed an experiment that might find favour with the reaoing public. The necessarily prescribed limits vi rREFA CE. of this volume would not admit of the adoption ot all those Gems, even of mhior poems, which have become stereotyped, as it were, in the affections of the general reader ; especial care, however, has been taken to admit only those which have been recog- nized as the purest and most brilliant droppings from '' the wells of English undefilej." The period of Shakespeare and his contemporaries has been chosen for the commencement of the Selections ; our lan- guage then assumed its almost definite shape, and its literature may be considered then to have achieved some of its greatest triumphs. Subsequent Poets, as far as practicable, have been arranged to follow in the order of their succession, down to the latest candidate for poetic fame at the publication of this volume. The Selections have been arranged consecutively under their appropriate authors, affording greater facilities for reference, and concentrating more dis- tinctly the interest on each individual Poet, than could be obtained by a miscellaneous distribution : a species of unity and individuality is thus pre- -served, that we trust will be found acceptable to the reader. The Collector, in acknowledging the adaptation PREFACE. Vl) of the Title of an English compilation of very limit- ed extent, intended chiefly for the introduction of Pictorial Illustrations, confesses the expressiveness of the name so completely harmonized with the design he contemplated, in furnishing a Series of Compilations that should be indeed " Golden Leaves" from the works of Standard Authors, that he could not resist its adoption. The second volume of the Series is prepared, and will be issued immediately, under the title of " Golden Leaves FROM THE American Poets." j. W. S. H. New York, June 22, 1864. CONTENTS. William Shakespeare. pas* Spring and Winter i Love's Perjuries i True Love 3 Soul and Body 4 Youth and Age 4 Blow, blow, thou Winter Wind 5 Under the Greenwood Tree 6 Edmund Spenser, Prothalamion 7 Sir Philip Sidney. Love is dead 13 A Ditty 14 Sir Walter Raleigh, The Silent Lover 15 Lines written the Night before his Death 16 Christopher Marlowe. The Passionate Shepherd to his Love 17 Sir Henry Wotton, Character of a Happy Life 18 X CONTENTS. Ben Jonson. p^sb The Noble Nature 19 Hymn to Diana 19 To the Memory of my beloved Master, William Shake- speare, and what he hath left- us 20 On the Portrait of Shakespeare. Under the Frontispiece to the first edition of his Works : 1623 23 George Wither. Christmas , 23 George Herbert. Virtue 27 Sunday 27 Sir John Suckling. The Bride. (From "The Ballad upon a Wedding.") 30 Robert Herrick. Gather the Rose-buds 31 Cherry Ripe 31 To Daffodils 32 To Blossoms 32 To Primroses, filled with Morning Dew 33 Abraham Cowley. The Epicure 34 The Grasshopper 35 Edmund Waller, " Go, lovely Rose !" 36 Old Age and Death 37 Andrew Marvell. Thoughts in a Garden 38 John Milton. Lycidas 40 L' Allegro 47 ■ II Penseroso 52 CONTENTS. XI PAf-.B IzAAK Walton. The Angler's Wish 58 John Dryden. Alexander's Feast. 59 Ode to Saint Cecilia 64 Alexander Pope. Messiah 66 TJie Universal Prayer ^o The Dying Christian to his Soul 72 JOSEPH Addison. A Hymn : " When all thy Mercies, O my God" 73 Ode: " The Spacious Firmament" 75 John Gay. The Poet and the Ros:i 76 Black-eyed Susan 77 Matthew Prior. The Garland 70 John Pomfret. Th e Choice 80 Thomas Parnell. The Hermit 86 William Collins. Ode on the Passions ^4 Dirge in Cymbeline, sung by Guiderus and Arviragus over Fidele, supposed to be dead 98 How Sleep the Brave 99 Thomas Gray. a Elegy written in a Country Churchyard 100 The Epitaph , 104 Hymn to Adversity 105 xii CONTENTS. Allan Ramsay. p^cb Lochaber no more 107 JAMES Thomson. Universal Hymn to the Seasons 108 Lavinia 112 David Mallet. William and Margaret 116 John Logan. To the Cuckoo 119 Oliver Goldsmith. Extracts from "The Deserted Village" 120 Retaliation 128 Tobias Smollett. Ode to Leven-water 137 Bishop Percy. *' O, Nanny, wilt thou gang \vi' me" 138 The Friar of Orders Gray 139 James Beattie. Description of Edwin, the Minstrel Boy 143 Sir William Jones. A Persian Song of Hafiz 148 James Merrick. The Chameleon 150 Lady Anne Lindsay. Auld Robin Gray 152 Henry Carey. Sally in Our Alley 154 Thomas Chatterton. The Bristow Tragedy 156 CONTENTS. xiil William Cowper. p^o. Verses supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, during his solitary abode in the Island oi Juan Fer- nandez 1 70 The Pulpit 172 The Poplar Field 173 To Mary Unwin 174 Anna Letitia Barbauld. Hymn to Content 176 Matthew Gregory Lewis The Maniac 178 Henry Kirke White. The Star of Bethlehem 181 To an Early Primrose.... l8z Robert Burns. The Cotter's Saturday Night 183 Tarn O'Shanter. A Tale . 190 My Luve is like a Red, Red Rose 197 John Anderson , 198 Highland Mary 198 To Mary in Heaven 200 A Man's a Man for a' that .,, aoi Mrs. Piozzi. The Three Warnings 203 William Wordsworth. Laodamia. 207 To the Daisy 213 To the Skylark 214 The Daffodils 215 The Education of Nature 216 The Lost Love • 218 A Portrait 218 By the Sea 219 xiv CONTENTS. Samuel Taylor Coleridge. p^ob Rime of the Ancient Mariner. la Seven Parts 220 Genevieve 244 Work without Hope 247 Robert Southey. The Scholar 248 The Well of St. Keyne 249 Jaspar 251 Thomas Campbell. Hohenlinden 257 The Soldier's Dream 259 Lord Ullin's Daughter 260 Battle of the Baltic 262 Valedictory Stanzas to John Philip Kemble 265 Sir Walter Scott. The Lay of the Last Minstrel 268 Marmion. The Trial of Constance , 272 The Death of Marmion 284 The Lady of the Lake. Meeting of Ellen and Fitzjimes 292 Rokeby. Wilfrid, the Youthful Visionary 303 James Hogg. To the Skylark 306 Horace Smith. To an Egyptian Mummy .- 307 Thomas Moore. Paradise and the Peri. (From " Lalla Rookh.") 310 The Death of Hafed and Kinda 328 Beauty, Wit, and Gold 33^ Reason, Folly, and Beauty 339 Those Evening Bells 34° A Canadian Boat-song 34^ CONTENTS XV Lord Byron. PASB Extracts from " Childe Harold." Ancient Greece 342 Evening on Lake Leman ■j^^ Storm on Lake Leman 345 The Coliseum. The Dying Gladiator 345 The Dream 347 The Shipwreck. (From '* Don Juan.") 3^3 " There's not a joy the world can give" 355 Leigh Hunt. Spring in Ravenna. (From " Rimini.") 357 Abou Ben Adhem 358 Percy Bysshe Shelley. To the Skylark 358 The Sensitive Plant 363 The Poet's Dream 366 John Keats. The Eve of St. Agnes 367 Bards of Passion 381 Lines on the Mermaid Tavern 383 John Wilson (Christopher North). Extracts from " City of the Plague" 384 " Barry Cornwall" (Bryan W. Proctor). The Sea 387 Rev. George Croly. The Seventh Plague of Egypt 388 Bishop Heber. Passage of the Red Sea. (From " Palestine.").: 392 Missionary Hymn , 395 Mrs. Hemans. The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers in New Englun 1... 397 The Homes oi England 398 Washington's Statue 400 xvi CONTENTS. Thomas Davis. p^s. The Welcome 401 John Sterling. Shakespeare 402 Walter Savage Landor. The Maid's Lament 403 The Brier 404 Allan Cunningham. " Awake, my Love !" 405 "A wet Sheet and a flowing Sea" 406 Thomas Haynes Bayly. The Soldier's Tear 407 " Oh, no ! we never mention her" 408 "I'd be a Butterfly" 409 " She wore a Wreath of Roses" 410 Rev. Charles Wolfe. The Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna 411 [ohn Keble. Advent Sunday 413 The Flowers of the Field 415 Richard Monckton Milnes. The Voice of the People 417 Thomas Hood. The Dream of Eugene Aram 419 The Song of the Shirt 426 The Bridge of Sighs 4*9 Mrs. Caroline Norton. Twilight 432 ** We have been Friends together" 439 The Fallen Leaves 44® CONTENTS. xvu Samtjbl Lover. pack Rory O'More ; or, Good Omens 442- The Angel's Whisper 443 Thomas Babington Macaulay. The Battle of Ivry 444 Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. The Cry of the Children 44^ Robert Browning. How they brought the good news from Ghent to Aix ... 454 The Statue and the Bust 45^ Alfred Tennyson. LocksleyHall 4^6 The May {^ueen 47^ Lady Clara Vere de Vere 4^7 Extracts from " In Memoriam" 49° The Bugle Song 49^ Come into the Garden, Maud 497 The Charge of the Light Brigade, at Balaklava 500 Idyls of the King. Vivien 5°^ Mary Howitt. Cornfields 5°^ William Motherwell. Jeanie Morrison §09 My Held is like to rend, Willie 51'? Mrs. Caroline Anne Southey. The Mariner's Hymn 515 The Pauper's Death-bed 517 Euza Cook. The Old Arm-chair • 5^^ Song of the Hempseed 519 xviii CONTENTS. Charles Kingsley. pagb Song of the River 523 Alexander Smith. A Song (from a Life-Drama) 524 Tf.an Ingelow. The Brides of Enderby; or, the High Tide 52C; Edwin Arnold. The Knight's Grave 532 Gerald Massey. The Kingliest Kings 535 Sydney Dobell. " Hovir's my Boy?" 536 Walter Thornbury. The Two Norse Kings : a Yorkshire Legend 538 Robert Buchanan. The Story of Pygmalion 5a' Richard Chenevix Trench. Be patient « 5^ Miss Adelaide Anne Proctor. A Doubting Heart % GOLDEN LEAVES tDtlliam 6l)akc6fieare. SPRING AND WINTER. SPRING. ^' ^A/"^^^ daisies pied, and violets blue. And lady-smocks all silver-white. And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue, Do paint the meadows with delight. The cuckoo then, on every tree. Mocks married men, for thus sings he. Cuckoo ; Cuckoo, cuckoo, — O word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear ! II. When shepherds pipe on oaten straws. And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks. When turtles tread, and rooks and daws. And maidens bleach their summer smock The cuckoo then, on every tree. Mocks married men, for thus sings he. Cuckoo; Cuckoo, cuckoo, — O word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear ! GOLDEN LEA VES. WINTER. III. When icicles hang by the wall. And Dick the shepherd blows his nail. And Tom bears logs into the hall. And milk comes frozen home in pail. When blood is nipp'd, and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl, To-who, Tu-whit, to-who ; a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. IV. When all aloud the wind doth blow. And coughing drowns the parson's saw. And birds sit brooding in the snow. And Marian's nose looks red and raw. When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl. Then nightly sings the staring owl, To-who, Tu-whit, to-who ; a merry note. While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. LOVE S PERJURIES. /^N a day, alack the day ! ^-^ Love, whose month is ever May Spied a blossom passing fair. Playing in the wanton air : Through the velvet leaves the wind All unseen 'gan passage find ; That the lover, sick to death, Wish'd himself the heaven's breath SHAKESPEARE. Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow ; Air, would I might triumph so ! But, alack, my hand is sworn Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn : Vow, alack, for youth unmeet ; Youth so apt to pluck a sweet. Do not call it sin in me That I am forsworn for thee : Thou for whom e'en Jove would swear Juno but an Ethiope were. And deny himself for Jove, Turning mortal for thy love. TRUE LOVE. T ET 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 bark Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come ; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks. But bears it out ev'n to the edge of doom : — If this be error, and upon me proved, 1 never writ, nor no man ever loved. GOLDEN LEA VES. SOUL AND BODY. pOOR Soul, the centre of my sinful earth, •'^ Fool'd by those rebel powers that thee array. Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth. Painting thy outward walls so costly gay ? Why so large cost, having so short a lease. Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend ? Shall worms, inheritors of this excess. Eat up thy charge ? is this thy body's end ? Then, Soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss. And let that pine to aggravate thy store ; Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross ; Within be fed, without be rich no mo'-w : — So shalt thou feed on death, that feeds on men. And death once dead, there's no more dying then. YOUTH AND AGE. /GRABBED Age and Youth ^^ Cannot live together : Youth is full of pleasance. Age is full of care ; Youth like summer morn. Age like winter weather. Youth like summer brave. Age like winter bare : Youth is full of sport. Age's breath is short SHAKESPEARE. Youth is nimble. Age is lame : Youth is hot and bold. Age is weak and cold. Youth is wild, and Age is tame : — Age, I do abhor thee. Youth, I do adore thee ; O ! my Love, my Love is young ! Age, I do defy thee — O sweet shepherd, hie thee. For methinks thou stay'st too long. BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND, B^ LOW, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude ; Thy tooth is not so keen Because thou art not seen. Although thy breath be rude. Heigh ho 1 sing heigh ho ! unto the green holly: Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly; Then, heigh ho ! the holly ! This life is most jolly. Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky. Thou dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot : Though thou the waters warp. Thy sting is not so sharp • As friend remember'd not. GOLDEN LEAVES. Heigh ho ! sing heigh ho ! unto the green holly : Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: Then, heigh ho ! the holly ! This life is most jollv UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE. T TNDER the greenwood tree ^^ Who loves to lie with me. And tune his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat — Come hither, come hither, come hither \ Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather. Who doth ambition shun And loves to Hve i' the sun. Seeking the food he eats And pleased with what he gets — Come hither, come hither, come hither * Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather SPE2iSEB. PROTHALAMION. /^ALM was the day, and through the trembling air ^■^^ Sweet-breathing Zephyrus did softly play — A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay Hot Titan's beams, which then did glister fair ; When I (whom sullen care. Through discontent of my long fruitless stay In princes' court, and expectation vain Of idle hopes, which still do fly away Like empty shadows, did afflict my brain) Walk'd forth to ease my pain Along the shore of silver-streaming Thames ; Whose rutty bank, the which his river hems. Was painted all with variable flowers. And all the meads adorn'd with dainty gems Fit to deck maidens' bowers. And crown their paramours Against the bridal-day, which is not long : Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song. There in a meadow by the river's side A flock of nymphs I chanced to espy, AH lovely daughters of the flood thereby. With goodly greenish locks all loose untied As each had been a bride ; And each one had a little wicker basket Made of fine twigs, entrailed curiously. In which they gather'd flowers to fill their flasket. G OLDEN LEAVES. And with fine fingers cropt full feateously The tender stalks on high. Of every sort which in that meadow grew They gather'd some ; the violet, pallid blue. The little daisy that at evening closes. The virgin lily and the primrose true : With store of vermeil roses. To deck their bridegrooms' posies Against the bridal-day, which was not long : Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song. With that I saw two swans of goodly hue Come softly swimming down along the lee ; Two fairer birds I yet did never see ; The snow which doth the top of Pindus strow Did never whiter show. Nor Jove himself, when he a swan would be For love of Leda, whiter did appear ; Yet Leda was (they say) as white as he. Yet not so white as these, nor nothing near ; So purely white they were That even the gentle stream, the which them bare, Seem'd foul to them, and bade his billows spare To wet their silken feathers, lest they might Soil their fair plumes with water not so fair. And mar their beauties bright That shone as Heaven's light Against their bridal-day, which was not long ; Sweet Thames 1 run softly, till I end my song. Eftsoons the nymphs, which now had flowers their fili Ran all in haste to see that silver brood As they came floating on the crystal flood ; SPENSEB. Whom when they saw, they stood amazed still Their wondering eyes to fill ; Them seem'd they never saw a sight so fair Of fowls, so lovely, that they sure dia deem Them heavenly born, or to be that same pair Wliich through the sky draw Venus' silver team ; For sure they did not seem To be begot of any earthly seed. But rather angels, or of angels' breed ; Yet were they bred of summer's heat, they say. In sweetest season, when each flower and weed The earth did fresh array ; So fresh they seem'd as day. Even as their bridal-day, which was not long : Sweet Thames ! run softly, till 1 end my song. Then forth they all out of their baskets drew Great store of flowers, the honour of the field. That to the sense did fragrant odours yield. All which upon those goodly birds they threw And all the waves did strew. That like old Peneus' waters they did seem When down along by pleasant Tempe's shore Scatter'd with flowers, through Thessaly they scream That they appear, through lilies' plenteous store. Like a bride's chamber-floor. Two of those nymphs meanwhile two garlands bound Of freshest flowers which in that mead they found. The which presenting all in trim array. Their snowy foreheads therewithal they crown'd ; Whilst one did sing this lay Prepared against that day. lo GOLDEN LEAVES. Against their bridal-day, which was not long : Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song. " Ye gentle birds ! the world's fair ornament, And Heaven's glory, whom this happy hour Doth lead unto your lovers' blissful bower, ]oy may you have, and gentle hearts content Of your love's complement; And let fair Venus, that is queen of love. With her heart-quelling son upon you smile. Whose smile, they say, hath virtue to remove All love's dislike, and friendship's faulty guile Forever to assoil. Let endless peace your steadfast hearts accord. And blessed plenty wait upon your board ; And let your bed with pleasures chaste abound. That fruitfiil issue may to you afford Which may your foes confound, « And make your joys redound Upon your bridal-day, which is not long : Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.'* So ended she ; and all the rest around To her redoubled that her undersong. Which said their bridal-day should not be long : And gentle Echo from the neighbour ground Their accents did resound. So forth those joyous birds did pass along Adown the lee that to them murmur'd low. As he would speak but that he lack'd a tongue. Yet did by signs his glad affection show. Making his stream run slow. SPENSER. n And all the fowl which in his flood did dwell *Gan flock about these twain, that did excel The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shend The lesser stars. So they, enranged well. Did on those two attend. And their best service lend Against their wedding-day, which was not long : Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my song. At length they all to merry London came. To merry London, my most kindly nurse. That to me gave this life's first native source. Though firom another place I take my name. An house of ancient fame : There when they came v/hereas those bricky towers The which on Thames broad aged back do ride. Where now the studious lawyers have their bowers. There whilome wont the Templar-knights to bide. Till they decayed through pride ; Next whereunto there stands a stately place. Where oft I gained gifts and goodly grace Of that great lord, which therein wont to dwell. Whose want too well now feels my friendless case ; But ah ! here fits not well Old woes, but joys to tell Against the bridal-day, which is not long: Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end m}' song. Yet therein now doth lodge a noble peer. Great England's glory and the world's wide wonder. Whose dreadful name late thro' all Spain aid thunder. Ana Hercules' two pillars standing near Did make to quake and fear: 12 G OLDEK LEAVES. Fair branch of honour, flower of chivalry ! That iillest England with thy triumphs' fame, Joy have thou of thy noble victory. And endless happiness of thine own name That promiseth the samxC ; That through thy prowess and victorious arms Thy country may be freed from foreign harms. And great Eliza's glorious name may ring Through all the world, fill'd with thy wide alarms Which some brave Muse may sing To ages following. Upon the bridal-day, which is not long : Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my sor.g. From those high towers this noble lord issuing Like radiant Hesper, when his golden hair In th' ocean billbws he hath bathed fair. Descended to the river's open viewing With a great train ensuing. Above the rest were goodly to be seen Two gentle knights of lovely face and feature. Beseeming well the bower of any queen. With gifts of wit and ornaments of nature Fit for so goodly stature. That like the twins of Jove they seem'd in sight Which deck the baldric of the Heavens bright ; They too, forth pacing to the river's side. Received those two fair brides, their love's delight ; Which, at th' appointed tide. Each one did make his bride Against their bridal-day, which is not long : Sweet Thames ! run softly, till I end my rong. R SIDNEY. 13 Sir |3l]tlip Sftiun. LOVE IS DEAD. ING out your bells, let mourning shews be spread, For Love is dead ! All Love is dead, infected With plague of deep disdain. Worth, or not worth, rejected. And faith fair scorn doth gain. From so ungrateful fancy. From such a female frenzy. From them that use men thus. Good Lord deliver us. Weep, neighbours, weep, do you not hear it said That Love is dead ? His death-bed peacock's folly. His winding-sheet is shame. His will, false seeming holy. His sole executor blame. From so ungratefiil fancy. From such a female frenzy. From them that use men thus. Good Lord deliver us. Let dirge be sung, and trentals richly read. For Love is dead : And wrong his tomb ordaineth My mistress' marble heart ; Which epitaph containeth. Her eyes were once his dart. 14 GOLDEN LEAVES. From so ungrateful fancy. From such a female frenzy. From them that use men thus. Good Lord deliver us. Alas ! I lie, rage has this error bred — Love's not dead. Love is not dead but sleepeth In her unmatched mind. Where she his counsel keepeth Till one desert she find. Therefore from so vile fancy. To call such wit a frenzy. Who Love can temper thus. Good Lord deliver us. A DITTY. TV iTY true-love hath my heart, and I have his, •*-^ ^ By just exchange one to the other given : I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss. There never was a better bargain driven : My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. His heart in me keeps him and me in one. My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides He loves my heart, for once it was his own, I cherish his because in me it bides : My true-love hath my heart, and I have his. RALEIGH. 15 Sir U) alter llalcigil). THE SILENT LOVER. "PASSIONS are likened best to floods and streams -*■ The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb ; So when affections yield discourse, it seems The bottom is but shallow whence they come. They that are rich in words, in words discover That they are poor in that which makes a lover. Wrong not, sv/eet empress of my heart ! The limit of true passion. With thinking that he feels no smart. That sues for no compassion ; Since if my plaints serve not to approve The conquest of thy beauty. It comes not from defect of love. But from excess of duty : For, knowing that I sue to serve A saint of such perfection. As all desire, but none deserve, A place in thy affection, I rather choose to want rehef Than venture the revealing : Where glory recommends the grief. Despair distrusts the healing. l6 .G OLDEN LEAVES. Thus those desires that aim too high For any mortal lover. When reason cannot make them die. Discretion doth them cover. Yet, when discretion doth bereave The plaints that they should utter. Then thy discretion may perceive That silence is a suitor. Silence in love betrays more woe Than words, though ne'er so witty ; A beggar that is dumb, you know. May challenge double pity ! Then wrong not, dearest to my heart ! My true, though secret passion ; He smarteth most that hides his smart. And sues for no compassion. LINES WRITTEN THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS DEATH T?VEN such is Time, that takes on trust "■"^ Our youth, our joys, our all we have. And pays us but with age and dust ; Who in the dark and silent grave. When we have wandered all our ways. Shuts up the story of our days 1 MARLOWE. 17 €l)ri0topl]er IttarlorDc. THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE, /"^OME live with me and be my Love, ^^ And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dale and field. And all the craggy mountains yield. There will we sit upon the rocks And see the shepherds feed their flocks. By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. There will I make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle. A gown made of the finest wool. Which from our pretty lambs we pull. Fair lined slippers for the cold. With buckles of the purest gold. A belt of straw and ivy buds. With coral clasps and amber studs : And if these pleasures may thee move^ Come live with me and be my Love. Thy silver dishes for thy meat As precious as the gods do eat. Shall on an ivory table be Prepared each day for thee and me. 18 GOLDEN LEAVES. The shepherd swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May-morning : If these delights thy mind may moA'e, Then live with me and be my Love. Sir j^eury lHotton. CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE. TTOW happy is he born and taught "*■ "■' That serveth not another's will ; Whose armour is his honest thought. And simple truth his utmost skill ! Whose passions not his masters are. Whose soul is still prepared for death. Not tied unto the world with care Of public fame, or private breath ; Who envies none that chance doth raise Or vice ; Who never understood How deepest wounds are given by praise ; Nor rules of state, but rules of good ; Who hath his Hfe from rumours freed. Whose conscience is his strong retreat ; Whose state can neither flatterers feed. Nor ruin make accusers great ; Who God doth late and early pray More of his grace than gifts to lend ; And entertains the harmless day With a well-chosen book or friend ; BEN J ON SON. 19 — This man is freed from servile bands Of hope to rise, or fear to fall ; Lord of himself, though not of lands ; And having nothing, yet hath all. Ben Jonson. THE NOBLE NATURE. TT is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make Man better be ; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year. To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere : A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night — It was the plant and flower of Light. In small proportions we just beauties see ; And in short measures life may perfect be. HYMN TO DIANA. T^RINK to me only with thine eyes. And I will pledge with mine ; Or leave a kiss but in the cup. And I 'U not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine ; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine. 20 G OLDEN LEAVES. I sent thee late a rosy wreath. Not so much honouring thee As giving it a hope that there It could not wither'd be ; But thou thereon didst only breathe And sent'st it back to me ; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear. Not of itself but thee ! TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MASTER, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, AND WHAT HE HATH LEFT US. 'TpO draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name, -■' Am I thus ample to thy book and fame ; While I confess thy writings to be such As neither man nor Muse can praise too much. 'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise ; For silliest ignorance on these would light. Which, when it sounds, at best but echoes right ; Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance The truth, but gropes, and urges all by chance ; Or crafty malice might pretend this praise. And think to ruin, where it seem'd to raise. But thou art proof against them, and, indeed. Above the ill fortune of them, or the need. I therefore will begin : Soul of the age ! The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage ! My Shakespeare, rise ! I will not lodge thee by Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie BEN JONS ON. 21 A little further off, to make thee room : Thou art a monument without a tomb. And art alive still, while thy book doth live. And we have wits to read, and praise to give. That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses, I mean with great but disproportion'd Muses ; For if I thought my judgment were of years, I should commit thee surely with thy peers. And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine. Or sporting Kyd or Marlowe's mighty line. And though thou had small Latin and less Greek, From thence to honour thee I will not seek For names ; but call forth thund'ring Eschylus, Euripides, and Sophocles to us, Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead. To live again, to hear thy buskin tread. And shake a stage : or when thy socks were on. Leave thee alone for the comparison Of all, that insolent Greece or haughty Rome Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come. Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show. To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. He was not of an age, but for all time ! And all the Muses still were in their prime. When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm Our ears, or like a Mercury, to charm ! Nature herself was proud of his designs. And joy'd to wear the dressing of his lines ! Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit. As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit. The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes, Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please ; 22 GOLDEN LEAVES. But antiquated and deserted lie. As they were not of nature's family. Yet must I not give nature all ; thy art. My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part. For though the poet's matter nature be. His art doth give the fashion ; and, that he Who casts to write a living line, must sweat (Such as thine are) and strike the second heat Upon the Muses' anvil ; turn the same. And himself with it, that he thinks to frame ; Or for the laurel, he may gain a scorn ; For a good poet's made as well as born. And such wert thou ! Look how the father's face Lives in his issue, even so the race Of Shakespeare's mind and manners brightly shines In his well-turned and true-filed lines : In each of which he seems to shake a lance. As brandish'd at the eyes of ignorance. Sweet Swan of Avon ! what a sight it were To see thee in our water yet appear. And make those flights upon the banks of Thames That so did take Eliza and our James ! But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere Advanced, and made a constellation there ! Shine forth, thou Star of Poets, and v/ith rage. Or influence, chide, or cheer the drooping stage. Which since thy flight from hence hath mourned like night. And despairs day, but for thy volume's light ! T' WITHER. ON THE PORTRAIT OF SHAKESPEARE. [Under the frontispiece to the first edition of his works : i 623. ^HIS figure that thou here seest put, It was for gentle Shakespeare cut. Wherein the graver had a strife With nature, to outdo the Hfe : O could he but have drav/n his wit. As well in brass, as he hath hit His face ; the print would then surpass All that was ever writ in brass : But since he cannot, reader, look Not on his picture, but his book. @eorge lUitljer. Qh RISTM AS. QO now is come our joyful'st feast ^ ^ Let every man be jolly; Each room with ivy leaves is drest. And every post with holly. Though some churls at our mirth repine. Round your foreheads garlands twine. Drown sorrow in a cup of wine. And let us all be merry. Now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke. And Christmas blocks are burning ; Their ovens they with baked meats choke, And all their spits are turning. 24 G OLDEN LEAVE S. Without the door let sorrow he ; And if for cold it hap to die. We'll bury't in a Christmas pie. And evermore be merry. Now every lad is wondrous trim. And no man minds his labour ; Our lasses have provided them A bagpipe and a tabor ; Young men and maids, and girls and boys. Give hfe to one another's joys; And you anon shall by their noise Perceive that they are merry. Rank misers now do sparing shun ; Their hall of music soundeth ; And dogs thence with whole shoulders run. So all things there aboundeth. The country folks, themselves advance. With crowdy-muttons out of France ; And Jack shall pipe, and Jill shall dance. And all the town be merry. Ned Squash hath fetcht his bands from pawn. And all his best apparel ; Brisk Nell hath bought a ruff of lawn With droppings of the barrel ; And those that hardly all the year Had bread to eat, or rags to wear. Will have both clothes and dainty fare. And all the day be merry. WITHER. 25 Now poor men to the justices With capons make their errants ; And if they hap to fail of these. They plague them with their warrants : But now they feed them with good cheer. And what they want they take in beer. For Christmas comes but once a year. And then they shall be merry. Good farmers in the country nurse The poor, that else were undone -, Some landlords spend their money worse. On lust and pride at London. There the roysters they do play. Drab and dice their lands away. Which may be ours another day. And therefore let's be merry. The client now his suit forbears. The prisoner's heart is eased ; The debtor drinks away his cares. And for the time is pleased. Though others' purses be more fat. Why should we pine, or grieve at that ? Hang sorrow ! care will kill a cat. And therefore let's be merry. Hark ! now the wags abroad do call Each other forth to rambling : Anon you'll see them in the hall. For nuts and apples scrambling. z6. G OLDEN LEAVES. Hark ! how the roofs with laughter sound ' Anon they'll think the house goes round. For they the cellar's depth have found. And there they will be merry. The wenches with their wassail-bowls About the streets are singing -, The boys are come to catch the owls. The wild mare in is bringing. Our kitchen-boy hath broke his box. And to the dealing of the ox Our honest neighbours come by flocks. And here they will be merry. Now kings and queens poor sheepcotes have. And mate with everybody; The honest now may play the knave. And wise men play the noddy. Some youths will now a mumming go. Some others play at Rowland-ho, And twenty other gambols mo. Because they will be merry. Then, wherefore, in these merry days. Should we, I pray, be duller ? No, let us sing some roundelays. To make our mirth the fiiller : And, while we thus inspired sing. Let all the streets with echoes ring ; Woods and hills, and every thing. Bear witness we are merry. HERBERT. VIRTUE. QWEET day ! so cool, so calm, so bright, ^ The bridal of the earth and sky; The dews shall weep thy fall to-night ; For thou must die. Sweet rose ! whose hue, angry and brave. Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye ; Thy root is ever in its grave ; And thou must die. Sweet spring ! flill of sweet days and roses ; A box where sweets compacted lie ; Thy music shows ye have your closes ; And all must die. Only a sweet and virtuous soul. Like seasoned timber never gives ; But, though the whole world turn to coal. Then chiefly lives. SUNDAY. /^ DAY most calm, most bright, ^^ The fruit of this, the next world's bud. The indorsement of supreme delight, Writ by a Friend, and with His blood ; The couch of time, care's balm and bay : The week were dark, but for thy light ; Thy torch doth snow the way. a8 G OLDEN LEAVES. The other days and thou Make up one man ; whose face tkou art. Knocking at heaven with thy brow : The workydays are the back-part ; The burden of the week Hes there. Making the whole to stoop and bow, Till thy release appear. Man had straightforward gone To endless death : but thou dost pull And turn us round, to look on One, Whom, if we were not very dull. We could not choose but look on still ^ Since there is no place so alone. The which He doth not fill. Sundays the pillars are. On which heaven's palace arched lies : The other days fill up the spare And hollow room with vanities. They are the firuitfiil beds and borders In God's rich garden : that is bare. Which parts their ranks and orders. The Sundays of man's life. Threaded together on Time's string. Make bracelets to adorn the wife Of the eternal glorious King. On Sunday heaven's gate stands ope ; Blessings are plentifiil and rife — More plentifiil than hope. This day my Saviour rose. And did enclose this light for His ; HERBERT. 29 That, as each beast his manger knows, Man might not of his fodder miss. Christ hath took in this piece of ground. And made a garden there for those Who want herbs for their wound. The rest of our creation Our great Redeemer did remove With the same shake, which at His passion Did the earth and all things with it move. As Sampson bore the doors away, Christ's hands, though nail'd, wrought our salvation, And did unhinge that day. The brightness of that day We sullied by our foul offence : Wherefore that robe we cast away. Having a new at His expense. Whose drops of blood paid the fill price That was required to make us gay. And fit for paradise. Thou art a day of mirth : And where the week-days trail on ground. Thy flight is higher, as thy birth : O let me take thee at the bound. Leaping with thee from seven to seven. Till that we both, being toss'd from earth, Flv hand in hand to heaven ! 30 G OLDEN LEAVES. Siv 3ol)n Suckliitg. THE BRIDE. (From "The Ballad upon a Wedding."} ER finger was so small, the ring H Would not stay on, which they did bring It was too wide, a peck; x'^nd to say truth (for out it must). It look'd kke the great collar [just) About our young colt's neck. Her feet beneath her petticoat. Like little mice, stole in and out. As if they fear'd the light ; But oh ! she dances such a way ! No su-n upon an Easttr Day Is half so fine a sight. Her cheeks so rare a white was on. No daisy bears comparison (Who sees them is undone). For streaks of red were mingled there, Such as are on a Katherine pear. The side that's next the sun. Her lips were red, and one was thin Compared to that was next her chin. Some bee had stung it newly ; But (Dick) her eyes so guard her face, I durst no more upon them gaze. Than on the sun in July. HER RICK V llobni: i^errick. GATHER THE R O S E - B U D b. f~^ ATHER ye rose-buds as ye may, ^-^ Old Time is still a-flying ; And this same flower that smiles to-day. To-morrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heav'n, the sun. The higher he 's a-getting. The sooner will his race be run. And nearer he's to setting. The age is best which is the first. When youth and blood are warmer ; But being spent, the worse and worst Time still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time, And while ye may, go marry; For having lost but once your prime, You may forever tarry. CHERRY RIPE. /^HERRY ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry, ^"^ Full and fair ones — come and buy; If so be you ask me where They do grow ? — I answer. There. Where my Julia's lips do smile — There's the land, or cherry-isle ; Whose plantations fully show All the year where cherries grow. 3 32 G OLDEN LEAVES. TO DAFFODILS. T^AIR daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon : As yet the early-rising Sun Has not attain'd his noon. Stay, stay. Until the hasting day Has run But to the even-song ; And, having pray'd together, we Will go with you along. We have short time to stay, as you. We have as short a Spring ; As quick a growth to meet decay As you, or any thing. We die. As your hours do, and drv Away Like to the Summer's rain ; Or as the pearls of morning's dew Ne'er to be found again. TO BLOSSOMS. T7AIR pledges of a fruitful tree, -*• Why do ye fall so fast ? Your date is not so past. But you may stay yet here awhile To blush and gently smile. And go at last. HERRIGK. 33 What, were ye born to be An hour or half's delight. And so to bid good-night ? 'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth Merely to show your worth. And lose you quite. But you are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne'er so brave : And after they have shown their pride Like you, awhile, they glide Into the grave. TO PRIMROSES, FILLED WITH MORNING DEW. 'ITT'HY do ye weep, sweet babes ? Can tears Speak grief in you. Who were but born Just as the modest morn Teemed her refreshing dew ? Alas ! ye have not known that shower That mars a flower ; Nor felt th' unkind Breath of a blasting wind ; Nor are ye worn with years ; Or warped, as we. Who think it strange to see Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young. Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue. 34 G OLDEN LEAVES. Speak, whimpering younglings, and make known The reason why Ye droop and weep. Is it for want of sleep. Or childish lullaby ? Or, that ye have not seen as yet The violet ? Or brought a kiss From that sweetheart to this ? No, no ; this sorrow, shown By your tears shed. Would have this lecture read : — "That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought f ;rth. THE EPICURE. "C^ILL the bowl with rosy wine, '■• i\round our temples roses twine. And let us cheerfully awhile. Like. the wine and roses, smile. Crown'd with roses, we contemn Gyges* wealthy diadem. To-day is ours ; what do we fear ? To-day is ours j we have it here. Let's treat it kindly, that it may Wish at least with us to stay. Let 's banish business, banish sorrow ; To the gods belongs to-morrow. COWLEY. 35 THE GRASSHOPPER. TTAPPY insect, what can be ''■'*' In happiness compar'd to thee ? Fed with nourishment divine. The dewy morning's gentle wine ! Nature waits upon thee still. And thy verdant cup does fill ; 'Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread. Nature self's thy Ganymede. Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing. Happier than the happiest king ! All the fields which thou dost see. All the plants belong to thee ; All that summer hours produce. Fertile made with early juice. Man for thee does sow and plough ; Farmer he, and landlord thou ! Thou dost innocently enjoy; Nor does thy luxury destroy. The shepherd gladly heareth thee. More harmonious than he. Thee country hinds with gladness hear. Prophet of the ripen'd year ! Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire ; Phcebus is himself thy sire. 36 GOLDEN LEAVES. To thee, of all things upon earth. Life is no longer than thy mirth. Happy insect ! happy thou. Dost neither age nor winter know. But when thou'st drunk, and danced, and sung Thy fill, the flowery leaves among (Voluptuous and wise withal. Epicurean animal !), Satiated with thy summer feast. Thou retir'st to endless rest. Sbmunb U) alter. "go, lovely rose!" r^ O, lovely Rose ! ^*"^ Tell her, that wastes her time and me That now she knows. When I resemble her to thee. How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that's young And shuns to have her graces spied. That hadst thou sprung In deserts, where no men abide. Thou must have uncommended died. WALLER. 37 Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired : Bid her come forth. Suffer herself to be desired. And not blush so to be admired. Then die ! that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee : How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair ! OLD AGE AND DEATH. ' I ^HE seas are quiet when the winds give o'er ; ■*' So calm are we when passions are no more. For then we know how vain it was to boast Of fleeting things, too certain to be lost. Clouds of affection from our younger eyes Conceal that emptiness which age descries. The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd. Lets in new light through chinks that time has made Stronger by weakness, wiser men become. As they draw near to their eternal home. Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, That stand upon the threshold of the new. 33 G OLDEN LEAVES. THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN. TTOW vainly men themselves amaze '*■ "^ To win the palm, the oak, or bays. And their incessant labours see Crown'd from some single herb or tree^ Whose short and narrow-verged shade Does prudently their toils upbraid ; While all the flowers and trees do close To weave the garlands of Repose. Fair Quiet, have I found thee here. And Innocence, thy sister dear ? Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men : Your sacred plants, if here below. Only among the plants will grow : Society is all but rude To this delicious solitude. No white nor red was ever seen So amorous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame. Cut in these trees their mistress' name : Little, alas, they know or heed How far these beauties her exceed ! Fair trees ! where'er your barks I wound. No name shall but your own be found. When we have run our passion's heat. Love hither makes his best retreat : 2d AR YELL. 39 The godsj who mortal beauty chase. Still in a tree did end their race : Apollo hunted Daphne so. Only that she might laurel grow : And Pan did after Syrinx speed. Not as a nymph, but for a reed. What wondrous life is this I lead ! Ripe apples drop about my head ; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine ; The nectarine and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach ; Stumbling on melons, as I pass. Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass. Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less Withdraws into its happiness ; The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find ; Yet it creates, transcending these. Far other worlds, and other seas ; Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green shade. Here, at the fountain's sliding foot. Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root. Casting the body's vest aside. My soul into the boughs does ghde ; There, like a bird, it sits and sings. Then whets and claps its silver wings. And, till prepared for longer flight. Waves in its plumes the various light. 3* 4.0 G OLDEN LEAVES. Such was the happy garden state. While man there walked without a mate ; After a place so pure and sweet. What other help could yet be meet ? But 'twas beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there : Two paradises are in one. To live in paradise alone. How well the skilful gard'ner drew Of flowers, and herbs, this dial new ! Where, from above, the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run : And, as it works, th' industrious bee Computes its time as well as we. How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckoned, but with herbs and flowers ? 3ol)u ilTilton. LYCID AS. '^T'ET once more, O ye laurels, and once more Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude. And with forced fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear Compels me to disturb your season due : For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime. Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer : MILTON. 41 WhG /Should not sing for Lycidas ? he knew Himsv if to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. He must not float upon his watery bier Unwept, and welter to the parching wind. Without the meed of some melodious tear. Begin then. Sisters of the sacred well That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring, — Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string ; Hence with denial vain and coy excuse ; So may some gentle Muse With lucky words favour my destined urn ; And, as he passes, turn And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud. For we were nursed upon the self-same hill. Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill. Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd Under the opening eyehds of the morn. We drove a-field, and both together heard What time the gray fly winds her sultry horn. Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night ; Oft till the star, that rose at evening bright. Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel. Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, Temper'd to the oaten flute j Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel From the glad sound would not be absent long ; And old Damoetas loved to hear our song. But, O the heavy change, now thou art gone. Now thou art gone, and never must return ! Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves 42 GOLDEN LEAVES. With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown. And all their echoes, mourn : The willows and the hazel copses green Shall now no more be seen Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays : — As killing as the canker to the rose. Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear When first the white thorn blows ; Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherds' ear. Where were ye. Nymphs, when the remorseless deep Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas ? For neither were ye playing on the steep Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie. Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high. Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream : Ay me ! I fondly dream — Had ye been there — for what could that have done? What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore. The Muse herself^ for her enchanting son. Whom universal nature did lament. When by the rout that made the hideous roar His gory visage down the stream was sent, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore : Alas ! what boots it with incessant care To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's trade. And strictly meditate the thankless Muse ? Were it not better done, as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade. Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair ? MILTON. 43 Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of noble mind) To scorn delights, and live laborious days : But the fair guerdon when we hope to find. And think to burst out into sudden blaze. Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears And slits the thin-spun life. *' But not the praise," Phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears ; ** Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil. Nor in the glistering foil Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies : But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes And perfect witness of all-judging Jove ; As he pronounces lastly on each deed. Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed." O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd flood Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds ! That strain I heard was of a higher mood : But now my oat proceeds. And listens to the herald of the sea That came in Neptune's plea ; He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds. What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain ? And question'd every gust of rugged wings That blows from off each beaked promontory : They knew not of his story; And sage Hippotades their answer brings. That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd ; The air was calm, and on the level brine Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd. It was that fatal and perfidious bark 44 GOLDEN LEAVES. Built in the eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark. That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow. His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe : "Ah ! who hath reft," quoth he, "my dearest pledge ?" Last came, and last did go The pilot of the Galilean lake ; Two massy keys he bore of metals twain (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain) ; He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake : " How well could I have spared for thee, young swain. Enow of such, as for their bellies' sake Creep and intrude and climb into the fold ! Of other care they Httle reckoning make Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast. And shove away the worthy bidden guest ; Blind mouths ! that scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook, or have learn'd aught else the least That to the faithfiil herdman's art belongs ! What recks it them ? What need they ? They are sped ; And when they list, their lean and flashy songs Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw • The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed. But swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw. Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread : Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said : — But that two-handed engine at the door Stands readv to smite once, and smite no more " MILTON. 45 Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicihan Muse, And call the vales, and bid them hither cast Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues. Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use Of shades, and wanton v/inds, and gushing brooks On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks; Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes That on the green turf suck the honey'd showers And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies. The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine. The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet. The glowing violet. The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, W ith cowslips wan that hang the pensive head. And every flower that sad embroidery wears : Bid amarantus all his beauty shed. And dafiijdillies fill their cups with tears To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies. For, so to interpose a little ease. Let our frail thoughts dally with fal-se surmise ; Ay me ! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas Wash far away, — where'er thy bones are hurl'd. Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, Where thou, perhaps, under the whelming tide, Visitest the bottom of the monstrous world ; Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old. Where the great Vision of the guarded mount Looks towards Namancos and Bayona's hold, — — Look homeward. Angel now, and melt with ruth ; — And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth ! 46 GOLDEN LEAVES. Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more. For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead. Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor ; So sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed. And yet anon repairs his drooping head And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky : So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high Through the dear might of Him that walk'd the waves Where, other groves and other streams along. With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves. And hears the unexpressive nuptial song In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. There entertain him all the saints above In solemn troops, and sweet societies. That sing, and singing, in their glory move. And wipe the tears forever from his eyes. Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more ; Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore In thy large recompense, and shalt be good To all that wander in that perilous flood. Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills. While the still morn went out with sandals gray ; He touch'd the tender stops of various quills. With eager thought warbling his Doric lay : And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills. And now was dropt into the western bay : At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue : To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new. MILTON. 47 l'allegro. TTENCE, loathed Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born In Stygian cave forlorn 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy Find out so'me uncouth cell Where brooding darkness spreads his jealous wings And the night-raven sings ; There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks As ragged as thy locks. In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. But come, thou Goddess fair and free. In heaven 'yclep'd Euphrosyne, ^ And by men, heart-easing Mirth, Whom lovely Venus at a birth With two sister Graces more To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore : Or whether (as some sages sing) The frolic wind that breathes the spring Zephyr, with Aurora playing. As he met her once a-Maying — There on beds of violets blue And fresh-blov/n roses wash'd in dew Fill'd her with thee, a daughter fair. So buxom, bhthe, and debonair. Haste thee. Nymph, and bring with thee Jest, and youthful jollity, • Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles. Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles 48 G OLDEN LEAVES. Such as hang on Hebe's cheek. And love to live in dimple sleek ; Sport that wrinkled Care derides. And Laughter holding both his sides ; — Come, and trip it as you go On the light fantastic toe ; And ^p thy right hand lead with thee The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty; And if I give thee honour due Mirth, admit me of thy crew. To live with her, and live with thee In unreproved pleasures free ; To hear the lark begin his flight And singing startle the dull night From his watch-tower in the skies. Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; Then to come, in spite of sorrow. And at my window bid good-morrow Through the sweetbriar, or the vine. Or the twisted eglantine : While the cock with lively din Scatters the rear of darkness thin. And to the stack, or the barn-door. Stoutly struts his dames before : Oft listening how the hounds and horn Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn. From the side of some hoar hill. Through the high wood echoing shrill. Sometime v/alking, not unseen. By hedge -row elms, on hillocks green. Right against the eastern gate Where the great Sun begins his state MILT UN. 49 Robed in flames and amber light. The clouds in thousand liveries dight ; While the ploughman, near at hand. Whistles o'er the furrow'd land. And the milkmaid singeth blithe. And the mower whets his scythe. And every shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale. Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures Whilst the landscape round it measures ; Russet lawns, and fallows gray. Where the nibbling flocks do stray ; Mountains, on whose barren breast The labouring clouds do often rest ; Meadows trim with daisies pied. Shallow brooks, and rivers wide ; Towers and battlements it sees Bosom'd high in tufted trees. Where perhaps some Beauty lies. The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes. Hard by, a cottage chimney sm.okes From betwixt two aged oaks. Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met. Are at their savoury dinner set Of herbs, and other country messes Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses ; And then in haste her bower she leaves With Thestylis to bind the sheaves ; Or, if the earlier season lead. To the tann'd haycock in the mead. Sometimes with secure delight The upland hamlets will invite. 50 G OLDEN LEAVFS. • When the merry bells ring round. And the jocund rebecks sound To many a youth and many a maid. Dancing in the chequer'd shade j And young and old come forth to play On a sun-shine holy-day. Till the live-long day-light fail : Then to the spicy nut-brown ale. With stories told of many a feat. How faery Mab the junkets eat; She was pinch'd, and pull'd, she said ; And he, by friar's lantern led ; Tells how the grudging Goblin sweat To earn his cream-bowl duly set, When in one night, ere glimpse of morn. His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the corn That ten day-labourers could not end ; Then lies him down the lubber fiend. And, stretch'd out all the chimney's length. Basks at the fire his hairy strength ; And crop-full out of doors he flings. Ere the first cock his matin rings. Thus done the tales, to bed they creep. By whispering winds soon lull'd asleep. Tower'd cities please us then And the busy hum of men. Where throngs of knights and barons bold In weeds of peace high triumphs hold. With store of ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence, and judge the prize Of wit or arms, while both contend To win her grace, whom all commend. MIL T N. 5 1 There let Hymen oft appear In saiFron robe, with taper clear3 And pomp, and feast, and revelry. With mask, and antique pageantry; Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon. If Jonson's learned sock be on. Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child. Warble his native wood-notes wild. And ever against eating cares Lap me in soft Lydian airs Married to immortal verse. Such as the meeting soul may pierce In notes, with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out. With wanton heed and giddy cunning. The melting voice through mazes running. Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony; That Orpheus' self may heave his head From golden slumber, on a bed Of heap'd Elysian flowers, and hear Such strains as would have won the ear Of Pluto, to have q^uite set free His half-regain'd Eurydice. These delights if thou canst give. Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 52 GOLDEN LEA VE^ IL PENSEROSO. T_TENCE, vain deluding Joys, ■*■ The brood of Folly without father bred ! How little you bestead Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys ! Dwell in some idle brain. And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess As thick and numberless As the gay motes that people the sunbeamR, Or likest hovering dreams The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. But hail, thou goddess sage and holy, Hail, divinest Melancholy ! Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight. And therefore to our weaker view O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue ; Black, but such as in esteem- Prince Memnon's sister might beseem. Or that starr'd Ethiop queen that strove To set her beauty's praise above The sea nymphs, and their powers offended : Yet thou art higher far descended : Thee bright-hair'd Vesta, long of yore, To solitary Saturn bore ; His daughter she ; in Saturn's reign Such mixture was not held a stain : Oft in glimmering bowers and glades He met her, and in secret shades MILT 01^. 53 Of woody Ida's inmost grove. While yet there was no fear of Jove. Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, Sober, steadfast, and demure. All in a robe of darkest grain Flowing with majestic train. And sable stole of cypress lawn Over thy decent shoulders drawn : Come, but keep thy wonted state, With even step, and musing gait,. And looks commercing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes : There, held in holy passion still. Forget thyself to marble, till With a sad leaden downward cast Thou fix them on the earth as fast : And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet, And hears the Muses in a ring Aye round about Jove's altar sing : And add to these retired Leisure That in trim gardens takes his pleasure : — But first, and chiefest, with thee bring Him that yon soars on golden wing Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne. The cherub Contemplation ; And the mute Silence hist along, 'Less Philomel will deign a song In her sweetest saddest plight. Smoothing the rugged brow of Night, While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke Gently o'er the accustom'd oak. 54. GOLDEN LEAVES. — Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly. Most musical, most melancholy ! Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods among I woo, to hear thy even-song; And missing thee, I walk unseen On the dry smooth-shaven green. To behold the wandering Moon Riding near her highest noon. Like one that had been led astray Through the heaven's wide pathless way. And oft, as if her head she bow'd. Stooping tlirough a fleecy cloud. Oft, on a plat of rising ground I hear the far-off curfew sound Over some wide-water'd shore. Swinging slow with sullen roar : Or, if the air will not permit. Some still removed place will fit. Where glowing embers through the room ' Teach light to counterfeit a gloom ; Far from all resort of mirth. Save the cricket on the hearth. Or the belman's drowsy charm. To bless the doors from nightly harm. Or let my lamp at midnight hour Be seen in some high lonely tower. Where I may oft out-watch the Bear With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere The spirit of Plato, to unfold What worlds or what vast regions hold The immortal mind, that hath forsook Her mansion in this fleshly nook : MILT ox. ^5 And of those demons that are found In fire, air, flood, or under ground. Whose power hath a true consent With planet, or with element. Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy In Gcepter'd pall come sweeping by. Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line. Or the tale of Troy divine ; Or what (though rare) of later age Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage. But, O sad Virgin, that thy power Might raise Musaeus from his bower. Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing Such notes as, warbled to the string, Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek And made Hell grant what Love did seek I Or call up him that left half-told The story of Cambuscan bold. Of Camball, and of Algarsife, And who had Canace to wife That own'd the virtuous ring and glass ; And of the wondrous horse of brass On which the Tartar king did ride : And if aught else great bards beside In sage and solemn tunes have sung Of turneys, and of trophies hung. Of forests, and enchantments drear. Where more is meant than meets the ear. Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career. Till civil-suited Morn appear. Not trick'd and frounced as she was wont With the Attic Boy to hunt, 4 GOLDEN LEAVES. But kercheft in a comely cloud While rocking winds are piping loud. Or usher'd with a shower still. When the gust hath blown his fill. Ending on the rustling leaves With minute drops from oiF the eaves. And when the sun begins to fling His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring To arched v^-alks of twilight groves. And shadows brown, that Sylvan love-:, Of pine, or monumental oak. Where the rude axe, with heaved stroke. Was never heard the nymphs to daunr. Or fright them from their hallow'd ha ant. There in close covert by some brook Where no profaner eye may look. Hide me from day's garish eye. While the bee with honey'd thigh That at her flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring, With such concert as they keep Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep ; And let some strange mysterious dream Wave at his wings in aery stream Of lively portraiture display'd. Softly on my eyelids laid : And, as I wake, sweet music breathe Above, about, or underneath. Sent by some spirit to mortals good. Or the unseen Genius of the wood. But let my due feet never fail To walk the studious cloister's pale. MILTON. And love the high-embowed roof. With antique pillars massy proof, And storied windows richly dight Casting a dim religious light : There let the pealing organ blow To the full-voiced quire below In service high and anthems clear. As may with sweetness, through mine ear Dissolve me into ecstasies. And bring all Heaven before mine eves. And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage. The hairy gown and mossy cell Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every star that heaven doth show, And every herb that sips the dew ; Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain. These pleasures. Melancholy, give. And I with thee will choose to live. qS GOLDEN LEAVES. I^aak tUctUon. THE angler's wish. T IN these flowery meads would be : These crystal streams should solace me ; To whose harmonious bubbling noise I, with my angle, would rejoice. Sit here, and see the turtle-dove Court his chaste mate to acts of love Or, on that bank, feel the west wind Breathe health and plenty: please my mind, To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers, And then washed off by April showers ; Here, hear my kenna sing a song : There, see a blackbird feed her young. Or a laverock build her nest : Here, give my weary spirits rest. And raise my low-pitched thoughts above Earth, or what poor mortals love. Thus, free from lawsuits, and the noise Of princes' courts, I would rejoice ; Or, with my Bryan and a book. Loiter long days near Shawford brook ; There sit by him, and eat my meat ; There see the sun both rise and set ; There bid good morning to n.ext day ; There meditate my time away -, And angle on ; and beg to have 4 quiet passage to a welcome grave. DRYDEN. 59 Jol)n ?Dr2ben. ALEXANDER'S FEAST. 5^1"^ WAS at the royal feast for Persia won -■■ By Philip's warlike son — Aloft in awful state The godlike hero sate On his imperial throne ; His valiant peers were placed around. Their brows with roses and with myrtles hound (So should desert in arms be crown'd) ; The lovely Thais by his side Sate like a blooming Eastern bride In flower of youth and beauty's pride :— Happy, happy, happy pair ! None but the brave None but the brave None but the brave deserves the fair ! Timotheus placed on high Amid the tuneful quire With flying fingers touch'd the lyre : The trembling notes ascend the sky And heavenly joys inspire. The song began from Jove Who left his blissful seats above- Such is the power of mighty love ! A dragon's fiery form belied the god ; Sublime on radiant spheres he rode • When he to fair Olympia prest, And while he sought her snowy breast ; 6o G OL DEN LEA VE S. Then round her slender waist he curl'd. And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the woil..l. — The listening crowd admire the lofty sound ! A present deity ! they shout around : A present deity ! the vaulted roofs rebound ! With ravish'd ears The monarch hears. Assumes the god ; Affects to nod And seems to shake the spheres. The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung . Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young : The jolly god in triumph comes ! Sound the trumpets, beat the drums ! Flush'd with a purple grace He shows his honest face : Now give the hautboys breath ; he comes, he comes ! Bacchus, ever fair and young. Drinking joys did first ordain ; Bacchus' blessings are a treasure. Drinking is the soldier's pleasure : Rich the treasure Sweet the pleasure, Sweet is pleasure after pain. Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain ; Fought all his battles o'er again, And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain ! The master saw the madness rise. His glov/ing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; DRYDEX. 6 1 And while he Heaven and Earth defied Changed his hand and check'd his pride. He chose a mournful Muse Soft pity to infuse : He sung Darius great and good. By too severe a fate Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen. Fallen from his high estate. And weltering in his blood ; Deserted, at his utmost need. By those his former bounty fed ; On the bare earth exposed he hes With not a friend to close his eyes. — With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, Revolving in his alter'd soul The various turns of Chance below ; And now and then a sigh he stole. And tears began to flow. The mighty master smiled to see That love was in the next degree ; 'Twas but a kindred sound to move. For pity melts the mind to love. Softly sweet, in Lydian measures Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. War, he sung, is toil and trouble. Honour but an empty bubble. Never ending, still beginning; Fighting still, and still destroying ; » If the world be worth thy winning, Think, O think, it worth enjoying : 62 GOLDEN LEAVES Lovely Thais sits beside thee. Take the good the gods provide thee ! — The many rend the skies with loud applause ; So Love was crown'd, but Music won the cause. The prince, unable to conceal his pain. Gazed on the fair Who caused his care. And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd, Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again : At length with love and wine at once opprest The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast. Now strike the golden lyre again : A louder yet, and yet a louder strain ! Break his bands of sleep asunder And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder. Hark ! hark ! the horrid sound Has raised up his head : As awaked from the dead And amazed he stares around. Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries. See the Furies arise ! See the snakes that they rear How they hiss in their hair. And the sparkles that flash from their eyes ! Behold a ghastly band Each a torch in his hand ! Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain And unburied remain Inglorious on the plain : Give the vengeance due To the valiant crew ! ALEXANDERS FEAST. DRYDEN. t)3 Behold how they toss their torches on high. How they point to ths Persian abodes And glittering temples of their hostile gods. — The princes applaud with a furious joy : And the King seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy ; Thais led the way To light him to his prey. And like another Helen, fired another Troy ! — Thus, long ago. Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow. While organs yet were mute, Timotheus, to his breathing flute And sounding lyre Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. At last divine Cecilia came, Inventress of the vocal frame ; The sweet enthusiast from her sacred store Enlarged the former narrow bounds, And added length to solemn sounds. With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. — Let old Timotheus yield the prize Or both divide the crown ; He raised a mortal to the skies ; She drew an angel down ! 4* 64 GOLDEN LEAVES. ODE TO SAINT CECILIA. T7ROM Harmony, from heavenly Harmony This universal frame began : When Nature underneath a heap Of jarring atoms lay And could not heave her head, The tuneful voice was heard from high. Arise, ye more than dead ! Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry In order to their stations leap. And music's power obey. From harmony, from heavenly harmony This universal frame began : From harmony to harmony Through all the compass of the notes it ran. The diapason closing full in Man. What passion cannot music raise and quell ? When Jubal struck the chorded shell His listening brethren stood around. And, wondering, on their faces fell To worship that celestial sound. Less than a God they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell That spoke so sweetly and so well. What passion cannot Music raise and quell ? The trumpet's loud clangor Excites us to arms. With shrill notes of anger And mortal alarms. DRYDEN. 65 The double double double beat Of the thundering drum Cries, " Hark ! the foes come ; Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat !" The soft complaining flute In dying notes discovers The woes of hopeless lovers, Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute. Sharp violins proclaim Their jealous pangs and desperation, Fury, frantic indignation. Depth of pains, and height of passion For the fair disdainful dame. But oh ! what art can teach. What human voice can reach The sacred organ's praise ? Notes inspiring holy love. Notes that wing their heavenly ways To mend the choirs above. Orpheus could lead the savage race. And trees uprooted left their place Sequacious of the lyre : But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher When to her Organ vocal breath was given An Angel heard, and straight appear'd — Mistaking Earth for Heaven ! 66 G OLDEN LEAVE S. Grand Chorus. As from the power of sacred lays The spheres began to move. And sung the great Creator's praise To all the blest above ; So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour. The trumpet shall be heard on high. The dead shall live, the living die. And Music shall untune the sky. MESSIAH. '^T'E nymphs of Solyma ! begin the song — "*■ To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong. The mossy fountains and the sylvan shades. The dreams of Pindus and the Aonian maids, Delight no more — O thou my voice inspire Who touched Isaiah's hallowed lips with fire ! Rapt into future times the bard began : A virgin shall conceive — a virgin bear a son ! From Jesse's root behold a branch arise Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the skies : Th' ethereal spirit o'er its leaves shall move. And on its top descends the mystic dove. Ye heavens ! from high the dewy nectar pour. And in soft silence shed the kindly shower ! POPE. 67 The sick and weak the heahng plant shall aid — From storm a shelter, and from heat a shade. All crimes shall cease, and ancient frauds shall tail ; Returning Justice lift aloft her scale. Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend. And white-robed Innocence from heaven descend. Swift fly the years, and rise the expected morn ! O spring to light ! auspicious babe, be born ! See, nature hastes her earliest wreaths to bring. With all the incense of the breathing spring ! See lofty Lebanon his head advance j See nodding forests on the mountains dance ; See spicy clouds from lowly Sharon rise, And Carmel's flowery top perfumes the skies ! Hark ! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers : Prepare the way ! a God, a God appears ! A God, a God ! the vocal hills reply — The rocks proclaim the approaching Deity. Lo, earth receives Him from the bending skies ! Sink down, ye mountains ; and ye valleys, rise ! With heads declined, ye cedars, homage pay ! Be smooth, ye rocks ; ye rapid floods, give way ! The Saviour comes ! by ancient bards foretold — Hear Him, ye deaf; and all ye blind, behold ! He from thick films shall purge the visual ray. And on the sightless eyeball pour the day ; 'Tis He th' obstructed paths of sound shall clear. And bid new music charm th' unfolding ear ; The dumb shall sing j the lame his crutch forego. And leap exulting like the bounding roe. No sigh, no murmur, the wide world shall hear — From every face He wipes off every tear. 68 GOLDEN LEAVES. In adamantine chains shall Death be bound. And hell's grim tyrant feel th' eternal wound. As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care. Seeks freshest pasture, and the purest air. Explores the lost, the wandering sheep directs. By day o'ersees them, and by night protects ; The tender lambs He raises in His arms — Feeds from His hand, and in His bosom warms : Thus shall mankind His guardian care engage — The promised father of the future age. No more shall nation against nation rise. Nor ardent warriors meet with hateflil eyes ; Nor fields with gleaming steel be covered o'er. The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more ; But useless lances into scythes shall bend. And the broad falchion in a ploughshare end. Then palaces shall rise ; the ioyful son Shall finish what his short-lived sire begun ; Their vines a shadow to their race shall yield. And the same hand that sowed shall reap the field ; The swain in barren deserts with surprise Sees lilies spring and sudden verdure rise ; And starts, amidst the thirsty wilds, to hear New falls of water murmuring in his ear. On rifted rocks, the dragon's late abodes. The green reed trembles, and the bulrush nods ; Waste sandy valleys, once perplexed with thorn. The spiry fir and shapely box adorn ; To leafless shrubs the flowery palms succeed. And odorous myrtle to the noisome weed ; The lambs with wolves shall graze the verdant meaa. And boys in flowery bands the tiger lead ; POPE. 69 The steer and lion at one crib shall meet. And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet. The smiling infant in his hand shall take The crested basilisk and speckled snake — Pleased, the green lustre of the scales survey. And with their forked tongue shall innocently play. Rise, crowned with light, imperial Salem, rise ! Exalt thy towery head, and lift thy eyes ! See a long race thy spacious courts adorn ; See future sons, and daughters yet unborn. In crowding ranks on every side arise. Demanding life, impatient for the skies ! See barbarous nations at thy gates attend. Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend ; See thy bright altars thronged with prostrate kings, And heaped with products of Sabean springs ! For Thee Idume's spicy forests blow. And seeds of gold in Ophir*s mountains glow. See heaven its sparkling portals wide display. And break upon thee in a flood of day ! No more the rising sun shall gild the morn. Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn ; But lost, dissolved in thy superior rays. One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze, O'erflow thy courts; the Light Himself shall shine Revealed, and God's eternal day be thine ! The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay. Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away ; But fixed His word. His saving power remains ; Thy realm forever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns ! 70 G OLDEN LEAVES. THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER. Tj^ATHER of all ! in every age, -■• In every clime adored — By saint, by savage, and by sage — Jehovah, Jove, or Lord ! Thou great First Cause, least understood. Who all my sense confined To know but this : that Thou art good. And that myself am blind ; Yet gave me, in this dark estate. To see the good from ill ; And, binding nature fast in fate. Left free the human will. What conscience dictates to be done. Or warns me not to do. This teach me more than hell to shun. That more than heaven pursue. What blessings Thy free bounty gives Let me not cast away — For God is paid when man receives ; To enjoy is to obey. Yet not to earth's contracted span Thy goodness let me bound. Or think Thee Lord alone of man. When thousand worlds are round. POPE. 7\ Let not this weakj unknowing hand Presume Thy bolts to throw. And deal damnation round the land On each I judge Thy foe. If I am right. Thy grace impart Still in the right to stay ; If I am wrong, O teach my heart To find that better way Save me alike from foolish pride Or impious discontent. At aught Thy wisdom has denied. Or aught Thy goodness lent. Teach me to feel another's woe. To hide the fault I see- That mercy I to others show. That mercy show to me. Mean though I am, not wholly so. Since quickened by Thy breath ; O lead me, wheresoever I go. Through this day's life or death. This day be bread and peace my lot — All else beneath the sun Thou know'st if best bestowed or not. And let Thy will be done. To Thee, whose temple is all space. Whose altar, earth, sea, skies — One chorus let all being raise ! * All nature's incense rise ! 72 G OLDEN LEAVES. THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. T T^ITAL spark of heavenly flame, ^uit, O quit this mortal frame ! Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying — O the pain, the bliss of dying ! Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife. And let me languish into life ! Hark ! they whisper : angels say. Sister spirit, come away ! What is this absorbs me quite. Steals my senses, shuts my sight. Drowns my spirits, draws my breath ? Tell me, my soul ! can this be death r The world recedes — it disappears; Heaven opens on my eyes ; my ears With sounds seraphic ring : Lend, lend your wings ! I mount, I fly ! O Grave ! where is thy victory ? O Death ! where is thy sting ? ADDISON. 73 Io0fpl) :?lbi)i0on. A HYMN. TT^HEN all thy mercies, O my God, My rising soul surveys. Transported with the view, Pm lost In wonder, love, and praise. O how shall words wi-th equal warmth The gratitude declare. That glows within my ravish'd heart ? But Thou canst read it there ! Thy providence my life sustain'd, AnA all my wants redrest. When in the silent womb I lay. And hung upon the breast. To all my weak complaints and cries Thy mercy lent an ear. Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learnt To form themselves in prayer. Unnumbered comforts to my soul Thy tender care bestow'd. Before my infant heart conceived From whom those comforts flow'd. When in the slippery paths of vouth With heedless steps I ran. Thine arm, unseen, convey'd me safe And led me up to man. 74 GOLDEN LEAVES. Through hidden dangers, toils, and deaths. It gently cleared my way. And through the pleasing snares of vice. More to be fear'd than they. When worn with sickness, oft hast Thou With health renew'd my face ; And, when in sins and sorrows sunk. Revived my soul with grace. Thy bounteous hand with worldly bliss Has made my cup run o'er ; And in a kind and faithful friend Has doubled all my store. Ten thousand thousand precious gifts My daily thanks employ ; Nor is the least a cheerful heart That tastes those gifts with joy. Through every period of my life Thy goodness I'll pursue ; And after death, in distant worlds. The glorious theme renew. When nature fails, and day and night Divide thy works no more. My ever-grateful heart, O Lord, Thy mercy shall adore. Through all eternity, to Thee A joyful song I'll raise ; But O ! eternity's too short To utter all thy praise. ADDISON. 75 ode: "the spacious firmament.' 'TpHE spacious firmament on high^ ■■' With all the blue ethereal sky. The spangled heavens, a shining frame. Their great Original proclaim. The unwearied sun, from day to day. Does his Creator's power display ; And publishes to every land The work of an almighty hand. Soon as the evening shades prevail. The moon takes up the wond'rous tale, And nightly, to the listening earth. Repeats the story of her birth ; Whilst all the stars, that round her burn. And all the planets in their turn. Confirm the tidings as they roll. And spread the truth from pole to pole. What though, in solemn silence, all Move round this dark, terrestrial ball ? What though nor real voice nor sound Amidst their radiant orbs be found ? In reason's ear they all rejoice. And utter forth a glorious voice, ' Forever singing as they shine, " The hand that made us is divine !' y6 G OLDEN LEAVES. 3ol)n (Ba^. THE POET AND THE ROSE. T HATE the man who builds his name -*• On ruins of another's fame : Thus prudes, by characters o'erthrown. Imagine that they raise their own ; Thus scribblers, covetous of praise. Think slander can transplant the bays. Beauties and bards have equal pride. With both all rivals are decried : Who praises Lesbia's eyes and feature. Must call her sister "awkward creature;" For the kind flattery's sure to charm. When we some other nymph disarm. As in the cool of early day A poet sought the sweets of May, The garden's fragrant breath ascends. And every stalk with odour bends ; A rose he plucked, he gazed, admired. Thus singing, as the muse inspired — *' Go, Rose, my Chloe's bosom grace ; How happy should I prove. Might I supply that envied place With never-fading love ! There, Phcenix-like, beneath her eye. Involved in fragrance, burn and die. Know, hapless flower ! that thou shalt find More fragrant roses there : I see thy withering head reclined With envy and despair ! GAl. 77 One common fate we both must prove ; You die with envy, I with love." " Spare your comparisons," rephed An angry Rose, who grew beside. " Of all mankind, you should not flout us ; What can a poet do without us ? In every love-song roses bloom ; We lend you colour and perfume. Does it to Chloe's charms conduce. To found her praise on our abuse ? Must we, to flatter her, be made To wither, envy, pine, and fade ?" BLACK-EYED SUSAN. A LL in the Downs the fleet was moored. The streamers waving in the wind. When black-eyed Susan came aboard. Oh ! where shall I my true-love find ? Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true. If my sweet William sails among your crew. William, who high upon the yard Rocked with the billows to and fro. Soon as her well-known voice he heard. He sighed and cast his eyes below : The cord sUdes swiftly through his glowing hands. And, quick as lightning, on the deck he stands. So the sweet lark, high poised in air. Shuts close his pinions to his breast GOLDEN LEAVES. If chance his mate's shrill call he hear. And drops at once into her nest. The noblest captain in the British fleet Might envy William's lips those kisses sweet. O Susan, Susan, lovely dear. My vows shall ever true remain ; Let me kiss off that falling tear ; We only part to meet again. Change, as ye Hst, ye winds ; my heart shall be The faithful compass that still points to thee. Believe not what the landsmen say. Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind : They'll tell thee, sailors, when away. In every port a mistress find :■ Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so. For thou art present wheresoe'er I go. If to fair India's coast we sail. Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright. Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale. Thy skin is ivory so white. Thus every beauteous object that I view. Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. Though battle call me from thy arms. Let not my pretty Susan mourn ; Though cannons roar, yet safe from harms, William shall to his dear return. Love turns aside the balls that round me fly. Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye. PRIOR. 79 The boatswain gave the dreadful word. The sails their swelling bosom spread ; No longer must she stay aboard ; They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head. Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land : Adieu ! she cries ; and waved her lily hand. iHattl)etD |j3iior. THE GARLAND. 'T^HE pride of every grove I chose, ■*' The violet sweet and lily fair. The dappled pink and blushing rose. To deck my charming Chloe's hair. At morn the nymph vouchsafed to place Upon her brow the various wreath ; The flowers less blooming than her face. The scent less fragrant than her breath. The flowers she wore along the day. And every nymph and shepherd said. That in her hair they jook'd more gay Than glowing in their native bed. Undress'd at evening, when she found Their odours lost, their colours past. She changed her look, and on the ground Her garland and her eyes she cast, 5 8o G OLDEN LEAVES. That eye dropp'd sense distinct and clear As any muse's tongue could speak^ When from its iid a pearly tear Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek. Dissembling what I knew too well. My love, my life, said I, explain This change of humour ; prithee tell That falling tear — what does it mean ? She sigh'd, she smiled ; and to the flo\vers Pointing, the lovely mor'list said. See, friend, in some few fleeting hours. See yonder, what a change is made. Ah me ! the blooming pride of May And that of beauty are but one ; At morn both flourish bright and gay. Both fade at evening, pale, and gone. loljti Pomfitt. THE CHOICE. TF Heaven the grateful liberty would give That I might choose my method how to live ; And all those hours propitious Fate should lend. In blissful ease and satisfaction spend ; Near some fair town I'd have a private seat. Built uniform, not little, nor too great ; Better, if on a rising ground it stood ; On this side fields, on that a neighbouring wood. It should within no other things contain POMFRET. 8 1 But what are useful, necessary, plain ; Methinks 'tis nauseous, and I'd ne'er endure The needless pomp of gaudy furniture. A little garden, grateful to the eye : And a cool rivulet run murmuring by : On whose delicious banks a stately row Of shady limes, or sycamores, should grov/. At the end of which a silent study placed. Should be with all the noblest authors graced : Horace and Virgil, in whose mighty lines Immortal wit and solid learning shines ; Sharp Juvenal, and amorous Ovid too. Who all the turns of love's soft passion knew : He that with judgment reads his charming lines. In which strong art with stronger nature joins. Must grant his fancy does the best excel; His thoughts so tender, and express'd so well : With all those moderns, men of steady sense, Esteem'd for learning, and for eloquence. In some of these, as fancy should advise, I'd always take my morning exercise : For sure no minutes bring us more content. Than those in pleasing, useful studies spent. I'd have a clear and competent estate. That I might live genteelly, but not great : As much as I could moderately spend ; A little more, sometimes t' oblige a friend. Nor should the sons of poverty repine Too much at fortune, they should taste of mine ; And all that objects of true pity were. Should be relieved with' what my wants could spare.; For that our Maker has too largely given, 6 82 G OLDEN LEAVES. Should be return'd in gratitude to Heaven ; A frugal plenty should my table spread ; With healthy, not luxurious dishes fed : Enough to satisfy and something more. To feed the stranger, and the neighbouring poor. Strong meat indulges vice, and pampering food Creates diseases, and inflames the blood. But v/hat's sufficient to make nature strong. And the bright lamp of hfe continue long, I'd freely take ; and, as I did possess. The bounteous Author of my plenty bless. I'd have a little vault, but a Ways stored With the best vv^ines each vintage could afford ; Wine w^hets the wit, improves its native force. And gives a pleasant flavour to discourse ; By making all our spirits debonair. Throws off^ the lees, the sediment of care. But as the greatest blessing Heaven lends May be debauch'd, and serve ignoble ends : So, but too oft, the grape's refreshing juice Does many mischievous effects produce. My house should no such rude disorders knov/, As from high drinking consequently flow ; Nor would I use what was so kindly given. To the dishonour of indulgent Heaven. If any neighbour came, he should be free. Used with respect, and not uneasy be. In my retreat, or to himself or me. What freedom, prudence, and right reason give. All men may, with impunity, receive : But the least swerving from their rule's too much ; For what's forbidden us, 'tis death to touch. POMFRET. 83 That life may be more comfortable yet. And all my joys refined, sincere, and great ; I'd choose two friends, whose company would be A great advance to my felicity : Well born, of humours suited to my own. Discreet, and men as well as books have known : Brave, generous, witty, and exactly free From loose behaviour, or formahty : Airy and prudent ; merry, but not light ; Quick in discerning, and in judging right : Secret they should be, faithful to their trust ; In reasoning cool, strong, temperate, and just ; Obliging, open, without huffing, brave ; Brisk in gay talking, and in sober, grave; Close in dispute, but not tenacious ; try'd By solid reason, and let that decide ; Not prone to lust, revenge, or envious hate ; Nor busy meddlers with intrigues of state ; Strangers 10 slander, and sworn foes to spite ; Not quarrelsome, but stout enough to fight ; Loyal, and pious, friends to C^sar ; true As dying martyrs, to their Maker too. In their society I could not miss A permanent, sincere, substantial bliss. Would bounteous Heaven once more indulge, IV choose (For who would so much satisfaction lose As witty nymphs, in conversation, give) Near some obliging modest fair to live : For there's that sweetness in a female mind, Which in a man's we cannot hope to find ! That by a secret, but a powerful art 84 G OLDEN LEAVES. Winds up the spring of life, and does impart Fresh vital heat to the transported heart. I'd have her reason all her passions sway : Easy in company, in private gay : Coy to a fop, to the deserving free ; Still constant to herself, and just to me. A soul she should have for great actions fit ; Prudence and wisdom to direct her wit : Courage to look bold danger in the face ; No fear, but only to be proud, or base ; Quick to advise, by an emergence prest. To give good council, or to take the best. Fd have the expression of her thoughts be such, She might not seem reserv'd, nor talk too much That shows a want of judgment and of sense; More than enough is but impertinence. Her conduct regular, her mirth refin'd ; Civil to strangers, to her neighbours kind : Averse to vanity, revenge, and pride ; In all the methods of deceit untry'd : So faithful to her friend, and good to all. No censure might upon her actions fall : Then would ev'n envy be compeli'd to say. She goes the least of woman-kind astray. To this fair creature I'd sometimes retire ; Her conversation would new joys inspire ; Give life an edge so keen, no surly care Would venture to assault my soul, or dare. Near my retreat, to hide one secret snare. But so divine, so noble a repast I'd seldom, and with moderation, taste. For highest cordials all their virtue lose. P OMFRET. By a too frequent and too bold a use ; And what would cheer the spirits in distress. Ruins our health, when taken to excess. I'd be concern'd in no litigious jar, Belov'd by all, not vainly popular. Whate'er assistance I had power to bring, T' oblige my country, or to serve my king, Whene'er they call'd, I'd readily afford. My tongue, my pen, my counsel, or my sword. Law-suits I'd shun, with as much studious care, As I would dens where hungry lions are ; And rather put up injuries, than be A plague to him, who'd be a plague to me. I value quiet at a price too great. To give for my revenge so dear a rate : For what do we by all our bustle gain. But counterfeit delight, for real pain ? If Heaven a date of many years would give, Thus I'd in pleasure, ease, and plenty live. And as I near approach'd the verge of life. Some kind relation (for I'd have no wife) Should take upon him all my worldly care. Whilst I did for a better state prepare. Then I'd not be with any trouble vex'd, Nor have the evening of my days perplex'd ; But by a silent 'and a peaceful death. Without a sigh, resign my aged breath. And when committed to the dust, I'd have Few tears, but friendly, dropped into my g Then would my exit so propitious be. All men would wish to live and die like me. rave 86 G OLDEN LEAVES. ^l)omQ0 J3avneli. THE HERMIT. TT^AR in a wild, unknown to public view. From youth to age a reverend hermit grew ; The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell. His food the fruitSj his drink the crystal well ; Remote from men, with God he passed his days. Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise. A life so sacred, such serene repose. Seemed heaven itself, till one suggestion rose — That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey ; This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway ; His hopes no more a certain prospect boast, And all the tenor of his soul is lost. So, when a smooth expanse receives impressed Calm nature's image on its watery breast, Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow. And skies beneath with answering colours glow ; But, if a stone the gentle sea divide. Swift ruffling circles curl on every side. And glimmering fragments of a broken sun. Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run. To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight. To find if books, or swains, report it right (For yet by swains alone the world he knew. Whose feet came wandering o'er the nightly dew). He quits his cell ; the pilgrim-stafF he bore. And fixed the scallop in his hat before ; Then, with the rising sun, a journey went. Sedate to think, and watching each event. PARNELL. 87 The morn was wasted in the pathless grass. And long and lonesome was the wild to pass ; But, when the southern sun had warmed the day, A youth came posting o'er a crossing way ; His raiment decent, his complexion fair. And soft in graceful ringlets waved his hair; Then, near approaching, "Fatlier, hail !" he cried, And, '^ Hail, my son !" the reverend sire replied. Words followed words, from question answer flowed, And talk, of various kind, deceived the road ; Till each with other pleased, and loath to part, While in their age they differ, join in heart. Thus stands an aged elm in ivy hound. Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around. Now sunk the sun ; the closing hour of day Came onward, mantled o'er with sober gray ; Nature, in silence, bid the world repose. When, near the road, a stately palace rose. There, by the moon, through ranks of trees they pass, Whose verdure crowned their sloping sides with grass. It chanced the noble master of the dome Still made his house the wandering stranger's home ; Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise, Proved the vain flourish of expensive ease. The pair arrive ; the liveried servants wait ; Their lord receives them at the pompous gate ; The table groans with costly piles of food. And all is more than hospitably good. Then led to rest, the day's long toil they drown. Deep aunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down. At length 'tis morn, and, at the dawn of day. Along the wide canals the zephyrs play ; 5* 88 G OLDEN LEA VES. Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep. And shake the neighbouring wood to banish sleep. Up rise the guests, obedient to the call. An early banquet decked the splendid hall ; Rich luscious wine a golden goblet graced. Which the kind master forced the guests to taste. Then, pleased and thankful, from the porch they go ; And, but the landlord, none had cause of woe ; His cup was vanished ; for in secret guise. The younger guest purloined the glittering prize. As one who spies a serpent in his way, Glistening and basking in the summer ray, Disordered stops to shun the danger near. Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear ; So seemed the sire, when, far upon the road. The shining spoil his wily partner showed. He stopped with silence, walked with trembling heart And much he wished, but durst not ask to part ; Murmuring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard That generous actions meet a base reward. While thus they pass, the sun his glory shrouds, The changing skies hang out their sable clouds ; A sound in air presaged approaching rain, And beasts to covert scud across the plain. Warned by the signs, the wandering pair retreat To seek for shelter at a neighbouring seat. 'Twas built with turrets on a rising ground. And strong, and large, and unimproved around ; Its owner's temper, timorous and severe. Unkind and griping, caused a desert there. As near the miser's heavy door they drew. Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew; PAH NELL. S9 The nimble lightning, mixed with showers, began, And o'er their heads loud rolling thunders ran ; Here long thfy knock, but knock or call in vain. Driven by the wind, and battered by the rain. At length some pity warmed the master's breast ('Twas then his threshold first received a guest) ; Slow creaking turns the door with jealous care. And half he welcomes in the shivering pair ; One frugal faggot lights the naked walls, x'\nd Nature's fervour through their Hmbs recalls ; Bread of the coarsest sort, with meagre wine, (Each hardly granted), served them both to dine ; And when the tempest first appeared to cease, A ready warning bid them part in peace. With still remark, the pondering hermit viewed. In one so rich, a life so poor and rude ; And why should such (within himself he cried) Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside ? But what new marks of wonder soon take place In every settling feature of his face. When, from his vest, the young companion bore That cup, the generous landlord owned before. And paid profusely with the precious bowl. The stinted kindness of this churlish soul ! But now the clouds in airy tumult fly ; The sun emerging, opes an azure sky ; A fresher green the smelling leaves display, And, glittering as they tremble, cheer the day : The weather courts them from their poor retreat. And the glad master bolts the wary gate. While hence they walk, the pilgrim's bosom wrought With all the travail of uncertain thought : 90 GOLDEN LEA VE S. His partner's acts without their cause appear ; 'Twas there a vice, and seemed a madness here : Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes. Lost and confounded with the various shows. Now night's dim shades again involve the sky ; Again the wanderers want a place to lie ; Again they search, and find a lodging nigh. The soil improved around, the mansion neat. And neither poorly low, nor idly great ; It seemed to speak its master's turn of mind ; Content, and not for praise, but virtue, kind. Hither the walkers turn their weary feet. Then bless the mansion, and the master greet. Their greeting fair, bestowed with modest guise, The courteous master hears, and thus replies : — " Without a vain, without a grudging heart, To him who gives us all, I yield a part ; From him you come, for him accept it here, A frank and sober, more than costly cheer !" He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread. Then talked of virtue till the time of bed ; When the grave household round his hall repair, Warned by a bell, and close the hours with prayer. At length the world, renewed by calm repose. Was strong for toil; the dappled morn arose; Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept Near a closed cradle, where an infant slept. And writhed his neck : the landlord's little pride, O strange return ! grew black, and gasped, and died! Horror of horrors ! what ! his only son ! How looked our hermit when the fact was done ' PARNELL. 91 Not hell, though hell's black jaws in sunder part. And breathe blue fire, could more assault his heart. Confused, and struck with silence at the deed. He flies, but trembling, fails to fly with speed ; His steps the youth pursues : the country lay Perplexed with roads ; a servant showed the way ; A river crossed the path ; the passage o'er Was nice to find ; the servant trod before ; Long arms of oaks an open bridge supplied. And deep the waves beneath them bending glide. The youth, who seemed to watch a time to sin. Approached the careless guide, and thrust him in ; Plunging he falls, and rising, lifts his head. Then flashing turns, and sinks among the dead. While sparkling rage inflames the father's eyes. He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries, *' Detested wretch !" — but scarce his speech began, When the strange partner seemed no longer man ! His youthful face grew more serenely sweet ; His robe turned white, and flowed upon bis feet; B'air rounds of radiant points invest his hair ; Celestial odours breathe through purpled air; And wings, whose colours glittered on the day. Wide at his back their gradual plumes display. The form ethereal bursts upon his sight. And moves in all the majesty of light. Though loud at first the pilgrim's passion grew. Sudden he gazed, and wist not what to do ; Surprise, in secret chains, his words suspends. And in a calm, his settling temper ends. But silence here the beauteous angel broke (The voice of Music ravish'd as he spoke) : — 92 G OLDEN LEAVES. "■ Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice unkncwn, In sweet memorial rise- before the throne : These charms success in our bright region find. And force an angel down to calm thy mind ; For this commissioned, I forsook the sky : Nay, cease to kneel — thy fellow servant I. Then know the truth of government divine, And let these scruples be no longer thine. The Maker justly claims that world he made ; In this the right of Providence is laid ; Its sacred majesty through all depends On using second means to work his ends : 'Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human eye, The pov/er exerts his attributes on high ; Your action uses, nor controls your will. And bids the doubting sons of men be still. What strange events can strike with more surprise. Than those which lately struck thy wondering eyes ? Yet, taught by these, confess the Almighty just. And, where you can't unriddle, learn to trust. The great vain man, who fared on costly food. Whose life was too luxurious to be good ; Who made his ivory stands with goblets shine. And forced his guests to morning draughts of wine ; Has, with the cup, the graceless custom lost. And still he welcomes, but with less of cost. The mean suspicious wretch, whose bolted door Ne'er moved in pity to the wandering poor; With him I left the cup, to teach his mind That Heaven can bless, if mortals will be kind. Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl. And feels compassion touch his grateful soul. PARNELL. Ci} Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead, With heaping coals of fire upon its head ; In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow. And, loose from dross, the silver runs below. Long had our pious friend in virtue trod. But now the child half-weaned his heart from God ; (Child of his age) for him he lived in pain. And measured back his steps to earth again. To what excesses had his dotage run ! But God, to save the father, took the son. To all but thee, in fits he seemed to go. And 'twas my ministry to deal the blow. The poor fond parent, humbled in the dust, Now owns in tears the punishment was just. But how had all his fortunes felt a wrack. Had that false servant sped in safety back ? This night his treasured heaps he meant to steal, And what a fund of charity v/ould fail ! Thus Heaven instructs thy mind : this trial o'er, Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more." On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew. The sage stood wondering as the seraph flew ; Thus looked Elisha, when, to mount on high, His master took the chariot of the sky ; The fiery pomp ascending left the view ; The prophet gazed, and wished to follovv too. The bending Hermit here a prayer begun, "Lord, as in heaven, on earth thy will be done." Then, gladly turning, sought his ancient place, And passed a "life of piety and peace. 94 GOLDEN LEAVES, iDilliain (Siollms. ODE ON THE PASSIONS. "l T 7HEN Music, heavenly maid, was young, ^ ^ While yet in early Greece she sung. The Passions oft, to hear her shell. Thronged around her magic cell — Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting — Possest beyond the Muse's painting ; By turns they felt the glowing mind Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined; Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired. Filled with fury, rapt, inspired. From the supporting myrtles round They snatched her instruments of sound ; And, as they oft had heard apart Sweet lessons of her forceful art. Each (for Madness ruled the hour) Would prove his own expressive power. First Fear his hand, its skill to try. Amid the chords bewildered laid. And back recoiled, he knew not why. E'en at the sound himself had made. Next Anger rushed ; his eyes, on fire. In lightnings owned his secret stings . In one rude clash he struck the lyre. And swept with hurried hand the strings. COLLINS. 9~, With vvoful measures wan Despair, Low, sullen sounds, his grief beguiled — A solemn, strange, and mingled air ; 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'tv/as wild. But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair — What was thy delightful measure ? Still it whispered promised pleasure. And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! Still would her touch the strain prolong; And from the rocks, the woods, the vale. She called on Echo still, through all the song ; And, where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close ; And Hope enchanted, smiled, and waved her goldei hair. And longer had she sung — but, with a frown. Revenge impatient rose ; He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder dovv^n ; And, with a withering look. The war-denouncing trumpet took. And blew a blast so loud and dread. Were ne'er prophetic sounds so fiill of woe ! And, ever and anon, he beat The doubling drum, with furious heat ; And though sometimes, each dreary pause between. Dejected Pity, at his side. Her soul-subduing voice applied. Yet still he kept his wild, unaltered mien. While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head. 96 G OLDEN LEAVES. Thy numbers. Jealousy, to naught were fixed — Sad proof of thy distressful state; Of differing themes the veering song was mixed ; And now it courted Love — now, raving, called on Hate. With eyes upraised, as one inspired. Pale Melancholy sate retired ; And, from her wild sequestered seat. In notes by distance made more sweet. Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul ; And, dashing soft from rocks around. Bubbling runnels joined the sound ; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole ; Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay. Round an holy calm diffusing. Love of Peace, and lonely musing. In hollow murmurs died away. But O ! how altered was its sprightlier tone When Cheerfiilness, a nymph of healthiest hue. Her bow across her shoulder flung. Her buskins gemmed with morning dew. Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung — The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known ! The oak-crowned Sisters, and their chaste-eyed Queen, Satyrs, and sylvan boys, were seen. Peeping from forth their alleys green ; Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear; And Sport leapt up, and seized his beechen spear. Last came Joy's ecstatic trial : He, with viny crown advancing. COLLINS. 97 First to the lively pipe his hand addrest ; But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol. Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best ; They would have thought, who heard the strain. They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids. Amidst the festal sounding shades, To some unwearied minstrel dancing. While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings. Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round : Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound ; And he, amidst his frolic play. As if he would the charming air repay. Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings. O Music ! sphere-descended maid. Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid ! Why, goddess ! why, to us denied, Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside ? As, in that loved Athenian bower. You learned an all-commanding power. Thy mimic soul, O nymph endeared. Can well recall what then it heard ; Where is thy native simple heart. Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art ? Arise, as in that elder time. Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime ! Thy wonders, in that godlike age. Fill thy recording sister's page ; 'Tis said — and I beheve the tale — Thy humblest reed could more prevail, Flad more of strength, diviner rage. Than all v/hich charms this laggard age — 98 G OLDEN LEAVES. E'en all at once together found — Cecilia's mingled world of sound. O bid our vain endeavours cease ; Revive the just designs of Greece ' Return in all thy simple state — Confirm the tales her sons relate ! DIRGE IN CYMBELINE, SUNG BY GUIDERUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER FEDELEj SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD. 'TT^O fair Fidele's grassy tomb •*' Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet of earliest bloom. And rifle all the breathing Spring. No wailing ghost shall dare appear. To vex with shrieks this quiet grove ; But shepherd lads assemble here. And melting virgins own their love. No withered witch shall here be seen — No goblins lead their nightly crew ; The female fays shall haunt the green. And dress thy grave with pearly dew. The redbreast oft, at evening hours. Shall kindly lend his little aid. With hoary moss, and gathered flowers. To deck the ground where thou art laid. COLLINS. When howling winds and beating rain In tempests shake the sylvan cell. Or 'midst the chase, on every plain. The tender thought on thee shall dwell. Each lonely scene shall thee restore. For thee the tear be duly shed ; Beloved till life can charm no more. And mourned till Pity's self be dead 99 "HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE TTOW sleep the brave, who sink to rest ■*' By all their country's wishes blessed ! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold. Returns to deck their hallowed mould. She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. By fairy hands their knell is rung ; By forms unseen their dirge is sung ; There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray. To bless the turf that wraps their clay ; And Freedom shall awhile repair. To dwell a weeping hermit there ! lOO G OLDEN LEAVES. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD 'TpHE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, ■*' The lowing herds wind slowly o'er the lea. The ploughman homeward plods his weary way. And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight. And all the air a solemn stillness holds. Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight. And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds : — Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower. The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bower. Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade. Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap. Each in his narrow cell forever laid. The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn. The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed. The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn. No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed ! For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn. Or busy housewife ply her evening care : No children run to lisp their sire's return. Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. GBAi\ lOI Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield. Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke : How jocund did they drive their team afield ! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! Let not ambition mock their useful toil. Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pov/er. And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave. Await alike th' inevitable hour, — The paths of glory lead — but to the grave ! Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault. If memory o'er their tombs no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault. The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn, or animated bust. Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust ? Or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death ? Perhaps, in this neglected spot, is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; — Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre ! But knowledge to their eyes her ample page. Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ; Chill penury repress'd their noble rage. And frcvze the genial current of the soul. • 102 G OLDEN LEAVES. Full many a gem of purest ray serene. The dark, unfathom'd caves of ocean bear ; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen. And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast. The Httle tyrant of his fields withstood — Some mute, inglorious Milton, here may rest — Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. Fh' applause of list'ning senates to command. The threats of pain and ruin to despise. To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land. And read their history in a nation's eyes. Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined — • Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne. And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; — The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide. To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame. Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife. Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect. Some frail memorial, still erected nigh. With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd. Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. GRAY. IC3 Their name, theif years, spell'd by th' unletter'd Musc, The place of fame and elegy supply ; And many a holy text around she strews. To teach the rustic moralist to die. For who, to dumb forgetfalness a prey. This pleasing, anxious being, e'er resign'd. Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day. Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind ? On some fond breast the parting soul relies. Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead. Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; If, 'chance, by lonely contemplation led. Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate. Haply, some hoary-headed swain may say, " Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn. Brushing with hasty steps the dew away. To meet the sun upon the upland, lawn. '' There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech. That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high. His hstless length at noontide would he stretch. And pore upon the brook that babbles by.^ ^ Here, in his first MS., followed this stanza : — " Him have wc seen the greenwood side along, While o'er the heath we hied, our labour done ; Oft as the woodlark piped her farewell song. With wisful eyes pursue the setting sun." 6 i04 GOLDEN LEAVES. " Hard by yon wood, now, smiling as in scorn, Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would rove ; Now drooping, woful, wan, like one forlorn. Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. '' One morn, I miss'd him on th' accustom'd hill. Along the heath, and near his fevourite tree ; Another came ; nor yet beside the rill. Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ; *' The next — with dirges due, in sad array. Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne — Approach, and read — for thou canst read — the lay. Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." THE EPITAPH.' Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown : Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth. And Melancholy marked him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; Heaven did a recompense as largely send : He gave to Misery all he had, — a tear ; He gained from Heaven — 'twas all he wish'd — a friend. ^ In the poem, as originally printed, the following beautiful s:anza preceded the epitaph : — " There scattered oft, the earliest of the year, By hands unseen are showers of violets found : The redbreast loves to build and warble there, And little footsteps lightly print the ground." It was afterwards omitted, because he thought it too long a paren- thesis GRAY. 105 No farther seek his merits to disclose. Or draw his frailties from their dread abode — (There they alike in trembling hope repose !) — The bosom of his Father and his God ! HYMN TO ADVERSITY. T^AUGHTER of Jove, relentless power, Thou tamer of the human breast. Whose iron scourge and torturing hour The bad affright, afflict the best ! Bound in thy adamantine chain The proud are taught to taste of pain. And purple tyrants vainly groan With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone. When first thy Sire to send on earth Virtue, his darling child, design'd. To thee he gave the heavenly birth. And bade to form her infant mind. Stern rugged Nurse ! thy rigid lore With patience many a year she bore : What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know. And from her own she learn'd to melt at others' woe Scared at thy frown terrific, fly Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood. Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy, And leave us leisure to be good. .o6 G OLDEN LEAVES. Light they disperse, and with them go The summer Friend, the flattering Foe ; By vain Prosperity received To her they vow their truth, and are again believed. Wisdom in sable garb array'd Immersed in rapturous thought profound, And Melancholy, silent maid. With leaden eye, that loves the ground. Still on thy solemn steps attend : Warm Charity, the general friend. With Justice, to herself severe. And Pity dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear. O, gently on thy suppliant's head Dread Goddess, lay thy chastening hand ! Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad, Not circled with the vengeful band (As by the impious thou art seen) With thundering voice, and threatening mien. With screaming Horror's funeral cry. Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty : Thy form benign, O Goddess, wear. Thy milder influence impart. Thy philosophic train be there To soften, not to wound my heart. The generous spark extinct revive. Teach me to love and to forgive. Exact my own defects to scan, What others are to feel, and know myself a Man, BAMS A 7. icy ^llau Ikmaag. LOCHABER NO MORE. 'PAREWELL to Lochaber ! and farewell, my jean, ■^ Where heartsome with thee I hae mony day been ! For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more, We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more ! These tears that I shed they are a' for my dear. And no for the dangers attending on war. Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore, Maybe to return to Lochaber no more. Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind. They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in my mine ; Though loudest of thunder on louder waves roar. That's naething like leaving my love on the shore. To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained ; By ease that's inglorious no fame can be gained ; And beauty and love's the reward of the brave, And I must deserve it before I can crave. Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my excuse ; Since honour commands me, how can I refuse ? Without it I ne'er can have m.erit for thee, And without thy favour I'd better not be. I gae then, my lass, to win honour and fame, And if I should luck to come gloriously hame, I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er. And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more. 108 G OLDEN LEAVES. 3amc0 ^1)01110011. UNIVERSAL HYMN TO THE SEASONS. ' I ^HESE, as they change. Almighty Father, these Are but the varied God. The rolling year Is full of Thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring Thy beauty walks, Thy tenderness and love. Wide flush the fields ; the softening air is balm ; Echo the mountains round ; the forest smiles ; And every sense, and every heart is joy. Then comes Thy glory in the Summer-months, With light and heat refulgent. Then Thy sun Shoots full perfection through the swelling year : And oft Thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks : And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve. By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfin'd. And spreads a common feast for all that lives. In Winter, awful Thou ! with clouds and storms Around Thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest roll'd. Majestic darkness ! on the whirlwind's wing. Riding sublime. Thou bidd'st the world adore. And humblest Nature with Thy northern blast. Mysterious round ! what skill, what force divine. Deep felt, in these appear ! a simple train. Yet so delightful mix'd, with such kind art. Such beauty and beneficence combin'd ; Shade, unperceiv'd, so softening into shade ; And all so forming an harmonious whole ; That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. THOMSON. 109 Jut wandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze, Man marks not Thee, marks not the mighty hand. That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres ; Works in the secret deep ; shoots, steaming, thence The fair profusion that o'erspreads the Spring ; Flings from the sun direct the flaming day; Feeds every creature ; hurls the tempest forth ; And, as on earth this grateful change revolves. With transport touches all the springs of life. Nature, attend ! join, every living soul. Beneath the spacious temple of the sky ; In adoration join ; and, ardent, raise One general song ! To Him, ye vocal gales, Breathe soft, whose Spirit in your freshness breathes ; Oh, talk of Him in solitary glooms. Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely-waving pine Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar. Who shake th' astonish'd world, lift high to heaven Th' impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye tremibling rills ; And let me catch it as I muse along. Ye headlong torrents, rapid, and profound ; Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze Along the vale ; and thou, majestic main, A secret world of wonders in thyself, Sound his stupendous praise ; whose greater voice Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers. In mingled clouds to Him ; Vr'hose sun exalts. Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paint? Ye forests bend, ye harvests wave, to Him ; no GOLDEN LEAVES. Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart. As home he goes beneath the joyous moon. Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams. Ye constellations, while your angels strike, Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. Great source of day ! best image here below Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide. From world to world, the vital ocean round. On Nature write with every beam His praise. The thunder rolls ! be hush'd the prostrate world ! While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. Bleat out afresh, ye hills : ye mossy rocks. Retain the sound : the broad responsive low. Ye valleys, raise ; for the Great Shepherd reigns ; And his unsuifering kingdom yet will come. Ye woodlands all, awake : a boundless song Burst from the groves ! and when the restless day. Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep. Sweetest of birds ! sweet Philomela, charm The listening shades, and teach the night His praise. Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles. At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all, Crown the great hymn ! in swarming cities vast, Assembled men, to the deep organ join The long-resounding voice, oft breaking clear. At solemn pauses, through the sweUing bass ; And, as each mingling flame increases each. In one united ardour rise to heaven. Or if you rather choose the rural shade. And find a fane in every sacred grove ; There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lav. THOMSON. The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre. Still sing the God of Seasons, as they roll. For me, when I forget the darling theme. Whether the blossom blows, the summer-ray Russets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleams. Or Winter rises in the blackening east ; Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no more. And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat ! Should fate command me to the furthest verge Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes, Rivers unknown to song; where first the sun Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam Flames on th' Atlantic isles ; 'tis naught to me : Since God is ever present, ever felt. In the void waste as in the city full ; And where He vital breathes there must be joy. When even at last the solemn hour shall come, And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, I cheerful will obey ; there, with new powers. Will rising wonders sing : I cannot go Where Universal Love not smiles around. Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns ; From seeming evil still educing good, And better thence again, and better still, In infinite progression. But I lose Myself in Him, in Light ineffable ! Come then, expressive Silence, muse His praise. 6* G OLDEN LEA VES. LAVINIA. ^ I^HE lovely young Lavinia once had friends ; And fortune smil'd, deceitful, on her birth. For, in her helpless years depriv'd of all. Of every stay, save innocence and Heaven, She, with her widow'd mother, feeble, old. And poor, liv'd in a cottage, far retir'd Among the windings of a woody vale ; By solitude and deep surrounding shades. But more by bashful modesty, conceal'd. Together thus they shunn'd the cruel scorn Which virtue, sunk to poverty, would meet From giddy passion and low-minded pride : Almost on Nature's common bounty fed ; Like the gay birds that sung them to repose. Content, and careless of to-morrow's fare. Her form was fresher than the morning-rose. When the dew wets its leaves ; unstain'd and pure^ As is the lily, or the mountain snow. The modest virtues mingled in her eyes. Still on the ground dejected, darting all Their humid beams into the blooming flowers : Or when the mournful tale her mother told, Of v/hat her faithless fortune promis'd once, Thrill'd in her thought, they, like the dewy star Of evening, shone in tears. A native grace Sat fair-proportion'd on her polish'd limbs, Veil'd in a simple robe, their best attire, Beyond the pomp of dress ; for loveliness Needs not the foreign aid of ornament. THOMSON. 113 But is, when unadorn'd, adorn'd the most. Thoughtless of beauty, she was beauty's self. Recluse amid the close-embowering woods. As in the hollow breast of Appenine, Beneath the shelter of encircling hills, A myrtle rises, far from human eye. And breathes its balmy fragrance o'er the wild ; So flourish'd blooming, and unseen by all. The sweet Lavinia ; till, at length, compell'd By strong Necessity's supreme command. With smiling patience in her looks, she went To glean Palemon's fields. The pride of swains Palemon was, the generous, and the rich ; Who led the rural life in all its joy And elegance, such as Arcadian song Transmits from ancient uncorrupted times ; When tyrant custom had not shackled man. But free to follow Nature was the mode. He then, his fancy with autumnal scenes Amusing, chanc'd beside his reaper train To walk, when poor Lavinia drew his eye : Unconscious of her power, and turning quick With unaffected blushes from his gaze : He saw her charming, but he saw not half The charms her downcast modesty conceal'd. That very moment love and chaste desire Sprung in his bosom, to himself unknown j For still the world prevail'd, and its dread laugh. Which scarce the firm philosopher can scorn. Should his heart own a gleaner in the field : And thus in secret to his soul he sigh'd : — • *' What pity ! that so delicate a form. 114 G OLDEN LEAVES. By beauty kindled, where enlivening sense. And more than vulgar goodness seem to dwell, Should be devoted to the rude embrace Of some indecent clown ! She looks, methinks. Of old Acasto's line : and to my mind Recalls that patron of my happy life. From whom my liberal fortune took its rise ; Now to the dust gone down ; his houses, lands. And once fair-spreading family, dissolv'd. 'Tis said that in some lone, obscure retreat, Urg'd by remembrance sad, and decent pride. Far from those scenes which knew their better days. His aged widow and his daughter live. Whom yet my fruitless search could never find. Romantic wish ! would this the daughter were !" When, strict inquiring, from herself he found She was the same, the daughter of his friend. Of bountiful Acasto ; who can speak The mingled passions that surpris'd his heart. And through his nerves in shivering transport ran ? Then blaz'd his smother'd flame, avow'd, and bold ; And as he view'd her, ardent, o'er and o'er. Love, gratitude, and pity, wept at once. Confus'd, and frighten'd, at his sudden tears. Her rising beauties flush'd a higher bloom, As thus Palemon, passionate and just, Four'd out the pious rapture of his soul : " And art thou then Acasto's dear remains ? She whom my restless gratitude has sought So long in vain ? O heavens ! the very same, The soften'd image of my noble friend ; Alive his every look, his every feature. THOMSON. 115 More elegantly touch'd. Sweeter than Spring ! Thou sole surviving blossom from the root That nourish'd up my fortune ! say, ah where. In what sequester'd desert, hast thou drawn The kindest aspect of delighted Heaven ? Into such beauty spread, and blown so fair ; Though Poverty's cold wind, and crushing rain, Beat keen and heavy on thy tender years ? O let me now, into a richer soil, Transplant thee safe ! where vernal sun and showers Diffuse their warmest, largest influence ; And of my garden be the pride and joy ! Ill it befits thee, oh it ill befits Acasto's daughter, his, whose open stores, Though vast, were little to his ampler heart. The father of a country, thus to pick The very refuse of those harvest fields Which from his bounteous friendship I enjoy. Then throw that shameful pittance from thy hand, But ill applied to such a rugged task ! The fields, the master, all, my fair, are thine ; If, to the various blessings which thy house Has on me lavish'd, thou wilt add that bliss. That dearest bliss, the power of blessing thee !" Here ceas'd the youth ; yet still his speaking eye Expressed the sacred triumph of his soul. With conscious virtue, gratitude, and love. Above the vulgar joy divinely rais'd. Nor waited he reply. Won by the charm Of goodness irresistible, and all In sweet disorder lost, she blush'd consent. The news immediate to her mother brought. Ii6 GOLDEN LEAVES. While, pierc'd with anxious thought, she pin'd away The lonely moments for Lavinia's fate ; Amaz'd, and scarce believing what she heard, Joy seiz'd her wither'd veins, and one bright gleam Of setting life shone on her evening hours : Not less enraptur'd than the happy pair : Who flourish'd long in tender bliss, and rear'd A numerous offspring, lovely like themselves. And good, the grace of all the country round. WILLIAM AND MARGARET. 5'~r^WAS at the silent solemn hour ■^ When night and morning meet ; In glided Margaret's grimly ghost. And stood at William's feet. Her face was like an April morn Clad in a wintry cloud ; And clay-cold was her lily hand That held her sable shroud. So shall the fairest face appear When youth and years are flown . Such is the robe that kings must wear, When death has reft their crown. MALLET. 117 Her bloom was like the springing flower, That sips the silver dew ; The rose was budded in her cheek, Just opening to the view. But love had, like the canker-worm. Consumed her early prime ; The rose grew pale, and left her cheek — She died before her time. Awake ! she cried, thy true love calls. Come from her midnight grave : Now let thy pity hear the maid Thy love refused to save. This is the dark and dreary hour When injured ghosts complain ; When yawning graves give up their dead, To haunt the faithless swain. Bethink thee, William, of thy fault. Thy pledge and broken oath ! And give me back my m.aiden-vow. And give me back my troth. Why did you promise love to me. And not that promise keep ? Why did you swear my eyes were bright. Yet leave those eyes to weep ? How could you say my face was fair. And yet that face forsake ? How could you win my virgin heart. Yet leave that heart to break ? • il8 G 0LI)E2i LEAVES. Why did you say my lip was sweet. And made the scarlet pale ? And why did I, young witless maid ! Believe the flattering tale? That face, alas ! no more is fair. Those lips no longer red : Dark are my eyes, now closed in death, xA.nd every charm is fled. The hungry worm my sister is ; This winding-sheet I wear : And cold and weary lasts our night, Till that last morn appear. But hark ! the cock has warned me hence A long and last adieu ! Come see, false man, how low she lies. Who died for love of you. The lark sung loud ; the morning smiled With beams of rosy red : Pale William quaked in every limb. And raving left his bed. He hied him to the fatal place Where Margaret's body lay ; And stretched him on the green-grass turf That wrapt her breathless clay. And thrice he called on Margaret's name. And thrice he wept full sore ; Then laid his cheek to her cold grave. And word spake never more ! LOGAN. J 19 lol)n Cogan. TO THE CUCKOO. lUTAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove ! Thou messenger of Spring ! Now heaven repairs thy rural seat, And woods thy welcome sing. Soon as the daisy decks the green. Thy certain voice we hear. Hast thou a star to guide thy path. Or mark the rolling year ? Delightful visitant ! with thee I hail the time of flowers. And hear the sound of music sweet From birds among the bowers. The schoolboy, wandering through the wood To pull the primrose gay. Starts, thy most curious voice to hear. And imitates thy lay. What time the pea puts on the bloom. Thou fliest thy vocal vale. An annual guest in other lands. Another Spring to hail. Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green. Thy sky is ever clear ; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song. No Winter in thy year. G OLDEN LEAVES. Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee ! We'd make, with joyful wing. Our annual visit o'er the globe, Attendants on the Spring. ©lioer (^ol^0initl). EXTRACTS FROM "THE DESERTED VILLAGE," Q WEET Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain, ^ Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain, Where smiling Spring its earliest visit paid. And parting Summer's lingering blooms delayed ! Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease — Seats of my youth, when every sport could please ! How often have I loitered o'er thy green. Where humble happiness endeared each scene ! How often have I paused on every charm — The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm. The never-failing brook, the busy mill. The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill. The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade — For talking age and whispering lovers made ! How often have I blessed the coming day. When toil, remitting, lent its turn to play. And all the village train, from labour free. Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree ; While many a pastime circled in the shade. The young contending as the old surveyed ; And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, A.nd sleights of art and feats of strength went round; GOLDSMITH. 121 And still, as each repeated pleasure tired. Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired : The dancing pair, that simply sought renown By holding out, to tire each other down ; The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face. While secret laughter tittered round the place ; The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love. The matron's glance that would those looks reprove : These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like these, With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please ; These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed ; These were thy charms — but all these charms are fled. Sweet-smiling village, loveliest of the lawn ! Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen. And desolation saddens all thy green ; One only master grasps the whole domain. And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain ; No more thy glassy brook reflects the day. But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way ; Along thy glades, a solitary guest. The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies. And tires their echoes with unvaried cries ; Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all. And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall ; And, trembUng, shrinking from the spoiler's hand. Far, far away thy children leave the land. Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey. Where wealth accumulates, and men decay ; • 122 G OLDEN LEAVES. Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade — A breath can make them, as a breath has made j But a bold peasantry, their country's pride. When once destroyed, can never be supplied. * * * * Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissfiil hour. Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. Here, as 1 take my solitary rounds Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds. And, many a year elapsed, return to view Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew. Remembrance wakes with all her busy train. Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. Hi % ^ % Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; There, as I passed with careless steps and slow. The mingling notes came softened from below : The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung. The sober herd that lowed to meet their young. The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool. The playftil children just let loose from school. The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind. And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind. These all in sweet confusion sought the shade. And filled each pause the nightingale had made. But now the sounds of population fail; No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale ; No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread — But all the bloomy blush of life is fled. All but one widowed, solitary thing. GOLDSMITH. 123 That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ; She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread. To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread. To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn. To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn — She only left of all the harmless train. The sad historian of the pensive plain. Ne'er yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden-flower grows wild. There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose. The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear. And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; Remote from towns he ran his godly race. Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place ; Unskilflil he to fawn, or seek for power By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour ; Far other aims his heart had learned to prize — More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train ; He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain. The long-remembered beggar was his guest. Whose beard, descending, swept his aged breast ; The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud. Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed ; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay. Sate by his fire, and talked the night away — Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done. Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow. And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; won. 124 G OLDEN LEAVES. Careless their merits or their faults to scan. His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride. And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side ; But in his duty prompt at every call. He watched and wept, he prayed and felt fn all ; And, as a bird each fond endearment tries To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies. He tried each art, reproved each dull delay. Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. Beside the bed where parting life was laid. And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed. The reverend champion stood. At his control Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise. And his last faltering accents whispered praise. At church, with meek and unaffected grace. His looks adorned the venerable place ; Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway. And fools, v/ho rame to scoff, remained to pray. The service past, around the pious man. With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran ; E'en children followed, with endearing wile. And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile. His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed ; Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed , To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given — But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. As some tall cliff that lifts its awfiil form. Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, GOLDSMITH. i: Though round its breast the rolHng clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way. With blossomed fiirze unprofitably gay. There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule. The village master taught his little school. A man severe he was, and stern to view — I knew him well, and every truant knew ; Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace The day's disasters in his morning face ; Full well they laughed, with counterfeited glee. At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; Full well the busy whisper, circling round. Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned ; Yet he was kind — or, if severe in aught. The love he bore to learning v/as in fault. The village all declared how much he knew ; 'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too ; Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage. And e'en the story ran that he could gauge. In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill. For, e'en though vanquished, he could argue still ; While words of learned length and thundering sound Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew. That one small head could carry all he knew. But past is all his fame ; the very spot. Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot. Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye. 126 GOLDEN LEAVES. Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired. Where graybeard mirth and smiling toil retired, Where village statesmen talked with looks profound. And news much older than their ale went round. Imagination fondly stoops to trace The parlour splendours of that festive place : The .whitewashed wall, the nicely-sanded floor. The varnished clock that clicked behind the door. The chest contrived a double debt to pay — A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day, - The pictures placed for ornament and use. The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; The hearth, except when winter chilled the day. With aspen boughs, and flowers and fennel gay ; While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show. Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. Vain, transitory splendour ! could not all Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall ? Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart ; Thither no more the peasant shall repair To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale. No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear. Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear ; The host himself no longer shall be found Carefiil to see the mantling bliss go round ; Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest. Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. GOLDSMITH. 127 \^es ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain. These simple blessings of the lowly train ; To me more dear, congenial to my heart. One native charm than all the gloss of art : Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play. The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway; Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, Unenvied, unmolested, uncdnfined ; But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, 'With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed — In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain. The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy. The heart, distrusting, asks if this be j oy. Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen, who survey The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay ! *Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand Between a splendid and a happy land. Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore. And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; Hoards, e'en beyond the miser's wish, abound. And rich men flock fi-om all the world around. Yet count our gains : this wealth is but a name. That leaves our usefiil products still the same. Not so the loss : the man of wealth and pride Takes up a space that many poor supplied — Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds — Space for his Horses, equipage, and hounds ; The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth Has robbed the neighbouring fields of half their growth , His seat, where solitary SDorts are seen. • 7 128 G OLDEN LEAVE S. Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ; Around the world each needful product iiies. For all the luxuries the world supplies ; While thus the land, adorned for pleasure all. In barren splendour, feebly waits the fall. RETALIATION. OF old, when Scarron his companions invited. Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united ; If our Mandlord supplies us with beef and with fish. Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish : Our '^dean shall be venison, just fresh from the plains; Our ^ Burke shall be tongue, with the garnish of brains; Our ^Will shall be wildfowl, of excellent flavour. And ^Dick with his pepper shall heighten their savour : Our ^Cumberland's sweetbread its place shall obtain. And 'Douglas is pudding, substantial and plain; ^ The master of the St. James's CofFee-house, where the Doctor, and t;.he friends he has characterized in this poem, occasionally dined. ^ Doctor Bernard, Dean of Derry, in Ireland. ^ Mr. Edmund Burke. * Mr, William Burke, late secretary to General Conway, and member for Bedwin. * Mr. Richard Burke, collector of Grenada. "Mr. Richard Cumberland, author of "The West Indian," ' Fashionable Lover," " The Brothers," and other dramatic pieces. ' Doctor Douglas, canon of Windsor, an ingenious Scotch gentle- man, who has no less distinguished himself as a citizen of the world, than a sound critic, in detecting several literary mistakes (or rather forgeries) of his countrymen ; particularly Lauder on Milton, and Power's " History of the Popes.'* G OLD SMITH. 129 Our ^Garrick's a salad; for in him we see Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree ; To make out the dinner, full certain I am That ^ Ridge is anchovy, and -^^ Reynolds is lamb. That "Hickey's a capon, and, by the same rule. Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool. At a dinner so various, at such a repast. Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last ? Here, waiter, more wine ! let me sit while I'm able. Till all my companions sink under the table ; Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head. Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead. "^ Here lies the good dean,^' reunited to earth. Who mixt reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth : If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt. At least in six weeks I could not find 'em out ; Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied 'em, That slyboots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em. Here lies our good ^* Edmund, whose genius was such, We scarcely can praise it or blame it too much ; Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind. And to party gave up what was meant for mankind. ^ David Garrick, Esq. ® Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the Irish Bar. " Sir Joshua Reynolds. " An eminent attorney, whose hospitality and good humour ac- quired him in his club the title of " Honest Tom Hickey." " Here lies the good dean.'] See a poem by Dean Bernard to Sir J, Reynolds, in Northcote's Life of Reynolds, p. 130. 1=* Vide page 128. " Vide page iz8. l,0 G OLDEN LEAVES. Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat To persuade ^^ Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote ; Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining. And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining : Though equal to all things, for all things unfit ; Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit ; For a patriot too cool; for a drudge disobedient ; And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. In short, 'twas his fate, unemployed or in place, sir. To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. Here lies honest ^^ William, whose heart was a mint, While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in't ; The pupil of impulse, it forced him along, His conduct still right, with his argument wrong ; Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam. The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home : Would you ask for his merits ? alas ! he had none ; What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own. Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at ; Alas that such frolic should now be so quiet ! What spirits were his ! what wit and what whim ! "Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb; Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball. Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all ! ^^ M. T. Townshend, member for Whitchurch. — See H. Wai- foWs Letter to Lord Hertford^ p. 6 '^ Vide page 128. ^■' Mr. Richard Burke; vide page 128. This gentleman having slightly fractured one of his arms and legs, at different times, the Doctor has rallied him on those accidents, as a kind of retributive justice, for breaking his jests upon other people. GOLDSMITH. 131 [n short, so provoking a devil was Dick, That we wished him full ten times a day at Old Nick ; But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein. As often we wished to have Dick back again. Here '® Cumberland lies, having acted his parts. The Terence of England, the mender of hearts ; A flattering painter, who made it his care To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are. His gallants are all faultless, his women divine. And comedy wonders at being so fine ; Like a tragedy queen he has dizened her out, Or rather hke tragedy giving a rout. His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud ; And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone. Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own. Say, where has our poet this malady caught. Or wherefore his characters thus without fault ? Say, was it that vainly directing his view To find out men's virtues, and finding them few. Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf. He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself? Here "* Douglas retires from his toils to relax. The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks : Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines. Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines : When satire and censure encircled his throne, I feared for your safety, I feared for my own ; ^« Vide page 128. '^ Vide page ia8. ' 132 GOLDEN LEAVES. Bat now he is gone, and we want a detector. Our ""Dodds shall be pious, our ^^Kenricks shall lecture ; ^'^ Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style ; Our ^^Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile; New ^^Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over. No countryman living their tricks to discover ; Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, "And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark. Here lies ^^ David Garrick, describe me who can. An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man ; As an actor, confest without rival to shine ; As a wit, if not first, in the very first line : Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart. The man had his failings, a dupe to his art. Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread. And beplastered with rouge his own natural red. On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting ; 'Twas only that, when he was off", he was acting. With no reason on earth to go out of his way. He turned and he varied full ten times a day : Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick If they were not his own by finessing and trick. He cast ofF his friends, as a huntsman his pack ; For he knew, when he pleased, he could whistle them back. ^o The Rev. Dr. Efedd. "^^ Dr. Kc-nrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, under the title of " The School of Shakespeare." ^^ James Macpherson, Esq., who lately, from the mere force of his style, wrote down the first poet of all antiquity. ^^ Vide page 130. *^ Vide page 128. ''^^ Vide page 129. ^' '' And gods meet gods, and jostle in the dark." See Farquhar''s Love in a Bottle, vol. i. p. 1 50, GOLDSMITH. 133 Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what came. And the puiF of a dunce he mistook it for fame ; Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease. Who peppered the highest was surest to please. But let us be- candid, and speak out our mind. If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. Ye "''Kenricks, ye "''Kellys, and ^^Woodfalls so grave. What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave ! How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you raised. While he was be-Rosciused and you were bepraised ! But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, To act as an angel, and mix with the skies. Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill. Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will ; Old Shakespeare receive him with praise and with love, And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. ^^ '^' Vide page 132. "Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of " False Delicacy," "Word to the Wise," " Clementina," " School for Wives," &c., &c, ^^ Mr. William Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle. ^" The following poems, by Mr. Garrick, may in some measure account for the severity exercised by Dr. GolJsmith in respect to fhat gentleman : — JUPITER AND MERCURY. A FABLE. Here, Hermes, says Jove, who with nectar was mellow, Go fetch me some clay, — I will make an odd fellow. Right and wrong shall be jumbled, much gold and some dross j Without cause be he pleased, without cause be he cross : Be sure, as I work, to throw in contradictions ; A great love of truth, yet a mind turned to fictions. Now mix these ingredients, which, warmed in the baking, Turn to learning and gaming, religion and raking. 134- G OLDEN LEAVES. Here ^^Hickey reclines, a most blunt, pleasant creature. And slander itself must allow him good nature ; He cherished his friend, and he relished a bumper ; Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper. Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser : • I answer. No, no, for he always was wiser. Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat ? His very worst foe can't accuse him of that. Perhaps he confided in men as they go. And so was too foolishly honest ? Ah, no ! Then what was his failing ? come, tell it, and burn ye : He was — could he help it? — a special attorney. Here ^'^ Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind. He has not left a wiser or better behind. With the love of a wench, let his writings be chaste 5 Tip his tongue with strange matter, his pen with fine taste. * -x- -K- * -jf ^ For the joy of each sex, on the world I'll bestow it, This scholar, rake, Christian, dupe, gamester, and poet. Though a mixture so odd, he shall merit great fame, And among brother mortals be Goldsmith his name. When on earth this strange meteor no more shall appear. You, Hermes, shall fetch him to make us sport here. ON DR. GOLDSMITH S CHARACTERISTICAL COOKERY. A JEU d'eSPRIT. Are these the choice dishes the Doctor has sent us ? Is this the great poet whose works so content us ? This Goldsmith's fine feast who has written fine books ? Heaven sends us good meat, but the devil sends cooks. ^ Vide page 129. ^"^ Vide page 129. GOLDSMITH. 135 His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand ; His manners were gentle, complying, and bland : Still born to improve us in every part. His pencil our faces, his manners our heart. To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering; When they judged without skill, he was still hard of hearing ; When they talked of their Raphaels, Corrcggios, and stuif, He shifted his ^^ trumpet, and only took snuff. POSTSCRIPT. After the fourth edition of this poem was printed, the publisher received the following epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord,^^ from a friend of the late Dr. Goldsmith : — Here Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can. Though he merrily lived, he is now a ^^ grave man ; Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun ! Who relished a joke, and rejoiced in a pun ; Whose temper was generous, open, sincere ; A stranger to flattery, a stranger to fear; Who scattered around wit and humour at will ; Whose daily bon mots half a column might fill ; A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free ; A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he. What pity, alas ! that so liberal a mind Should so long be to newspaper esssays confined ! ^^ Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf as to be under tJie necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company. ^^ Mr Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays. ^■' Mr, W. was so notorious a punster, that Dr. Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to keep him company, without being infected with the itch of punning. , 136 G OLDEN LEAVES. Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar. Yet content " if the table he set in a roar ;" Whose talents to fill any station were fit. Yet happy if ^^ VVoodfall confessed him a wit. Ye newspaper witlings ! ye pert scribbling folks ! Who copied his squibs, and re-echoed his jokes ; Yt tame imitators, ye servile herd, come. Still follow your master, and visit his tomb : To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine. And copious hbations bestow on his shrine ; Then strew all around it (you can do no less) ^"^ Cross readings, ship news, and mistakes of the press. Merry Whitefoord, farewell ! for thy sake I admit That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said wit : This debt to thy memory I cannot refuse, ■" " Thou best humoured man with the worst humoured muse.' ^° Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser. ^'' Ml". Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with humor- ous pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser. On C White- foord, see Smith's Life of Nollckcns, vol. i, p. 338-340. See his poem to Sir Joshua Reynolds, "Admire not, dear knight," in Northcote's Life of Reynolds, p. 128. ^^ *' When you and Southern, Moyle, and Congreve meet, The best good men, with the best natured wit." C. H-Jpkim. -v. Nicholls^ Col. Po.ms, ii. p. 207. SMOLLETT. 137 S^obtas Smollett. ODE TO LEVEN-WATER. /^N Leven's banks^ while free to rove. And tune the rural pipe to love, I envied not the happiest swain That ever trod the Arcadian plain. Pure stream, in whose transparent wave My youthful limbs I wont to lave ; No torrents stain thy limpid source. No rocks impede thy dimpling course. That sweetly warbles o'er its bed. With white, round, polished pebbles spread ; While, lightly poised, the scaly brood In myriads cleave thy crystal flood ; The springing trout in speckled pride. The salmon, monarch of the tide ; The ruthless pike, intent on war. The silver eel, and mottled par. Devolving from thy parent lake, A charming maze thy waters make. By bowers of birch, and groves of pine, And edges flowered with eglantine. Still on thy banks so gayly green. May numerous herds and flocks be seen : And lasses chanting o'er the pail. And shepherds piping in the dale ; And ancient faith that knows no guile. And industry embrowned with toil • And hearts resolved, and hands prepaied. The blessings they enjoy to guard ! 38 G OLDEN LEAVES. I3l0l)op IJevcg. "O, NANNY, WILT THOU GANG Wl' MK /^ NANNY, wilt thou gang wi' me, ^^ Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town Can silent glens have charms for thee. The lowly cot and russet gown ? Nae langer drest in silken sheen, Nae langer decked wi' jewels rare. Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene, Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? O, Nanny, when thou'rt far awa. Wilt thou not cast a look behind ? Say, canst thou face the flaky snaw. Nor shrink before the winter wind ? O can that soft and gentle mien Severest hardships learn to bear. Nor, sad, regret each courtly scene. Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? O, Nanny, canst thou love so true. Through perils keen wi' me to gae ? Or, when thy swain mishap shall rue. To share with him the pang of wae ? Say, should disease or pain befall. Wilt thou assume the nurse's care. Nor, wishful, those gay scenes recall. Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? PEE or. 139 And when at last thy love shall die. Wilt thou receive his parting breath ? Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh. And cheer with smiles the bed of death ! And wilt thou o'er his much-loved clay Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear ? Nor then regret those scenes so gay. Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. TT was a friar of orders gray Walked forth to tell his beads. And lie met with a lady fair. Clad in a pilgrim's weeds. "' Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar ! I pray thee tell to me. If ever at yon holy shrine My true love thou didst see." " And how should I know your true love From many another one ?" '* Oh ! by his cockle hat and staff. And by his sandal shoon : " But chiefly by his face and mien. That were so fair to view. His flaxen locks that sweetly curled. And eyes of lovely blue." 140 G OLDEN LEAVES. " O lady, he is dead and gone ! Lady, he's dead and gone ! At his head a green grass turf. And at his heels a stone. ** Within these holy cloisters long He languished, and he died. Lamenting of a lady's love. And 'plaining of her pride. " Here bore him barefaced on his bier Six proper youths and tall ; And many a tear bedewed his grave Within yon kirkyard wall." *'And art thou dead, thou gentle youth- And art thou dead and gone ? And didst thou die for love of me ? Break, c ael heart of stone!" " O weep not, lady, weep not so, Some ghostly comfort seek : Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart. Nor tears bedew thy cheek." " O do not, do not, holy friar. My sorrow now reprove ; For I have lost the sweetest youth That e'er won lady's love. ** And now, alas ! for thy sad loss I'll evermore weep and sigh ; For thee I only wished to live. For thee T wish to die." PERCY. " Weep no more, lady, weep no more ; Thy sorrow is in vain : For violets plucked, the sweetest shower Will ne'er make grow again. " Our joys as winged dreams do fly ; Why, then, should sorrow last ? Since grief but aggravates thy loss. Grieve not for what is past." " O say not so, thou holy friar ! I pray thee, say not so ; For since my true love died for me, 'Tis meet my tears should flow. " And will he never come again — Will he ne'er come again ? Ah, no ! he is dead, and laid in his grave, Forever to remain. " His cheek was redder than the rose— The comeliest youth was he ; But he is dead and laid in his grave, Alas ! and woe is me." " Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more. Men were deceivers ever ; One foot on sea, and one on land. To one thing constant never. " Hadst thou been fond, he had been false. And left thee sad and heavy ; For young men ever were fickle found. Since summer trees were leafy." M^ 142 G OLDEN LEAVES. " Now say not so, thou holy friar, I pray thee say not so ; My love he had the truest heart — O, he was ever true : " And art thou dead, thou much-loved youth ? And didst thou die for me ? Then farewell home ; for evermore A pilgrim I will be. '' But first upon my true love's grave My weary limbs I'll lay. And thrice I'll kiss the green grass turf That wraps his breathless clay." *' Yet stay, fair lady ; rest awhile Beneath this cloister wall ; The cold wind through the hawthorn blows. And drizzly rain doth fall." " O stay me not, thou holy friar ; O stay me not, I pray; No drizzly rain that falls on me Can wash my fault away." " Yet stay, fair lady ; turn again. And dry those pearly tears ; For see, beneath this gown of gray. Thy own true love appears. " Here, forced by grief and hopeless love. These holy weeds I sought ; And here, amid these lonely walls. To end my days I thought. BEATTIE. 1^3 " But haplv, for my year of grace Is not yet passed away. Might I still hope to win thy love. No longer would I stay." " Now farewell grief^ and welcome joy Once more unto my hearty For since I've found thee, lovely youth. We never more will part." Iame0 Bcattie. DESCRIPTION OF EDWIN, THE MINSTREL BOY. A ND yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy. ■^ Deep thought oft seemed to fix his infant eye. Dainties he heeded not, nor gaude, nor toy. Save one short pipe of rudest minstrelsy; Silent when glad ; affectionate, though shy ; And now his look was most demurely sad. And now he laughed aloud, yet none knew why. The neighbours stared and sighed, yet blessed the lad ; Some deemed him wondrous wise, and some believed him mad. But why should I his childish feats display ? Concourse, and noise, and toil, he ever fled ; Nor cared to mingle in the clamorous fray Of squabbling imps ; but to the forest sped. Or roamed at large the lonely mountain's head. 144 G OLDEN LEAVES. Or where the maze of some bewildered stream To deep untrodden groves his footsteps led, . There would he wander wild, till Phoebus' beam. Shot from the western cliff, released the weary team. The exploit of strength, dexterity, or speed. To him nor vanity nor joy could bring : His heart, from cruel sport estranged, would bleed To work the woe of any living thing. By trap or net, by arrow or by sling; These he detested ; those he scorned to wield ; He v/ished to be the guardian, not the king. Tyrant far less, or traitor of the field. And sure the sylvan reign unbloody joy might yield. Lo ! where the stripling, wrapt in wonder, roves Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine ; And sees on high, amidst the encircling groves. From cliff to cliff the foaming torrents shine ; While waters, woods, and winds, in concert join. And echo swells the chorus to the skies. Would Edwin this majestic scene resign For aught the huntsman's puny craft supplies ? Ah,_no ! he better knows great Nature*s charms to prize. And oft he traced the uplands to survey. When o'er the sky advanced the kindling dawn. The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain gray, xA.nd lake, dim-gleaming on the smoky lawn : Far to the west the long, long vale withdrawn. Where twilight loves to linger for a while ; And now he faintly kens the bounding fawn J BEATTIE. 145 And villager abroad at early toil : But, lo ! the sun appears ! and heaven, earth, ocean, smile. And oft the craggy cliiF he loved to climb. When all in mist the world below was lost — What dreadJElil pleasure ! there to stand sublime. Like shipwrecked mariner on desert coast. And view the enormous waste of vapour, tost In billows, lengthening to the horizon round, ,Now scooped in gulfs, with mountains now embossed ! And hear the voice of mirth and song rebound. Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the hoar profound ! In truth he was a strange and wayward wignt. Fond of each gentle and each dreadful scene. In darkness and in storm he found delight ; Nor less than when on ocean-wave serene. The southern sun diffused his dazzling shene. Even sad vicissitude amused his soul ; And if a sigh would sometimes intervene. And down his cheek a tear of pity roll, A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wished not to control. % % % ^k Oft when the winter storm had ceased to rave. He roamed the snowy waste at even, to view The cloud stupendous, from the Atlantic wave High-towering, sail along the horizon blue ; Where, 'midst the changeful scenery, ever new. Fancy a thousand wondrous forms descries. More wildly great than ever pencil drew ; Rocks, torrents, gulfs, and shapes of giant size. And glittering cliifs on cliffs, and fiery ramparts rise. 146 GOLDEN LEAVES. Thence musing onward to the sounding shore. The lone enthusiast oft would take his way. Listening, with pleasing dread, to the deep roar Of the wide-weltering waves. In black array When sulphurous clouds rolled on the autumnal day, Even then he hastened from the haunt of man. Along the trembling wilderness to stray. What time the lightning's fierce career began. And o'er heaven's rending arch the rattling thunder ran. Responsive to the sprightly pipe, when all In sprightly dance the village youth were joined, Edwin, of melody aye held in thrall. From the rude gambol far remote reclined. Soothed with the soft notes warbling in the wind. Ah then, all jollity seemed noise and folly ! To the pure soul by Fancy's fire refined. Ah, what is mirth but turbulence unholy. When with the charm compared of heavenly melancholy ! Is there a heart that music cannot melt ? Alas ! how is that rugged heart forlorn ! Is there, who ne'er those mystic transports felt Of solitude and melancholy born? He needs not woo the Muse ; he is her scorn. The sophist's rope of cobweb he shall twine ; Mope o'er the schoolman's peevish rage ; or mourn. And delve for life in Mammon's dirty mine ; Sneak with the scoundrel fox, or grunt with glutton swine. For Edwin, Fate a nobler doom had planned ; Song was his favourite and first pursuit. BEATTIE. 14, The wild harp rang to his adventurous hand. And languished to his breath the plaintive flute. His infant muse^ though artless, was not mute. Of elegance as yet he took no care ; For this of time and culture is the fruit ; And Edwin gained at last this fruit so rare : As in some future verse I purpose to declare. Meanwhile, whate'er of beautiful or new. Sublime, or dreadfal, in earth, sea, or sky. By chance, or search, was offered to his view. He scanned with curious and romantic eye. Whate'er of lore tradition could supply From Gothic tale, or song, or fable old. Roused him, still keen to listen and to pry. At last, though long by penury controlled. And solitude, his soul her graces 'gan unfold. Thus on the chill Lapponian's dreary land. For many a long month lost in snow profound. When Sol from Cancer sends the season bland. And in their northern cave the storms are bound ; From silent mountains, straight, with startling sound. Torrents are hurled ; green hills emerge ; and lo ! The trees with foliage, cliffs with flowers are crowned ; Pure rills through vales of verdure warbhng go ; And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart o'erflow. 148 GOLDEN LEAVES. Sir ftlilliam 3onc0. A PERSIAN SONG OF HAFIZ. OWEET maidj if thou wouldst charm my sight. And bid these arms thy neck enfold ; That rosy cheek, that Uly hand. Would give thy poet more delight Than all Bocara's vaunted gold. Than all the gems of Samarcand. Boy, let yon liquid ruby flow. And bid thy pensive heart be glad, Whate'er the frowning zealots say : Tell them, their Eden cannot show A stream so clear as Rocnabad, A bower so sweet as Mosellay. O ! when these fair perfidious maids. Whose eyes our secret haunts infest. Their dear destructive charms display. Each glance my tender breast invades. And robs my wounded soul of rest. As Tartars seize their destined prey. In vain with love our bosoms glow : Can all our tears, can all our sighs. New lustre to those charms impart ? Can cheeks, where living roses blow. Where nature spreads her richest dyes. Require the borrowed gloss of art ? JONES. Speak not of fate : ah ! change the theme. And talk of odours, talk of wine. Talk of the flowers that round us bloom : 'Tis all a cloud, 'tis all a dream ; To love and joy thy thoughts confine. Nor hope to pierce the sacred gloom. Beauty has such resistless power. That even the chaste Egyptian dame Sighed for the blooming Hebrew boy : For her how fatal was the hour. When to the banks of Nilus came A youth so lovely and so coy ! But ah ! sweet maid, my counsel hear (Youth should attend when those advise Whom long experience renders sage) : While music charms the ravished ear ; While sparkling cups delight our eyes. Be gay, and scorn the frowns of age. What cruel answer have I heard ? And yet, by Heaven, I love thee still : Can aught be cruel from thy lip ? Yet say, how fell that bitter word From lips which streams of sweetness fill^ Which naught but drops of honey sip ? Go boldly forth, my simple lay. Whose accents flow with artless ease. Like orient pearls at random strung : Thy notes are sweet, the damsels say ; But oh ! far sweeter, if they please The nymph for whom these notes are sung 149 i^O G OLDEN LEAVES. Iamc0 Ittevnclu THE CHAMELEON. /^FT has it been my lot to mark ^^ A proud, conceited, talking spark. With eyes that hardly served at most To guard their master 'gainst a post ; Yet round the world the blade has been. To see whatever could be seen. Returning from his finished tour. Grown ten times perter than before ; Whatever word you chance to drop. The travelled fool your mouth will stop : " Sir, if my judgment you'll allow — I've seen — and sure I ought to know." — So begs you'd pay a due submission. And acquiesce in his decision. Two travellers of such a cast. As o'er Arabia's wilds they passed. And on their way, in friendly chat. Now talked of this, and then of that; Discoursed awhile, 'mongst other matter. Of the Chameleon's form and nature. *' A stranger animal," cries one, " Sure never lived beneath the sun : A lizard's body lean and long, A fish's head, a serpent's tongue. Its foot with triple claw disjoined; And what a length of tail behind ! MERRICK. \[ How slow its pace ! and then its hue — Who ever saw so fine a blue ?" " Hold there," the other quick replies, " 'Tis green, I saw it with these eyes. As late with open mouth it lay. And warmed it in the sunny ray ; Stretched at its ease the beast I viewed^ And saw it eat the air for food." " I've seen it, sir, as well as you, And must again affirm it blue ; At leisure I the beast surveyed Extended in the cooling shade." "'Tis green, 'tis green, sir, I assure ye." " Green !" cries the other in a fury : " Why, sir, d'ye think I've lost my eyes ?" " 'Twere no great loss," the friend replies ; ** For if they always serve you thus, You'll find them but of little use." So high at last the contest rose. From words they almost came to blows : When luckily came by a third ; To him the question they referred : And begged he'd tell them, if he knew. Whether the thing was green or blue. *' Sirs," cries the umpire, " cease your pother The creature's neither one nor t'other. I caught the animal last night. And viewed it o'er by candle-light : I marked it well, 'twas black as jet — You stare — but sirs, I've got it yet. And can produce it." — " Pray, sir, do; I'll lay my life the thing is blue," 1T2 G OLDEN LEAVES. " And I'll be sworn, that when you've seen The reptile, you'll pronounce him green.'' " Well, then, at once to ease the doubt," Replies the man, ** I'll turn him out : And when before your eyes I've set him. If you don't find him black, I'll eat him." He said ; and full before their sight Produced the beast, and lo ! — 'twas white. Both stared, the man looked wondrous wise — " My children,'' the Chameleon cries, (Then first the creature found a tongue) " You all are right, and all are wrong : When next you talk of what you view. Think others see as well as you : Nor wonder if you find that none Prefers your eye-sight to his own." £abn 'Tlimc Cmb0a». AULD ROBIN GR AY. TTTHEN the sheep are in the fauld, \\hen the cows come hame. When a' the weary warld to quiet rest are gane ; The woes of my heart fa' in showers frae my' ee, Unkenned by my gudeman, who soundly sleeps by me. Young Jamie loo'd me weel, and sought me for his bride ; But, saving ae crown piece, he'd naething else beside. To make the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea ; And the crown and the pound, O they were baith for me ' ANNE LINDSA Y. 153 Before he had been gane a twelvemonth and a day. My father brak his arm, our cow was stown away ; My mother she fell sick — my Jamie was at sea — And Auld Robin Gray, O ! he came a-courting me. My father cou'dna work — my mother cou'dna spin ; I toiled day and night, but their bread I cou'dna win ; Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his ee, Said, *' Jenny, O ! for their sakes, will you marry me?" My heart it said na, and I looked for Jamie back ; But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack ; His ship it was a wrack ! Why didna Jamie dee ? Or, wherefore am I spared to cry out. Woe is me ! My father argued sair — my mother didna speak. But she looked in my face till my heart was Hke to break ; They gied him my hand, but my heart was in the sea ; And so Auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me. I hadna been his wife a week but only four. When, mournfii' as I sat on the stane at my door, I saw my Jamie's ghaist — I cou'dna think it he, Till he said, " I'm come hame, my love, to marry thee !" sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say of a' ; Ae kiss we took, nae mair — I bade him gang awa. . 1 wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee ; For O, I am but young to cry out. Woe is me ! . I gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to spin, I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin ; But I will do my best a gude wife aye to be. For Auld Robin Gray, O ! he is sae kind to me. i5+ GOLDEN LEAVES. ^enrg €arey. SALLY IN OUR ALLEY. /^F all the girls that are so smart ^-^ There's none like pretty Sally ; She is the darling of my heart. And she lives in our alley. There is no lady in the land Is half so sweet as Sally ; She is the darling of my heart. And she lives in our alley. Her father he makes cabbage-nets And through the streets does cry 'em ; Her mother she sells laces long To such as please to buy 'em : But sure such folks could ne'er beget So sweet a girl as Sally ! She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. When she is by, I leave my work, I love her so sincerely ; My master comes like any Turk, And bangs me most severely — But let him bang his bellyful, I'll bear it all for Sally; She is the darling of my heart. And she lives in our alley. CAREY. 155 Of all the days that's in the week I dearly love but one day — And that's the day that comes betwixt A Saturday and Monday ; For then I'm drest all in my best To walk abroad with Sally ; She is the darhng of my heart, And she lives in our alley. My master carries me to church. And often am I blamed Because I leave him in the lurch As soon as text is named; I leave the church in sermon-time And slink away to Sally ; She is the darling of my heart. And she lives in our alley. When Christmas comes about again, O then I shall have money ; I'll hoard it up, and box it all, I'll give it to my honey : I would it were ten thousand pound, I'd give it all to Sally; She is the darling of my heart. And she lives in our alley. My master and the neighbours all Make game of me and Sally, And, but for her, I'd better be A slave and row a galley ; 156 GOLDEN LEAVES. But when my seven long years are out O then I'll marry Sally, — O then we'll wed, and then we'll bed. But not in our alley ! ®l)oma0 (dljattnlon. THE BRISTOW TRAGEDY.* 'T^HR feathered songster chanticleer "*" Had wound his bugle-horn. And told the early villager The coming of the morn : King Edward saw the ruddy streaks Of light eclipse the gray. And heard the raven's croaking throat Proclaim the fated day. " Thou'rt right," quoth he ; " for by the God That sits enthroned on high ! Charles Bawdin, and his fellows twain. To-day shall surely die." Then with a jug of nappy ale His knights did on him wait ; " Go tell the traitor, that to-day He leaves this mortal state." ^ Chatterton's antiquated orthography is not followed in this spe- cimen. CHA T TEE Toy. Sir Canterlone then bended low. With heart brimful of woe ; He iournied to the castle-gate. And to Sir Charles did go. But when he came, his children twain. And eke his loving wife. With briny tears did wet the floor. For good Sir Charles's life. ** Oh, good Sir Charles !" said Canterlone, "Bad tidings I do bring." *^ Speak boldly, man," said brave Sir Charlc' " What says the traitor king ?" " I grieve to tell : before yon sun Does from the welkin fly. He hath upon his honour sworn. That thou shalt surely die." " We all must die," said brave Sir Charles ; " Of that I'm not afraid ; What boots to live a Httle space ? Thank Jesus, I'm prepared. " But tell thy king, for mine he's not, I'd sooner die to-day. Than live his slave, as many are. Though I should live for aye." Then Canterlone he did go out. To tell the mayor straight To get all things in readiness For good Sir Charles's fate. 158 G OLDEN LEAVES. Then Mr. Canynge sought the king. And fell down on his knee ; " I'm come," quoth he, "unto your grace. To move your clemency." "Then," quoth the king, "your tale speak out, You have been much our friend ; Whatever your request may be. We will to it attend." "My noble liege ! all my request Is for a noble knight. Who, though mayhap he has done wrong. He thought it still was right. " He has a spouse and children twain ; All ruined are for aye. If that you are resolved to let Charles Bawdin die to-day." " Speak not of such a traitor vile," The king in fury said ; " Before the evening star doth shine, Bawdin shall lose his head : "Justice does loudly for him call. And he shall have his meed : Speak, Mr. Canynge ! what thing else At present do you need ?" " My noble liege !" good Canynge said, " Leave justice to our God, And lay the iron rule aside ; Be thine the olive rod. CHATTERTON. 159 " Was God to search our hearts and re.'ns. The best were sinners great ; Christ's vicar only knows no sin. In all this mortal state. " Let mercy rule thine infant reign, 'Twill fix thy crown full sure ; From race to race thy family All sovereigns shall endure : ** But if with blood and slaughter thou Begin thy infant reign. Thy crown upon thy children's brows Will never long remain." '* Canynge, away ! this traitor vile Has scorned my power and me ; How canst thou, then, for such a man Intreat my clemency ?" '' My noble liege ! the truly brave Will valorous actions prize ; Respect a brave and noble mind. Although in enemies." " Canynge, away ! By God in heaven That did me being give, I will not taste a bit of bread Whilst this Sir Charles doth live ! " By Mary, and all saints in heaven. This sun shall be his last !" Then Canynge dropped a briny tear, And from the presence passed. l6o G OLDEN LEAVES. With heart brimful of gnawing grief, He to Sir Charles did go. And sat him down upon a stool. And tears began to flow. " We all must die," said brave Sir Charles ; " What boots it how or when ? Death is the sure, the certain fate. Of all we mortal men. " Say why, my friend, thy honest soul Runs over at thine eye ; Is it for my most welcome doom That thou dost child-Hke cry ?" Saith godly Canynge, " I do weep. That thou so soon must die. And leave thy sons and helpless wife ; 'Tis this that wets mine eye." " Then dry the tears that out thine eye From godly fountains spring ; Death I despise, and all the power Of Edward, traitor king. " When through the tyrant's welcome means 1 shall resign my life. The God 1 serve will soon provide For both my sons and wife. " Before I saw the lightsome sun. This was appointed me ; Shall mortal man repine or grudge What God ordains to be ? CHATTERTON. l6) * How oft in battle have I stood. When thousands died around ; When smoking streams of crimson blood Imbrued the fattened ground : " How did I know that every dart That cut the airy way. Might not find passage to my heart. And close mine eyes for aye ? " And shall I now, for fear of death. Look wan and be dismayed ? No ! from my heart fly childish fear ; Be all the man displayed." " Ah, godlike Henry ! God fbrefend. And guard thee and thy son. If 'tis His will ; but if 'tis not. Why, then. His will be done." " My honest friend, my fault has been To serve God and my prince ; And that I no time-server am. My death will soon convince, ** In London city was I born. Of parents of great note; My father did a noble arms Emblazon on his coat : " I make no doubt but he is gone Where soon I hope to go. Where we forever shall be blest, From out the reach of woe. 14* l62 GOLDEN LEAVES. " He taught me justice and the laws With pity to unite ; And eke he taught me how to know The wrong cause from the right : " He taught me with a prudent hand To feed the hungry poor. Nor let my servants drive away The hungry from my door : *'And none can say but all my life I have his wordis kept ; And summed the actions of the day Each night before I slept. " I have a spouse ; go ask of her If I defiled her bed ? I have a king, and none can lay Black treason on my head. " In Lent, and on the holy eve. From flesh I did refrain ; Why should I then appear dismayed To leave this world of pain ? " No, hapless Henry ! I rejoice I shall not see thy death ; Most willingly in thy just cause Do I resign my breath. *' Oh, fickle people ! ruined land ! Thou wilt ken peace no moe ; While Richard's sons exalt themselves. Thy brooks with blood will flow. C HATTER T ox. 163 '* Say, were ye tired of godly peace. And godly Henry's reign. That you did chop^ your easy days For those of blood and pain ? " What though I on a sledge be drawn. And mangled by a hind, I do defy the traitor's power. He cannot harm my mind : " What though, uphoisted on a pole. My limbs shall rot in air. And no rich monument of brass Charles Bawdin's name shall bear ; ** Yet in the holy book above. Which time can't eat away. There with the servants of the Lord My name shall live for aye. " Then welcome death ! for life eterne I leave this mortal life : Farewell, vain world, and all that's dear. My sons and loving wife ! " Now death as welcome to me comes As e'er the month of May; Nor would I even wish to live. With my dear wife to stay." Saith Canynge, '' 'Tis a goodly thing To be prepared to die ; And from this world of pain and grief To God in heaven to flv." ^ Exchange. 164 GOLDEN LEAVES. And now the bell began to toll. And clarions to sound ; Sir Charles he heard the horses' feet A-prancing on the ground. And just before the officers His loving wife came in. Weeping unfeigned tears of woe With loud and dismal din. *' Sweet Florence ! now I pray forbear. In quiet let me die ; Pray God that every Christian soul May look on death as 1. " Sweet Florence ! why these briny tears ? They wash my soul away. And almost make me wish for life. With thee, sweet dame, to stay. '* 'Tis but a journey I shall go Unto the land of bliss ; Now, as a proof of husband's love. Receive this holy kiss. Then Florence, faltering in her say. Trembling, these wordis spoke : ** Ah, cruel Edward ! bloody king ! My heart is well-nigh broke. '* Ah, sweet Sir Charles ! why wilt thou go Without thy loving wife ? The cruel axe that cuts thy neck. It eke shall end my Hfe." CHATTER TON. J(>3 And now the officers came in To bring Sir Charles away. Who turned to his loving wife. And thus to her did say : '' I go to life, and not to death ; Trust thou in God above. And teach thy sons to fear the Lord, And in their hearts Him love. " Teach them to run the noble race That I their father run : Florence ! should death thee take — adieu ! Ye officers, lead on." Then Florence raved as any mad. And did her tresses tear; '* Oh stay, my husband, lord, and life !" Sir Charles then dropped a tear. 'Till tired out with raving loud. She fell upon the floor ; Sir Charles exerted all his might. And marched from out the door. Upon a sledge he mounted then. With looks full brave and sweet ; Looks that enshone no more concern Than any in the street. Before him went the council-men. In scarlet robes and gold. And tassels spangling in the sun. Much glorious to behold : l66 G OLDEN LEAVES. The friars of Saint Augustine next Appeared to the sight. All clad in homely russet weeds. Of godly monkish plight : In different p/rts a godly Psalm Most sweetly they did chant ; Behind their back six minstrels came. Who tuned the strange bataunt. Then five-and-twenty archers came ; Each one the bow did bend. From rescue of King Henry's friends Sir Charles for to defend. Bold as a lion came Sir Charles, Drawn on a cloth-laid sledde. By two black steeds in trappings white, With plumes upon their head. Behind him five-and-twenty more Of archers strong and stout. With bended bow each one in hand^ Marched in goodly rout. Saint James's friars marched next. Each one his part did chant ; Behind their backs six minstrels came. Who tuned the strange bataunt. Then came the mayor and aldermen. In cloth of scarlet decked ; And their attending men each one. Like eastern princes tricked. CHATTERTON. 167 And after them a multitude Of citizens did throng; The windows were all full of heads. As he did pass along. And when he came to the high cross, Sir Charles did turn and say : " O Thou that savest man from sin, Wash my soul clean this day." At the great minster window sat The king in mickle state. To see Charles Bawdin go along To his most welcome fate. Soon as the sledde drew nigh enough, That Edward he might hear. The brave Sir Charles he did stand up, And thus his words declare : ** Thou seest me, Edward ! traitor vile ! Exposed to infamy ; But be assured, disloyal man, I'm greater now than thee. " By foul proceedings, murder, blood. Thou wearest now a crown ; And hast appointed me to die By power not thine own. " Thou thinkest I shall die to-day ; I have been dead till now. And soon shall live to wear a crown For aye upon my brow ; .68 6' L D E X L E A YE S. '* Whilst thou, perhaps, for some few years, Shalt rule this fickle land. To let them know how wide the rule 'Twixt king and tyrant hand. " Thy power unjust, thou traitor slave ! Shall fall on thy own head" — From out of hearing of the king Departed then the sledde. King Edward's soul rushed to his face. He turned his head away. And to his brother Gloucester He thus did speak and say : '* To him that so-much-dreaded death No ghastly terrors bring ; Behold the man ! he spake the truth ; He's greater than a king !" '* So let him die !" Duke Richard said ; '' And may each one our foes Bend down their necks to bloody axe. And feed the carrion crows." And now the horses gently drew Sir Charles up the high hill ; The axe did glister in the sun. His precious blood to spill. Sir Charles did up the scaffold go. As up a gilded car Of victory, by valorous chiefs Gained in the bloody war. CUATTERTOX. l6y And to the people he did say : *' Behold you see me die. For serving loyally my king, My king most rightfully. " As long as Edward rules this land. No quiet you will know; Your sons and husbands shall be slain. And brooks with blood shall flow. ** You leave your good and lawful king, When in adversity ; Like me, unto the true cause stick. And for the true cause die." Then he, with priests, upon his knees, A prayer to God did make. Beseeching Him unto Himself His parting soul to take. Then, kneeling down, he laid his head Most seemly on the block ; Which from his body fair at once The able headsman stroke : And out the blood began to flow. And round the scaffold twine ; And tears, enough to wash't away. Did flow from each man's eyne. The bloody axe his body f lir Into four partis cut ; And every part, and eke his head. Upon a pole was put. 70 GOLDEN LEAVES. One part did rot on Kinwulph-hill, One on the minster-tower. And one from off the castle-gate The crowen did devour. The other on Saint Paul's good gate, A dreary spectacle ; His head was placed on the high cross. In high street most noble. Thus was the end of Bawdin's fate : God prosper long our king. And grant he may, with Bawdin's soul. In heaven God's mercy sing ! I lUilliam (fToiupcr. VERSES SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK, DURING HIS SOLITARY ABODE IN THE ISLAND OF JUAN FERNANDEZ. AM monarch of all I survey — My right there is none to dispute ; From the centre all round to the sea, I am lord of the fowl and the brute. Solitude ! where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face ? Better dwell in the midst of alarms Than reign in this horrible place. 1 am out of humanity's reach ; I must finish my journey alone. COWPER. 171 Never hear the sweet music of speech — I start at the sound of my own. The beasts that roam over the plain My form with indifference see ; They are so unacquainted with man. Their tameness is shocking to me. Society, friendship, and love. Divinely bestowed upon man ! O, had I the wings of a dove. How soon would I taste you again ! My sorrows I then might assuage In the ways of religion and truth — Might learn from the wisdom of age. And be cheered by the sallies of youth. Religion ! What treasure untold Resides in that heavenly word ! — More precious than silver and gold, Or all that this earth can afford ; But the sound of the church-going bell These valleys and rocks never heard. Never sighed at the sound of a knell. Or smiled when a sabbath appeared. Ye winds that have made me your sport. Convey to this desolate shore Some cordial endearing report Of a land I shall visit no more ! My friends — do they now and then send A wish or a thought after me .? O tell me I yet have a friend. Though a friend I am never to see 172 G OLDEN LEAVES. How fleet is a glance of the mind ! Compaied with the speed of its flight. The tempest itself lags behind. And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land. In a moment I seem to be there ; But, alas ! recollection at hand Soon hurries me back to despair. But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest. The beast is laid down in his lair ; Even here is a season of rest. And I to my cabin repair. There's mercy in every place. And mercy — encouraging thought ! — Gives even affliction a grace. And reconciles man to his lot. THE PULPIT. 'TpHE pulpit, therefore (and I name it filled ^ With solemn awe, that bids me well beware With what intent I touch that holy thing) — The pulpit (when the satirist has at last. Strutting and vapouring in an empty school. Spent all his force, and made no proselyte) — I say the pulpit (in the sober use Of its legitimate, peculiar powers) Must stand acknowledged, while the world shall stand. The most important and eff*ectual guard, Support, and ornament of Virtue's cause. OOWPER. 173 There stands the messenger of truth : there stands The legate of the skies ! — His theme divine. His office sacred, his credentials clear. By him the violated law speaks out Its thunders ; and by him, in strains as sweet As angels use, the Gospel whispers peace. He 'stablishes the strong, restores the weak. Reclaims the wanderer, binds the broken heart, And, armed himself in panoply complete ^ Of heavenly temper, furnishes with arms Bright as his own, and trains, by every rule Of holy discipline, to glorious war. The sacramental host of God's elect ! Are all such teachers — would to Heaven all were ! THE POPLAR FIELD. ' I "*HE poplars are felled, farewell to the shade And the whispering sound of the cool colonnad% The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves. Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives. Twelve years have elapsed since I last took a view Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew And now in the grass behold they are laid. And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade. The blackbird has fled to another retreat Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat ; And the scene where his melody charmed me before Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more. 174 G OLDEN LEAVES. My fugitive years are all hasting away, And I must ere long lie as lowly as they. With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head, Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead. 'Tis a sight to engage me, if any thing can. To muse on the perishing pleasures of man ; Short-lived as we are, our enjoyments, I see Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we. TO MARY UNWIN. ' I ^HE twentieth year is well nigh past '■' Since first our sky was overcast ; Ah, would that this might be the last ! My Mary ! Thy spirits have a fainter flow, I see thee daily weaker grow — 'Twas my distress that brought thee low. My Mary ! Thy needles, once a shining store. For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disused, and shine no more ; My Mary ! For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil The same kind office for me still. Thy sight now seconds not thy will. My Mary ! cow PER. 175, But well thou playd'st the housewife's part And all thy threads with magic art Have wound themselves about this heart, My Mary ! Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language uttered in a dream ; Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme. My Mary ! Thy silver locks, once auburn bright. Are still more lovely in my sight Than golden beams of orient light. My Mary ! For could I view nor them nor thee, What sight worth seeing could 1 see ? The sun would rise in vain for me. My Mary ! Partakers of thy sad decline. Thy hands their little force resign. Yet gently pressed, press gently mine. My Mary ! Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st That now at every step thou mov'st Upheld by two ; yet still thou lov'st. My Mary ! And still to love, though pressed with ill. In wintry age to feel no chill, With me is to be lovely still. My Mary ! t 176 GOLDEN LEA VES But ah ! by constant heed I know How oft the sadness that I show Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe. My Mary ! And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past. Thy worn-out heart will break at last- My Mary ! ^nna Cetitia Bavbatili). HYMN TO CONTENT. /^ T HOU, the nymph with placid eye I ^^ O seldom found, yet ever nigh ! Receive my temperate vow : Not all the storms that shake the pole Can e'er disturb thy halcyon soul, And smooth the unaltered brow. O come, in simple vest arrayed. With all thy sober cheer displayed. To bless my longing sight ; Thy mien composed, thy even pace. Thy meek regard, thy matron grace. And chaste subdued delight. No more by varying passions beat, O gently guide my pilgrim feet To find thy hermit cell ; BARBAULD. 1 77 Where in some pure and equal sky. Beneath thy soft indulgent eye. The modest virtues dwell. Simplicity in Attic vest. And Innocence with candid breast. And clear, undaunted eye ; And Hope, who points to distant years. Fair opening through this vale of tears, A vista to the sky. There Health, through whose calm bosom glidf^^ The temperate joys in even tide. That rarely ebb or flow ; And Patience there, thy sister meek, Presents her mild, unvarying cheek To meet the offered blow. Her influence taught the Phrygian sage A tyrant master's wanton rage With settled smiles to wait : Inured to toil and bitter bread. He bowed his meek, submissive head. And kissed thy sainted feet. But thou, O nymph retired and coy ! In what brown hamlet dost thou joy To tell thy tender tale ? The lowliest children of the ground, Moss-rose and violet, blossom round, And lily of the vale. 178 G OLDEN LEAVES. say what soft propitious hour 1 best may choose to hail thy power. And court thy gentle sway ? When autumn, friendly to the Muse, Shall thy own modest tints diffuse. And shed thy milder day. When eve, her dewy star beneath. Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe. And every storm is laid ; If such an hour was e'er thy choice. Oft let me hear thy soothing voice Low whispering through the shade. fflattl)eu) ©rcgovM £ciui0. THE MANIAC. QTAY, jailor, stay, and hear my woe ! ^ She is not mad who kneels to thee : For w^hat I'm now, too well I know. And what I was, and what should be. I'll rave no more in proud despair ; My language shall be mild, though sad But yet I firmly, truly swear, I am not mad, I am not mad. My tyrant husband forged the tale. Which chains me in this dismal cell ; My fate unknown my friends bewail — O iailor, haste that fate to tell : LEWIS. 179 Oh . haste my father's heart to cheer : His heart at once 'twill grieve and glad To know, though kept a captive here, I am not mad, I am not mad. He smiles in scorn, and turns the key ; He quits the grate ; I knelt in vain ; His glimmering lamp, still, still I see — 'Tis gone ! and all is gloom again. Cold, bitter cold ! — No warmth ! no light ! — Life, all thy comforts once I had ; Yet here I'm chained, this freezing night, Although not mad; no, no, not mad. 'Tis sure some dream, some vision vain ; What ! I, — the child of rank and wealth, — Am I the wretch who clanks this chain. Bereft of freedom, friends, and health ? Ah 1 while I dwell on blessings fled. Which never more my heart must glad. How aches my heart, how burns my head ! But 'tis not mad j no, 'tis not mad. Hast thou, my child, forgot, ere this, A mother's face, a mother's tongue ? She'll ne'er forget your parting kiss, Nor round her neck how fast you clung ; Nor how with her you sued to stay. Nor how that suit your sire forbade ; Nor how — I'll drive such thoughts away ; They'll make me mad, they'll make me mad. i8o GOLDEN LEAVES. His rosy lips, how sweet they smiled ! His mild blue eyes, how bright they shone ' None ever bore a lovelier child : And art thou now forever gone ? And must I never see thee more, I\Iy pretty, pretty, pretty lad ? I will be free ! unbar the door ! I am not mad; I am not mad. Oh, hark ! what mean those yells and cries r His chain some furious madman breaks ; He comes, — I see his glaring eyes; Now, now, my dungeon-grate he shakes. Help ! help ! — He's gone ! — Oh ! fearful woe. Such screams to hear, such sights to see ! I\Iy brain, my brain, — I know, I know I am not mad, but soon shall be. Yes, soon j — for lo ! you — while I speak — Klark how yon demon's eyeballs glare ! He sees me ; now, with dreadful shriek. He whirls a serpent high in air. Horror ! — the reptile strikes his tooth Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad ; Ay, laugh, ye fiends; — I feel the truth; Your task is done — I'm mad ! I'm mad ! WHITE. l8l (^enrn Kirke lUljite. THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. '\'\7HEN marshalled on the nightly plain, The glittering host bestud the sky ; One star alone, of all the train. Can fix the sinner's wandering eye. Hark ! hark ! to God the chorus breaks, From every host, from every gem ; But one alone the Saviour speaks. It is the Star of Bethlehem. Once on the raging seas I rode. The storm was loud — the night was dark ; The ocean yawned — and rudely Mowed The wind that tossed my foundering barK. Deep horror then my vitals froze. Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem ; When suddenly a star arose. It was the Star of Bethlehem. it was my guide, my light, my all. It bade my dark forebodings cease ; And through the storm and dangers' thrall, It led me to the port of peace. Now safely moored — my perils o'er, V\\ sing, first in night's diadem. For ever and for evermore, The Star — the Star of Betlilehem ' 1 82 G OLD EX LEAVES, M TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE. ILD oftspring of a dark and sullen sire ! Whose modest form, so delicately fine. Was nursed in whirling storms, And cradled in the winds. Tliee, when young Spring first questioned Winter's sway. And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight. Thee on this bank he threw To mark his victory. In this low vale, the promise of the year. Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale. Unnoticed and alone. Thy tender elegance. So Virtue blooms, brought forth amid tlie storms Of chill Adversity ; in some lone walk Of life she rears her head. Obscure and unobserved ; While every bleaching breeze that on her blows. Chastens her spotless purity of breast. And hardens her to bear Serene the ills of life. BURNS. 1B3 llobcvt Bunts. THF COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. " Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys and destiny obscure ; Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor." Gray. IV yTY loved, my honoured, much-respected friend ! No mercenary bard his homage pays ; With honest pride I scorn each selfish end. My dearest meed a friend's esteem and praise. To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays. The lowly train in life's sequestered scene ; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways — What Aiken in a cottage would have been ; Ah ! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween. November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ; The short'ning winter day is near a close j The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh. The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose. The toil-worn cotter frae his labour goes — This night his weekly moil is at an end — Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes. Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend -, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. At length his lonely cot appears in view. Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; Th' expectant wee things, todlin, stacher thio' To meet their dad wi' flichterin noise and g:lee. 9* ' . i84 GOLDEN LEAVES. His wee bit ingle blinkin' bonnilie. His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile. The lisping infant prattling on his knee. Does a' his weary, carking cares beguile. An' makes him quite forget his labour and his toil. Bclyve the elder bairns come drappin' in — At service out, amang the farmers roun' ; Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin A cannie errand to a neebour town. Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown. In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e. Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw new gown. Or deposite her sair-won penny fee. To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. Wi' joy unfeigned, brothers and sisters meet. An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers ; The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed fleet ; Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years — Anticipation forward points the view. The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers. Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new ; The father mixes a' wi' admonition due : Their masters' and their mistresses' command The younkers a' are warned to obey. An' mind their labours wi' an eydent hand. An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play ; An' O ! be sure to fear the Lord alway ! An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night ! Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray. THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. BURNS. 185 Implore His counsel and assisting might : They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright ! But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door; Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same. Tells how a neeboar lad cam o'er the moor To do some errands, and convoy her hame. The wily mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek ; Wi' heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name. While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; Weel pleased the mother hears it's nae wild, worthless rake. Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben — A strappan youth, he taks the mother's eye ; Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye ; The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy. But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave ; The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae grave — Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected like the lave. O happy love ! where love like this is found ! O heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! I've paced much this weary mxOrtal round. And sage experience bids me this declare — If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare. One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair. In other's arms breathe out the tender tale. Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale. l86 G OLDEN LEAVES. Is there, in human form that bears a heart, A wretch, a villain, lost to love and truth. That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art. Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? Curse on his perjured arts ! dissembling smooth ! Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exiled ? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. Points to the parents fondling o'er their child — Then paints the ruined maid, and their distraction wild ? But now the supper crowns their simple board : The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food ; The soup their only hawkie does afford. That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cud ; The dame brings forth, in complimental mood. To grace the lad, her weel-hained kebbuck fell. An' aft he's pressed, and aft he ca's it good ; The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace. The big Ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride : His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, His lyart hafFets wearin' thin and bare ; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide He wales a portion with judicious care ; And '* Let us worship God !" he says with solemn air. They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim , BUBNS. 187 Perhaps Dimdee's wild, warbling measures rise. Or plaintive Maj'tyrs, worthy o' the name ; Or noble Elgin beets the heavenward flame — The sweetest far 0' Scotia's holy lays ; Compared with these, Italian trills are tame ; The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise — Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. The priest-like father reads the sacred page : How Abraham was the friend of God on high ; 'Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek's ungracious progeny; Or how the royal bard did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire ; Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailmg cry; Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme : How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; How He, who bore in Heaven the second name. Had not on earth whereon to lay His head ; How His first followers and servants sped — The precepts sage they wrote to many a land ; How he, who lone in Patmos banished. Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand. And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven command. Then kneeling down to Heaven's eternal King, The s-aint, the father, and the husband prays : Hope " springs exulting on triumphant wing " That thus thev all shall meet in fliture days ; l88 GOLDEN LEAVES. There ever bask in uncreated rays. No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear — Together hymning their Creator's praise. In such society, yet still more dear. While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. Compared with this, how poor religion's pride. In all the pomp of method and of art, .When men display to congregations wide Devotion's every grace except the heart ! The Power, incensed, the pageant wil^ deserr. The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; But haply, in some cottage far apart, May hear, well pleased, the language of the fouI, And in His book of life the inmates poor enroll. Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way ; The youngling cottagers retire to rest ; The parent-pair their secret homage pay. And proffer up to Heaven the warm request That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest. And decks the lily fair in flowery pride. Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best. For them and for their little ones provide — But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside. From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur sprmgs. That makes her loved at home, revered abroad. Princes and lords are but the breath of kings — " An honest man's the noblest work of God ;" And, certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road. The cottage leaves the palace far behind. BURNS. 189 What is a lordling's pomp ? a cumbrous load. Disguising oft the wretch of human kind. Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined ! O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! Long may thy hardy sons oi rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content ! And, O ! may Heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion weak and vile ! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while. And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved isle. O Thou ! who poured the patriotic tide That streamed through Wallace's undaunted heart — Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride. Or nobly die, the second glorious part — (The patriot's God peculiarly Thou art — His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward !) O never, never Scotia's realm desert ; But still the patriot and the patriot bard In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard ! ^90 G OLDEN LEAVES. TAM O' SHANTER. ** Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this Buke." Gawin Douglass. X X 7HEN chapman billies leave the street, And drouthy neebours neebours meet. As market-days are wearing late. An' folk begin to tak the gate ; While we sit bousing at the nappy. An' getting fou and unco happy. We think na on the lang Scots miles. The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles. That lie between us and our hame, Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame. Gathering her brows like gathering storm. Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, As he, frae Ayr, ae night did canter (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses. For honest men and bonnie lasses). O Tam ! hadst thou but been sae wise As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice ! She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, A bleth'ring, blust'ring, drunken blellum ; That frae November till October, Ae market-day thou was na sober ; That ilka melder, wi' the miller. Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; That every naig was ca'd a shoe on. The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; BUBNS. 191 That at the L — d's house, ev'n on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday. She prophesy'd that, late or soon. Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon ; Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk. By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet To think how monie counsels sweet. How monie lengthened sage advices. The husband frae the wife despises ! But to our tale : Ae market night Tarn had got planted unco right. Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely ; And at his elbow souter Johnny, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony — Tarn lo'ed him like a vera brither — They had been fou for weeks thegither. The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter ; And ay the ale was growing better. The landlady and Tam grew gracious, Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious ; The souter tauld his queerest stories ; The landlord's laugh was ready chorus ; The storm without might rair and rustle, Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. Care, mad to see a man sae happy. E'en drowned himself amang the nappy ; As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure. The minutes winged their way wi' pleasure ; Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious. O'er a' the ills o' life victorious. 19^^ G OLDEN LEAVES. But pleasures are like poppies spread — You seize the flower, its bloom is shed ; Or like the snow-fall in the river, A moment white — then melts forever ; Or like the borealis race. That flit ere you can point their place ; Or like the rainbow's lovely form. Evanishing amid the storm. Nae man can tether time or tide ; The hour approaches Tarn maun ride — That hour o' night's black arch the key-stane. That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ; And sic a night he takes the road in As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; The rattling showers rose on the blast ; The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed ; Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellowed ; That night a child might understand The Deil had business on his hand. Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg (A better never hfted leg), Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire. Despising wind, and rain, and fire — Whyles holding fast his guid blue bonnet, Whyles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet, Whyles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares. Lest bogles catch him unawares ; Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh. Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry. By this time he was 'cross the ford, Whare in the snaw the chapman smoored ; BURNS. 193 And past the birks and meikle stane, Whare drunken Charlie brak 's neck-bane ; And thro' the whins, and by the cairn. Where hunters fand the murdered bairn; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Whare Mungo's mither hanged hersel. Before him Doon pours all his floods : The doubling storm roars thro' the woods ; The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; Near and more near the thunders roll ; When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, Kirk-Alloway seemed in a bleeze ; Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing. And loud resounded mirth and dancing. Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! What dangers thou canst make us scorn ' Wi' tippenny we fear nae evil ; Wi' usquabae we'll face the Devil ! — The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle. Fair play, he cared na Deils a bodle. But Maggie stood right sair astonished. Till, by the heel and hand admonished. She ventured forward on the light ; And, wow ! Tarn saw an unco sight — Warlocks and witches in a dance : Nae cotillion brent new frae France, But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels Put life and mettle in their heels. A winnock-bunker in the east. There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast — A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large — To gie them music was his charge ; .^4 G OLDEN LEAVES. He screwed the pipes and gart them skirl, Till roof an' rafters a' did dirl. Coffins stood round like open presses. That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses ; And by some devilish cantrips sleight. Each in its cauld hand held a light — By which heroic Tam was able To note upon the haly table, A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns ; A thief, new cutted fra a rape, Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red rusted ; Five scymitars, wi' murder crusted ; A garter which a babe had strangled ; A knife a father's throat had mangled. Whom his ain son o' life bereft — The gray hairs yet stack to the heft ; Three lawyers' tongues turned inside out, Wi' lies seamed like a beggar's clout ; And priests' hearts, rotten, black as muck. Lay stinking, vile, in every neuk : Wi' mair o' horrible and awfii'. Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. As Tammie glowr'd, amazed, and curious. The mirth and fiin grew fast and furious ; The piper loud and louder blew ; The dancers quick and quicker flew ; They reeled, they set, they crossed, they cieckit. Till ilka carhn swat and reekit. And coost her duddies to the wark. And linket at it in her sark. BURIES. 195 Now, Tarn, O Tarn ! had they been queans A' plump and strapping in their teens : Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen. Been snaw-white seven teen-hunder hnen ; Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair. That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, I wad hae gi'en them afF my hurdles For ae bUnk o' the bonnie burdies ! But withered beldams, auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, Lowping an' flinging on a crummock — I wonder did na turn thy stomach. But Tarn kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie There was ae winsome wench and walie. That night inlisted in the core (Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore ! For mcnie a beast to dead she shot. And perished monie a bonnie boat. And shook baith meikle corn and bear. And kept the country-side in fear). Her cutty-sark o' Paisley ham. That while a lassie she had worn — In longitude though sorely scanty. It was her best, and she was vauntie. Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, Wi' twa pund Scots (twas a' her riches) --- Wad ever graced a dance o' witches ! But here my Muse her wing maun cower — Sic flights are far beyond her power — To sing how Nannie lap and flang (A souple jad she was and Strang) ; , 196 GOLDEN LEAVEki. And how Tarn stood, like ane bewitched. And thought his very een enriched. Ev'n Satan glowr'd, and fidged fu' fain. And hotched and blew wi' might and main ; Till first ae caper, syne anither — Tarn tint his reason a'thegither. And roars out, Weel done. Cutty -s ark ! And in an instant a' was dark ; And scarcely had he Maggie rallied. When out the hellish legion sallied. As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke. When plundering herds assail their byke ; As open pussie's mortal foes. When pop ! she starts before tlieir nose ; As eager runs the market-crowd. When Catch the thief ! resounds aloud ; So Maggie runs — the witches follow, Wi' monie an eldritch skreech and hollow. Ah, Tam ! ah. Tarn ! thou'll g«t thy fairin* ! In hell theyll roast thee like a herrin' ! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin' — Kate soon will be a waefii' woman ! Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the key-stane o' the brig ; There at them thou thy tail may toss — A running stream they dare na cross. But ere the key-stane she could make. The fient a tale she had to shake ; For Nannie, far before the rest. Hard upon noble Maggie prest. And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle ; But little wist she Maggie's mettle — BURNS. UjJ Ac spring brought afF ner master hale. But left behind her ain gray tail : The carlin claught her by the rump. And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read. Ilk man and mother's son take heed; Whene'er to drink you are inclined. Or cutty-sarks run in your mind. Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear — Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare. MY LUVE IS LIKE A RED, RED ROSE /^ MY Luve's like a red, red rose ^^ That's newly sprung in June : my Luve's like the melodic That's sweetly played in tune. As fair art thou, my bonnie lass. So deep in luve am I : And I will luve .thee still, my dear. Till a' the seas gang dry : Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear. And the rocks melt wi' the sun ; 1 will luve thee still, my dear. While the sands o^ life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only Luve ! And fare thee weel awhile ! And I will come again, my Luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 198 G OLDEN LEAVES. JOHN ANDERSON. JOHN Anderson my jo, John, When we were first acquent. Your locks were like the raven. Your bonnie brow was brent ; But now your brow is bald, John, Your locks are like the snow ; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson my jo. John Anderson my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither. And mony a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither : Now we maun totter down, John But hand in hand we'll go. And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo. HIGHLAND MARY. '^/'E banks and braes and streams around -*■ The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie. There simmer first unfaulds her robes. And there they langest tarry; For there I took the last fareweel O' my sweet Highland Mary. BUBNS. 199 How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk. How rich the hawthorn's blossom. As underneath their fragrant shade I clasp'd her to my bosom ! . The golden hours on angel wings Flew o'er me and my dearie ; For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary. Wi' mony a vow and lock'd embrace Our parting was fia' tender; And pledging aft to meet again. We tore oursels asunder ; But, O ! fell Death's untimely frost. That nipt my flower sae early ! Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay. That wraps my Highland Mary ! O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly! And closed for aye the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly : And mouldering now in silent dust That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary. 10 200 GOLDEN LEAVES. TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 'TpHOU lingering star, with less'ning ray, •^ That lov'st to greet the early morn. Again thou usherest in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary ! dear, departed shade ! Where is thy place of blissful rest ? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breas. ? That sacred hour can I forget. Can I forget the hallowed grove. Where by the winding Ayr we met. To live one day of parting love ? Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past — Thy image at our last embrace ! Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thickening, grecii The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar. Twined amorous round the raptured scene. The flowers sprang wanton to be prest. The birds sang love on every spray. Till too, too soon, the glowing west Proclaimed the speed of winged day. Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes. And fondly broods with miser care ; BUBXS. 201 Time but th' impression deeper makes. As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary ! dear, departed shade ! Where is thy place of blissful rest ? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? A man's a man for a' that. TS there for honest poverty, Wha hangs his head, and a' that ? The coward-slave, we pass him by ; We dare be poor for a' that. For a' that, and a' that. Our toils obscure, and a' that ; The rank is but the guinea's stamp— The man's the gowd for a' that. What tho' on hamely fare we dine. Wear hedden gray, and a' that ; Gie foolo their silks, and knaves their wine — A man's a man for a' that. For a' that, and a' that. Their tinsel show, and a' that ; The honest man, though e'er sae poor. Is king o' men for a' that. You see yon birkie ca'd a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a' that — 202 GOLDEN LEAVES. Tho' hundreds worship at his word. He's but a coof for a' that ; For a' that, and a' that. His riband, star, and a' that ; The man of independent mind. He looks and laughs at a' that. A prince can mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that ; But an honest man's aboon his might — Guid faith, he mauna fa' that ! For a' that, and a' that. Their dignities, and a' that ; The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth. Are higher ranks than a' that. Then let us pray that come it may. As come it will for a' that. That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth. May bear the gree, and a' that. For a' that, and a' that. It's coming yet, for a' that — When man to man, the warld o'er. Shall brothers be for a' that. PIOZZI. 203 THE THREE WARNINGS. 'TpHE tree of deepest root is found "*" Least willing still to quit the ground ; 'Twas therefore said by ancient sages. That love of life increased with years So much, that in our latter stages. When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages. The greatest love of life appears. This strong affection to believe Which all confess, but few perceive. If old assertions can't prevail. Be pleased to hear a modern tale. When sports went round, and all were gay. On neighbour Dobson's wedding-day. Death called aside the jocund groom. With him into another room. And, looking grave, " You must," says he, " Quit your sweet bride, and come with me.' " With you ! and quit my Susan's side ? With you !" the hapless husband cried : " Young as I am ! 'tis monstrous hard ! Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared : My thoughts on other matters go ; This is my wedding-night, you know." What more he urged I have not heard ; His reasons could not well be stronger ; So Death the poor delinquent spared. And left to live a little longer. 204 G OLDEN LEAVES. Yet calling up a serious look. His hour-glass trembled while he spoke : " Neighbour," he said, " farewell ; no more Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour ; And farther, to avoid all blame Of cruelty upon my name. To give you time for preparation, And fit you for your future station. Three several warnings you shall have. Before you're summoned to the grave : Willing, for once, I'll quit my prey. And grant a kind reprieve ; In hopes you'll have no more to say. But when I call again this way. Well pleased the world will leave " To these conditions both consented. And parted perfectly contented. What next the hero of our tale befell. How long he lived, how wisely well ; How roundly he pursued his course. And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse. The willing muse shall tell : He chaffered, then he bought, he sold. Nor once perceived his growing old. Nor thought of Death as near ; His friends not false, his wife no shrew. Many his gains, his children few. He passed his smiling hours in peace ; And still he viewed his wealth increase. While thus along life's dusty road The beaten track content he trod. PIOZZI. Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares. Uncalled, unheeded, unawares. Brought on his eightieth year. When lo ! one night, in musing mood. As all alone he sate. The unwelcome messenger of fate Once more before him stood. Half-killed with anger and surprise, " So soon returned ?" old Dobson cries. " So soon, d'ye call it ?" Death replies : " Surely, my friend, you're but in jest ; Since I was here before, 'Tis six-and-thirty years at least. And you are now fourscore." " So much the worse," the clown rejoined ; " To spare the aged would be kind : Besides, you promised me Three Warnings, Which I have looked for nights and mornirigs And for that loss of time and ease, I can recover damages." " I know," says Death, " that, at the best, I seldom am a welcome guest ; But don't be captious, friend, at least ; I little thought you'd still be able To stump about your farm and stable ; Your years have run to a great length — I wish you joy, though, of your strength." " Hold," says the farmer ; " not so fast ; I have been lame these four years past." 2o6 GOLDEN LEAVES. '* And no great wonder," Death replies ; '* However, you still keep your eyes ; And sure to see one's loves and friends. For legs and arms may make amends." " Perhaps," says Dobson, " so it might. But latterly I've lost my sight." " This is a shocking tale, in truth ; Yet there's some comfort still," says Death ; ** Each strives your sadness to amuse ; I warrant you hear all the news." "There's none," he cries; "and, if there were, I'm grown so deaf I could not hear."» " Nay then," the spectre stern rejoined, " These are unjustifiable yearnings ; If you are lame, and deaf, and blind. You've had your three sufficient warnings ; So come along, no more we'll part ;" He said, and touched him with his dart. And now old Dobson, turning pale. Yields to his fate — so '^nds my tale. WORDSWORTH. 207 tUilliam lUorbsujortl). LAO DAM I A. " 'IXT'ITH sacrifice before the rising morn Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired ; And from th' infernal gods, 'mid shades forlorn Of night, my slaughtered lord have I required : Celestial pity I again implore ; — Restore him to my sight — great Jove, restore !" So speaking, and by fervent love endowed With faith, the suppliant heavenward lifts her hands ; While, like the sun emerging from a cloud. Her count'nance brightens and her eye expands ; Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows ; And she expects the issue in repose. O terror ! what hath she perceived ? — O joy ! What doth she look on ? — whom doth she behold ? Her hero slain upon the beach of Troy ? His vital presence ? his corporeal mould ? It is — if sense deceive her not — 'tis he ! And a god leads him — winged Mercury ! Mild Hermes spake — and touched her with his wand That calms all fear : " Such grace hath crowned th) prayer, Laodamia ! that at Jove's command Thy husband walks the paths of upper air ; He comes to tarry with thee three hours' space ; Accept the gift, behold him face to face !" 10* 2o8 G OLDEX L E A VE S. Forth sprang the impassioned queen her lord to clasp ; Again that consummation she essayed ; But unsubstantial form eludes her grasp As often as that eager grasp was made. The phantom parts — but parts to reunite. And reassume his place before her sight. '' Protesilaus, lo ! thy guide is gone ! Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice : This is our palace, — yonder is thy throne ; Speak ! and the floor thou tread'st on will rejoice. Not to appal me have the gods bestowed This precious boon, and blest a sad abode." '* Great Jove, Laodamia, doth not leave His gifts imperfect : — spectre though I be, I am not sent to scare thee or deceive ; But in reward of thy fidelity. And something also did my worth obtain ; For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain. " Thou know'st, the Delphic oracle foretold That the first Greek who touched the Trojan strana Should die ; but me the threat could not withhold — A generous cause a victim did demand ; ^nd forth I leapt upon the sandy plain — \ self-devoted chief, by Hector slain.^* Supreme of heroes [ bravest, noblest, best ! Thy matchless courage I bewail no more, Wh-ich then, when tens of thousands were deprest By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore ; Thou found'st — and I forgive thee — here thou art — A nobler counsellor than my poor heart. WORDS woRrir. 209 " But thou, though capable of sternest deed, Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave ; And he whose power restores thee hath decreed Thou shouldst elude the malice of the grave ; Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair As when their breath enriched Thessalian air. *' No spectre greets me, — no vain shadow this; Come, blooming hero, place thee by my side ! Give, on this well-known couch, one nuptial kiss To me, this day a second time thy bride !" Jove frowned in heaven ; the conscious Pares threw Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue. " This visage tells thee that my doom is past ; Nor should the change be mourned, even if the joys Of sense were able to return as fast And surely as they vanish. Earth destroys Those raptures duly — Erebus disdains ; Calm pleasures there abide — majestic pains. " Be taught, O faithful consort, to control Rebellious passion : for .the gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul ; A fervent, not ungovernable, love. Thy transports moderate ; and meekly mourn When I depart, for brief is my sojourn — " " Ah, wherefore ? — Did not Hercules by force Wrest from the guardian monster of the tomb Alcestis, a reanimated corse. Given back to dwell on earth in vernal bloom ? Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years. And ^Eson stood a youth 'mid youthful peers. 210 GOLDEN LEAVES. " The gods to us are merciful, and they Yet further may relent ; for mightier far Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the sway Of magic potent over sun and star. Is love, though oft to agony distrest, xAnd though his favourite seat be feeble woman's breast. " But if thou goest, I follow — " " Peace !" he said ;— She looked upon him and was calmed and cheered ; The ghastly colour from his lips had fled ; In his deportment, shape, and mien appeared Elysian beauty, melancholy grace. Brought from a pensive, though a happy place. He spake of love, such love as spirits feel In worlds whose course is equable and pure ; No fears to beat away — no strife to heal — The past unsighed for, and the future sure ; Spake of heroic arts in graver mood Revived, with finer harmony pursued ; Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there In happier beauty ; more pellucid streams. An ampler ether, a diviner air. And fields invested with purpurqal gleams ; Climes which the sun, who sheds the brightest day Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey. Yet there the soul shall enter which hath earned That privilege by virtue. — " 111," said he, " The end of man's existence I discerned. Who from ignoble games and revelry Could draw, when we had parted, vain delight. While tears were thy best pastime, day and night ; WORDSWORTH. 211 " And while my youthful peers before my eyes (Each hero following his peculiar bent) Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise By martial sports, — or, seated in the tent. Chieftains and kings in council were detained. What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained. " The wished-for wind was given ; — I then revolved The oracle, upon the silent sea ; And, if no worthier led the way, resolved That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be The foremost prow in pressing to the strand — Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand. " Yet bitrer, ofttimes bitter, was the pang When of thy loss I thought, beloved wife ! On thee too fondly did my memory hang. And on the joys we shared in mortal life — The paths which we had trod — these fountains, flowers — My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers. " But should suspense permit the foe to cry, ' Behold they tremble ! — haughty their array. Yet of their number no one dares to die ?' In soul 1 swept th' indignity away. Old frailties then recurred ; — but lofty thought. In act embodied, my deliverance wrought. " And thou, though strong in love, art all too weak In reason, in self-government too slow -, I counsel thee by fortitude to seek Our blest reunion in the shades below. Th' invisible world with thee hath sympathized : Be thy affections raised and solemnized. 212 G OLDEN LEAVES. '' Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend, — Seeking a higher object. Love was given. Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end ; For this the passion to excess was driven, — That self might be annulled — her bondage prove *] The fetters of a dream, opposed to love." Aloud she shrieked ! for Hermes reappears ! Round the dear shade she would have clung, — 'tis vain The hours are past, — too brief had they been years ; And him no mortal effort can detain. Swift, toward the realms that know not earthly day. He through the portal takes his silent way. And on the palace floor a lifeless corse she lay. Thus, all in vain exhorted and reproved. She perished j and, as for a wilful crime^ By the just gods, whom no weak pity moved. Was doomed to wear out her appointed time. Apart from happy ghosts, that gather flowers Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers. — Yet tears to human suffering are due ; And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown Are mourned by man, and not by man alone. As fondly he believes. — Upon the side Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained) A knot of spiry trees for ages grew From out the tomb of him for whom she died ; And ever, when such stature they had gained That Ilium's walls were subject to their view. The trees' tall summits withered at the sight ; A constant interchange of grov/th and blight. WORDSWORTH. 213 TO THE DAISY. 'IXT'ITH little here to do or see " Of things that in the great world be. Sweet Daisy ! oft I talk to thee. For thou art worthy. Thou unassuming commonplace Of Nature, with that homely face. And yet with something of a grace Which love makes for thee ! Oft on the dappled turf at ease I sit and play with similes. Loose types of things through all degrees. Thoughts of thy raising ; And many a fond and idle name I give to thee, for praise or blame As is the humour of the game. While I am gazing. A nun demure, of lowly port ; Or sprightly m.aiden, of Love's court. In thy simplicity the sport Of all temptations ; A queen in crown of rubies drest ; A starveling in a scanty vest ; Are all, as seems to suit thee best. Thy appellations. A little Cyclops, with one eye Staring to threaten and defy. That thought comes next — and instantly The freak is over. 211 G OLD EX LEAVES. The shape will vanish, and behold ! A silver shield with boss of gold That spreads itself, some fairy bold In fight to cover. I see thee glittering from afar — And then thou art a pretty star, Not quite so fair as many are In heaven above thee ! Yet like a star, with glittering crest. Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest ; — May peace come never to his nest Who shall reprove thee ! Sweet Flower ! for by that name at last When all my reveries are pas-t I call thee, and to that cleave fast. Sweet silent Great are 1 That breath'st with me in sun and air. Do thou, as thou art wmt, repair My heart with gladness, and a share Of thy meek nature ! TO THE SKYLARK r? THERE AL minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky ! '*--' Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound Or while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground ? Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will. Those quivering wings composed, that music still ! WORDSWORTH. 215 To the last point of vision, and beyond. Mount, daring warbler ! — tha' love-prompted strain — 'Twixt thee and thine a never- tailing bond — Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain : Yet mightst thou seem, proud privilege 1 to sing All independent of the leafy Spring. Leave to the nightingale her shady wood ; A privacy of glorious light is thine. Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood Of harmony, with instinct more divine ; Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam — True fo the kindred points of Heaven and Home ! THE DAFFODILS. T WANDERED lonely as a cloud -*- That floats on high o'er vales and hills. When all at once I saw a crowd, A host of golden daffodils. Beside the lake, beneath the trees Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way. They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay : Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 2l6 G OLDEN LEAVES. The waves beside them danced, but they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee : — A Poet could not but be gay In such a jocund company ! I gazed — and gazed — but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood. They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of soHtude ; And then my heart with pleasure fills. And dances with the daffodils. THE EDUCATION OF NATURE. 'T^HREE years she grew in sun and shower ■*' Then Nature said, '' A lovelier flower On earth was never sown : This child I to myself will take ; She shall be mine, and I will make A lady of my own. " Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse : and with me The girl, in rock and plain. In earth and heaven, in glade and bower. Shall feel an overseeing power To kindle or restrain. WORDSWORTH. 217 " She shall be sportive as the fawn That wild with glee across the lawn Or up the mountain springs ; And hers shall be the breathing balm. And hers the silence and the calm Of mute insensate things. ** The floating clouds their state shall lend To her ; for her the willow bend ; Nor shall she fail to see E'en in the motions of the storm Grace that shall mould the maiden's form By silent sympathy. *' The stars of midnight shall be dear To her ; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round. And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face. " And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height. Her virgin bosom swell ; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give While she and I together live Here in this happy dell." Thus Nature spake — The work was done — How soon my Lucy's race was run ! She died, and left to me This heath, this calm and quiet scene ; The memory of what has been, And never more will be. 2l8 G OLDEN LEAVES. THE LOST LOVE. OHE dwelt among the untrodden ways ^ Beside the springs of Dove ; A maid whom there were none to praise. And very few to love. A violet by a mossy stone Half-hidden from the eye ! — Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be ; But she is in her grave, and O ! The difference to me ! A PORTRAIT. QHE was a phantom of delight ^^ When first she gleamed upon my sight A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn ; A dancing shape, an image gay. To haunt, to startle, and waylay. WORDSWORTH. 219 I saw her upon nearer view, A spirit, yet a woman too ! Her household motions light and free. And steps of virgin-liberty ; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food. For transient sorrows, simple wiles. Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine ; A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller between life and death : The reason firm, the temperate will. Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill : A perfect woman, nobly planned To warn, to comfort, and command ; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of an angel-light. BY THE SEA. TT is a beauteous evening, calm and free ; The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity ; The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea ; Listen ! the mighty being is awake. And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thunder — everlastingly. 220 GOLDEN LEAVES. Samuel Sajjlov (lolcrftge. RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. IN SEVEN PARTS. PART I. An Ancient TT is an Ancient Mariner, Mariner meetcth 1 , , , , ^ , three gallants bid- ^nd he stoppeth one of three : den to a wedding- <* By thy long gray beard and glittering eye, feast, and detain- -nt i r > i ^ eth one. Now wherefore stopp st thou me? ** The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide, And I am next of kin ; The guests are met, the feast is set — Mayst hear the merry din." He holds him with his skinny hand : " There was a ship," quoth he. " Hold off! unhand me, gray-beard loon !' Eftsoons his hand dropt he. The Wedding- He holds him with his glittering eye- Guest is spell- r^^^ Wedding-Guest stood still ; bound by the eye _ ° ' of the old sea- He listens like a three years' child : faring man and rpj^^ Mariner hath his will. constrained to hear his tale. The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone — He cannot choose but hear ; And thus spake on that ancient man. The bright-eyed Mariner : THE ANCIENT MARINER. C OLERID GE. 221 " The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared j Merrily did we drop Below the kirk, below the hill. Below the light-house top. " The sun came up upon the left. Out of the sea came he ; And he shone bright, and on the right Went down into the sea ; *' Higher and higher every day. Till over the mast at noon — " The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, For he heard the loud bassoon. The Mariner tclli how the ship- sailed southward with a good wind and fair weather, till it reached ^he Line. The bride hath paced into the hall— Red as a rose is she ; Nodding their heads before her goes The merry minstrelsy. The Wedding- Guest heareth the bridal music ; but the Mariner continueth his tale. The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, Yet he cannot choose but hear ; And thus spake on that ancient man. The bright-eyed Mariner : ** And now the Storm-blast came, and he Was tyrannous and strong; He struck with his o'ertaking wings. And chased us south along. The ship drawn by a storm tow- ard the south pole " With sloping masts and dipping prow- As who pursued with yell and blow Still treads the shadow of his foe. 222 G OLDEN LEAVES. And forward bends his head — The ship drove fast ; loud roared the blast, And southward aye we fled. " And now there came both mist and snow, And it grew wondrous cold ; And ice, mast--high, came floating by. As green as emerald. The land of ice, '* And through the drifts the snowy cliffs and of fearful j)-^ ^^^^ ^ ^^^^^^ ^-^^^^ . sounds, where no living thing was Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken — to be seen. ^f j^g \qq ^.^s all between. ** The ice was here, the ice was there. The ice was all around ; It cracked and growled, and roared and howled. Like noises in a swound ! Till a great sea- *« At length did cross an Albatross — bird, called the rni ^ \ r • Albatross, came Thorough the fog It came ; through the As if it had been a Christian soul, snow-fog, and ^^ j^^.^^^ .^ -^ q^^,^ was received with great joy and hos- pitality. *' It ate the food it ne'er had eat, And round and round it flew : \nd lo ! the Al- The ice did split with a thunder-fit — • batross proveth a The helmsman steered us through ! bird of guod w"h?he sli^p "^"^ ^ g^°^ so^t^ wind sprang up behind ; as it returned The Albatross did follow, "hroujh fog and ^"^ ^""^'V ^^>^' ^^' ^^^^ °^ P^^^' flaating ice. Came to the mariners' hollo ! COLERIDGE. " In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud. It perched for vespers nine ; Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white. Glimmered the white moon-shine." •* God save thee. Ancient Mariner ! From the fiends that plague thee thus ! — Why look'st thou so ?" — '* With my cross- bow I shot the Albatross !" The Ancient Mariner inhospi- tably killeth the pious bird of good omen. "The sun now rose upon the right — Out of the sea came he. Still hid in mist, and on the left Went down into the sea. " And the good south wind still blew behind ; But no sweet bird did follow. Nor any day for food or play Came to the mariners' hollo. ''And I had done a hellish thing, And it would work 'em woe ; For all averred I had killed the bird That made the breeze to blow : *Ah, wretch !' said they, *the bird to slay, That made the breeze to blow !' ** Nor dim nor red, like God's own head The glorious sun uprist; Then all averred I had killed the bird 11 His ship-mates cry out against the AncientMar- iner, for killing the bird of good luck. But when the fog cleared off, they justify the same, and thus make themselves ac- complices in the crime. 224 G OLDEN LEAVES. That brought the fog and mist : ' 'Twas right,' said they, * such birds to slay. That bring the fog and mist.' The fair breeze ship enters the *' "^^^ ^^^^ breeze blew, the white foam flew. Pacific Ocean, The furrow followed free ; and sails north- ward, even till it reached the Line. Into that silent sea. We were the first that ever burst The ship hath ** Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt been suddenly down— becalmed 5 'Twas sad as sad could be ; And we did speak only to break The silence of the sea. ''All in a hot and copper sky The bloody sun, at noon. Right up above the mast did stand. No bigger than the moon. " Day after day, day after day. We stuck — nor breath nor motion ; As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean. And the Alba- *' Water, water everywhere, tross begins to be p^^^ ^^ ^^e boards did shrink ; avenged. Water, water everywhere. Nor any drop to drink ! " The very deep did rot ; O Christ ! That ever this should be ! Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs ITpon the slimy sea ! COLERIDGE. 225 '* About, about, in reel and rout, The death-fires danced at night ; The water, like a witch's oils. Burnt green, and blue, and white. '*And some in dreams assured were Of the Spirit that plagued us so ; Nine fathom deep he had followed us From the land of mist and snow, '* And every tongue, through utter drought, Was withered at the root ; We could not speak, no more than if We had been choked with soot. '* Ah 1 well-a-day ! what evil looks Had I from old and young ! Instead of the cross, the Albatross About my neck was hung. PART III. '* There passed a weary time. Each throat Was parched, and glazed each eye — A weary time ! a weary time ! How glazed each weary eye ! — When, looking westward, I beheld A something in the sky. " At first it seemed a little speck. And then it seemed a mist ; It moved and moved, and took at last A certain shape, I wist — A, Spirit had fol- lowed them — one of the invis- ible inhabitants of this planet, neither departed souls nor angels ; concerning whom the learn- ed Jew, Josephus, and the Platonic Constantinopoli- tan, Michael Psellus, may be consulted. Thev are very numer- ous, and there is no climate or ele- ment without one or more. The ship-mates, in their sore dis- tress, would fain throw the whole guilt on the An- cient Mariner: in sign whereof they hang the dead sea-bird round his neck. The Ancient Mariner behold- eth a sign in the element afar off. 226 GOLDEN LEAVES. *"' A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ! And still it neared and neared ; As if it dodged a water-sprite. It plunged and tacked and veered. At its nearer ap- '* With throats unslaked, with black lips proach, it seem- ^aked, eth him to be a ' ship : and at a We could nor laugh nor wail ; dear ransom he Through Utter drought all dumb we stood ! freeth his speech , , . from the bonds ^ bit my arm, I sucked the blood, of thirst. And cried, 'A sail ! a sail !' " With throats unslaked, with black lips Agape they heard me call ; [baked, A flash of joy. Gramercy ! they for joy did grin. And all at once their breath drew in. As they were drinking all. And horror fol- " * See ! see 1' I cried, * she tacks no more ' lows. For can it ttvu ^ i i be a ship that ^^^^^^ ^° ^^^^ US weal— comes onward Without a breeze, without a tide, without wind or gj^^ ^^^^^j^^ ^-^j^ ^p^.^j^^ j^^^j ,, " The western wave was all a-flame ; The day was well nigh done ; Almost upon the western wave Rested the broad, bright sun. When that strange shape drove suddenly Betwixt us and the sun. It seemeth him "And Straight the sun was flecked with bars, but the skeleton /tt , i i i\ of a ship (Heaven s mother send us grace !) As if through a dungeon-grate he peered With broad and burning face. COLERIDGE. 227 the face of the setting sun. The spectre-woman and her death- mate, and no other on board the skeleton ship. Like vessel, crew! like "'Alas!' thought I — and my heart beat loud — ' How fast she nears and nears ! Are those her sails that glance in the sun. Like restless gossameres .? " *Are those her ribs through which the sun ^^^ ^^s ribs are ^. , 11-, S'^6" ^s bars on Did peer as through a grate : And is that woman all her crew .? Is that a death .? and are there two ? Is Death that woman's mate ?' " Her lips were red, her looks were free. Her locks were yellow as gold ; Her skin was as white as leprosy : The night-mare, Life-in-Death, was she. Who thicks man's blood with cold. " The naked hulk alongside came. And the twain were casting dice: * The game is done ! I've won ! I've won Quoth she, and whistles thrice. " The sun's rim dips, the stars rush out. At one stride comes the d-ark ; With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea. Off shot the spectre bark. " We listened, and looked sideways up ; Fear at my heart, as at a cup. My life-blood seemed to sip ; The stars were dim, and thick the night — The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white ; Death and Life- in-Death have diced for the I» ship's crew, and she (the latter) winneth the An- cient Mariner. No twilight with- in the courts of the Sun. At the rising of the moon. 228 G OLDEN LEAVES. \ From the sails the dew did drip — Till clomb above the eastern bar The horned moon, with one bright star Within the nether tip. One after anoth- *' One after one, by the star-dogged moon, Too quick for groan or sigh. Each turned his face with a ghastly pang. And cursed me with his eye. His ship-mates " Four times fifty living men, drop down dead. ^^^^ j ^^^^^ ^^^ g-^j^ ^^^ ^^^^^ j^ With heavy thump, a lifeless lump. They dropped down one by one. But Life-in- ** The souls did from their bodies fly, — Death begins her rj., ^^^ ^^ ^^^^^ ^^ ^^^ , work on the An- ' cient Mariner. And every soul it passed me by. Like the whizz of my cross-bow !'* PART IV. The Wedding- " I pEAR thee. Ancient Mariner ! Guest feareth •, r i. ^ • i. j i that a Spirit is . ^ ^^ar thy skmny hand ! talking to him. And thou art long, and lank, and brown, As is the ribbed sea-sand. But the Ancient cc t c l j l v Mariner assureth ^ ^^^^ ^hee and thy ghttermg eye, him of his bodily And thy skinny hand so brown" — eth t'refatThis' " ^ear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest horrible penance. This body dropped not down. COLERIDGE. 229 ''Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide, wide sea ! And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony. *' The many men, so beautiful ! He despiseth the And they all dead did lie ; creatures of the •' * calm. And a thousand thousand slimy things Lived on — and so did I. " 1 looked upon the rotting sea. And envied that And drew my eyes away ; '^7 ^^°"^^ \'.^^' ■' ■^ J * and so many he I looked upon the rotting deck, dead. And there the dead men lay. '* I looked to heaven, and tried to pray ; But or ever a prayer had gusht, A wicked whisper came, and made My heart as dry as dust. '' I closed my lids, and kept them close. And the balls like pulses beat ; For the sky and the sea and the sea and the sky Lay like a load on my weary eye. And the dead were at my feet. " The cold sweat melted from their limbs — But the curse Nor rot nor reek did they; Yweth for him in The look with which they looked on me ^ead men. Had never passed away. " An orphan's curse would drag to hell A spirit from on high ; ^30 G OLDEN LEAVES. In his loneliness and fixedness he yearneth towards the journeying moon, and the stars that still so- journ, yet still move onward 5 and everywhere the blue sky be- longs to them, and is their ap- pointed rest, and their native coun- try, and their own natural homes, which they enter unannounced, as lords that are cer- tainly expected ; and yet there is a silent joy at their arrival. By the light of the moon he beholdeth God's creatures of the great calm. Their beauty and their hap- piness. He blesseth them in his heart. But O ! more horrible than that Is the curse in a dead man's eye ! Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse- And yet I could not die. " The moving moon went up the sky. And nowhere did abide ; Softly she was going up. And a star or two beside — *' Her beams bemocked the sultry main, Like April hoar-frost spread ; But where the ship's huge shadow lay The charmed water burnt alway, A still and awful red. " Beyond the shadow of the ship I watched the water-snakes ; They moved in tracks of shining white ; And when they reared, the elfish light Fell off in hoary flakes. " Within the shadow of the ship I watched their rich attire — Blue, glossy green, and velvet black. They coiled and swam ; and every track Was a flash of golden fire. '' O happy living things ! no tongue Their beauty might declare • A spring of love gushed from my heart. And I blessed them unaware — Sure my kind saint took pity on me. And I blessed them unaware. COLE RID GE. 231 '* The self-same moment I could pray; And from my neck so free The Albatross fell off, and sank Like lead into the sea." The spell begins to break. PART V. " O SLEEP ! it is a gentle thing, Bejoved from pole to pole ! To Mary Queen the praise be given ! ^he sent the gentle sleep from Heaven That sUd into my soul. '' The silly buckets on the deck. That had so long remained, I dreamt that they were filled with dew ; And when I awoke, it rained. '* My lips were wet, my throat was cold. My garments all were dank ; Sure I had drunken in my dreams. And still my body drank. '* I moved, and could not feel my limbs ; I was so light — almost I thought that I had died in sleep. And was a blessed ghost. "And soon 1 heard a roaring wind- It did not come anear ; But with its sound it shook the sails. That were so thin and sere. '* The upper air burst into life ; And a hundred fire-flags sheen, 11* By grace of the holy Mother, the Ancient Mariner is refreshed with He heareth sounds and seeth strange sights and com- motions in the sky and the element. 232 The bodies ot the ship's crew are inspired, and the ship moves on } G OLDEN LEAVES. To and fro they were hurried about ; And to and fro, and in and out. The wan stars danced between. "And the coming wind did roar more loud. And the sails did sigh like sedge ; And the rain poured down from one black cloud — The moon was at its edge. ** The thick black cloud was cleft, and still The moon was at its side ; Like waters shot from some high crag. The lightning fell with never a jag — A river steep and wide. " The loud wind never reached the ship. Yet now the ship moved on ! Beneath the lightning and the moon The dead men gave a groan. " They groaned, they stirred, they all up- rose — Nor spake, nor moved their eyes ; It had been strange, even in a dream. To have seen those dead men rise. "The helmsman steered, the ship moved Yet never a breeze up blew ; The mariners all 'gan work the ropes. Where they were wont to do ; They raised their limbs like hfeless tools — ■ We were a ghastly crew. COLERIDGE 233 " The Body of my brother's son Stood by me, knee to knee ; The body and I pulled at one rope. But he said naught to me." " I fear thee. Ancient Mariner !" But not by the " Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest ! '^^^ ''^Vr by 'Twas not those souls that fled in pain, demons of tatth 1X7-1 • 1 ^ ^-L • • or middle air. Which to their corses came again, , , , .,1 o ' but by a blesiei But a troop of spirits blest; troop of angelic For when it dawned they dropped their ^P'''^^:'^^' ^"^" ' ^^ by the invoca- arms, tion of the And clustered round the mast; guardian saint. Sweet sounds rose slowly through thtir mouths. And from their bodies passed. ''Around, around flew each sweet sound. Then darted to the sun ; Slowly the sounds came back again — Now mixed, now one by one. " Sometimes, a-dropping from the sky, I heard the sky-lark sing; Sometimes all little birds that are — How they seemed to fill the sea and air With their sweet jargoning ! " And now 'twas like all instruments. Now like a lonely flate ; And now it is an angel's song. That makes the heavens be mute. 234 GOLDEN LEAVES. "It ceased ; yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon — A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune. **Till noon we quietly sailed on. Yet never a breeze did breathe ; Slowly and smoothly went the ship. Moved onward from beneath. The lonesome " Under the keel, nine fathom deep, spirit from the pj-^j^ the land of mist and snow south-pole car- , . ,. , ries on the ship The spirit slid ; and It was he as far as the That made the ship to go. Line in obedience , - „ , . to the angelic The sails at noon left oft their tune, troop j but still And the ship stood still also. requireth vengeance. n-ti " The sun, right up above the mast. Had fixed her to the ocean ; But in a minute she 'gan stir. With a short uneasy motion — Backwards and forwards half her lengtn, With a short uneasy motion. " Then like a pawing horse let go. She made a sudden bound — It flung the blood into my head. And I fell down in a swound. The polar spirit's " How long in that same fit I lay fellow-demons, j j^^^^ ^^^ ^^ j^^j^j.^ . C OLERID GE. 235 But ere my living life returned I heard, and in my soul discerned. Two voices in the air : " * Is it he V quoth one, * Is this the man By Him who died on cross. With his cruel bow he laid full low Tlije harmless Albatross ! " * The spirit who bideth by himself In the land of mist and snow. He loved the bird that loved the man Who shot him with his bow.' the invisible inhabitants of the element, take part in his wrong ; and two of them relate, one to the other, that penance, long and heavy for the Ancient Mariner, hath been accorded to the polar spirit, who returneth southward. '* The other was a softer voice. As soft as honey-dew : Quoth he, ' The man hath penance done. And penance more will do.' PART VI. FIRST VOICE. *' ' But tell me, tell me ! speak again. Thy soft response renewing — What makes that ship drive on so fast ? What is the ocean doing ?' SECOND VOICE. " ' Still as a slave before his lord. The ocean hath no blast ; His great bright eye most silentlv Up to the moon is cast- - 236 G OLDEN LEAVES. " ' If he iray know which way to go ; For she guides him smooth or grim. See, brother, see ! how graciously She looketh down on him.' The Mariner hath been cast into a trance j for the angelic power causeth the vessel to drive northward faster than human life could endure. FIRST VOICE. ** ' But why drives on that ship so fast. Without or wave or wind ?' SECOND VOICE. " ' The air is cut away before. And closes from behind. " ' Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high Or we shall be belated ; For slow and slow that ship will go. When the Mariner's trance is abated.' The supernat- ural motion is retarded j the Mariner awakes, and his penance begins anew. " I woke, and we were sailing on As in a gentle weather ; 'Twas night, calm night — the moon was high ; The dead men stood together. "All stood together on the deck. For a charnel-dungeon fitter ; All fixed on me their stony eyes. That in the moon did glitter. " The pang, the curse, with which they died. Had never passed away ; I could not draw my eyes from theirs. Nor turn them up to pray. COLERIDGE. 237 finally e> piated. ' And now this spell was snapt ; once more The curse I viewed the ocean green. And looked far forth, yet little saw Of what had else been seen — " Like one that on a lonesome road Doth walk in fear and dread. And, having once turned round, walks on, Ahd turns no more his head ; Because he knows a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread. " But soon there breathed a wind on me. Nor sound nor motion made ; Its path was not upon the sea. In ripple or in shade. " It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek. Like a meadow-gale of Spring — It mingled strangely with my fears. Yet it felt like a welcoming. " Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, Ytx. she sailed softly too -, Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze — On me alone it blew. ** Oh ! dream of joy ! is this indeed And the An The light-house top I see Is this the hill ? is this the kirk ? Is this mine own countree ? ji cient Mariner beholdeth his nal.ve count! 23S GOLD EX LEAVES. " We drit'tcd o'er tl\c h;irbour-biir. And 1 with sobs did pniy — * O let me be awake, my God . Or let me sleep alway.' " The h:irbour-bay was clear as gla< So smoothly it was strewn ! And on the bay the moonlight lay, And the shadow of the moon. The angelic spirits leave the dead bodies, And appear in their own forms of light. ** The rock shone bright, the kirk no less That stands above the rock ; The moonlight steeped in silcntness The steady weathercock. " And the bay was white with silent light Till, rising from the same. Full many shapes, that shadows were, In crimson colours came. " A little distance from the prow Those crimson shadows were ; I turned my eyes upon the deck — O Christ ! what saw I there ! " Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat And, by the holy rood ! A man all light, a seraph-man. On everv corse there stood. " This seraph-band, each waved his hana- It was a heavenly sight ! They stood as signals to the land. Each one a lovely light ; COLERIDGE. 2^q '* This seraph-band, each waved his liana ; No voice did they impart — No voice ; but O ! the silence sank Like music on my heart. " But soon I heard the dash of oars, I heard the pilot's cheer ; My head was turned perforce away. And I saw a boat appear. " The pilot and the pilot's boy, I heard them coming fast ; Dear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy The dead men could not blast. " I saw a third — I heard his voice ; It is the hermit good ! He singeth loud his godly hymns That he makes in the wood ; He'll shrieve my soul — he'll wash away The Albatross's blood. PART VII. " This hermit good lives in that wood The Hermit of Which slopes down to the sea. How loudly his sweet voice he rears ! He loves to talk with marineres That come from a far countree. He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve- He hath a cushion plump ; It is the moss that wholly hides The rotted old oak-stump. the wood 240 Approacheth the ship with wonder. G OLDEN LEAVES. " The skifF-boat neared — I heard them talk : * Whv, this is strange, I trow ! Where are those lights, so many and fair. That signal made but now ? " * Strange, by my faith !' the hermit said — * And they answered not our cheer ! The planks looked warped ! and see those sails. How thin they are and sere ! I never saw aught like to them. Unless perchance it were " * Brown skeletons of leaves that lag My forest-brook along. When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow. And the owlet whoops to the wolf below. That eats the she-wolf's young.* " * Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look,' The pilot made reply — * I am a-feared' — * Push on, push on !' Said the hermit cheerily. "* The boat came closer to the ship. But I nor spake nor stirred ; The boat came close beneath the ship. And straight a sound was heard : The ship *« Under the water it rumbled on, sinketh ^^^^^ louder and more dread ; It reached the ship, it split the bay — The ship went down like lead. COLERIDGE. 241 " Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound. The Ancient Which sky and ocean smote, ^-^''''^' '\ ■' saved in the Like one that hath been seven days drowned pilot's boat. My body lay afloat ; But, swift as dreams, myself I found Within the pilot's boat. " Upon the whirl where sank the ship The boat span round and round ; And all was still, save that the hill Was telling of the sound. *' I moved my lips — the pilot shrieked And fell down in a fit ; The holy hermit raised his eyes. And prayed where he did sit. *' I took the oars ; the pilot's boy, Who now doth crazy go. Laughed loud and long ; and all the while His eyes went to and fro : * Ha ! ha !' quoth he, ' full plain I see. The devil knows how to row.' " And now, all in my own countree, I stood on the firm land ! The hermit stepped forth firom the boat. And scarcely he could stand. " ' O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!' — The Ancient The hermit crossed his brow : armer ear- nestly entreat- * Say quick,' quoth he, * I bid thee say — eth the Hermit What manner of man art thou ?' 242 GOLDEN LEAVES. and the penance of life falls on him. " Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched With a woful agony. Which forced me to begin my tale — And then it left me free. And ever and anon through- out his future life an agony constraineth him to travel from land to land. ''Since then, at an uncertain hour. That agony returns ; And till my ghastly tale is told This heart within me burns. *' I pass, like night, from land to land ; I have strange power of speech ; That moment that his face I see I know the man that must hear me — To him my tale I teach. " What loud uproar bursts from that door ! The wedding-guests are there ; But in the garden-bower the bride And bride-maids singing are ; And hark the little vesper-bell. Which biddeth me to prayer ! '* O Wedding-Guest ! this soul hath been Alone on a wide, wide sea — So lonely 'twas, that God himself Scarce seemed there to be. " O sweeter than the marriage-feasi, *Tis sweeter far to me. To walk together to the kirk With a goodly company ! — COLERIDGE. 24: " To walk together to the kirk. And all together pray. While each to his great Father bends — Old men, and babes, and loving friends. And youths and maidens gay ! " Farewell ! farewell ! but this 1 lell And to teaeh To thee, thou Wedding-Guest ! ^>' ^]' 7" "*- ° ample, love, He prayeth well who loveth well and reverence Both man and bird and beast. ^^ all things that God made an " He prayeth best who loveth best All things both great and small ; For the dear God who loveth us. He made and loveth all." The Mariner, whose eye is bright. Whose beard -with age is hoar. Is gone. And now the Wedding-Guest Turned from the bridegroom's door. He went like one that hath been stunned, And is of sense forlorn ; A sadder and a wiser man He rose the morrow mom. d loveth. 244 GOLDEN LEAVES. GENEVIEVE. A LL thoughts, all passions, all delights. Whatever stirs this mortal frame. Are all but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour. When midway on the mount I lay. Beside the ruined tower. The moonlight stealing o*er the scene. Had blended with the lights of eve ; And she was there, my hope, my joy. My own dear Genevieve ! She leant against the armed man. The statue of the armed knight ; She stood and listened to my lay. Amid the lingering light. Few sorro^\s hath she of Her own. My hope, my joy, my Genevieve ! She loves me best whene'er I sing The songs that make her grieve. I played a soft and dolehil air, I sang an old and moving story — An old rude song, that suited well That ruin wild and hoary. GOL-ERID GE. 245 She listened with a flitting blush^ With downcast eyes and modest grace. For well she knew I could not choose But gaze upon her face. I told her of the knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand ; And that for ten long years he woo'd The lady of the land. I told her how he pined, and — ah ! The deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another's love. Interpreted my own. She listened with a flitting blush. With downcast eyes and modest grace. And she forgave me, that I gazed Too fondly on her face ! But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely knight. And that he crossed the mountain-woods. Nor rested day nor night : That sometimes from the savage den. And sometimes from the darksome shade. And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade. There came and looked him in the face An angel beautiful and bright ; And that he knew it was a fiend. This miserable knight ! « 246 GOLDEN LEAVES. And that, unknowing what he did. He leaped amid a murderous band. And saved from outrage worse than death The lady of the land ! And how she wept and clasped his knees ; And how she tended him in vain — And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain ; And that she nursed him in a cave ; And how his madness went away. When on the yellow forest leaves A dying man he lay. His dying words — but when I reached That tenderest strain of all the ditty. My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturbed her soul with pity. All impulses of soul and sense Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve ; The music and the doleful tale. The rich and balmy eve ; And hopes, and fears that kindle hope. An undistinguishable throng, . And gentle wishes long subdued. Subdued and cherished long. She wept with pity and delight. She blushed with love and virgin shame And like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name. COLERIDGE. 247 Her bosom heaved — she stept aside. As conscious of my look she stept — ■ Then suddenly, with timorous eye. She fled to me and wept. She half enclosed me in her arms. She pressed me with a meek embrace : And bending back her head, looked up. And gazed upon my face. *Twas partly love and partly fear. And partly 'twas a bashful art That I might rather feel than see. The swelling of her heart. I calmed her fears, and she was calm. And told her love with virgin pride^ And so I won my Genevieve, My own, my beauteous bride. WORK WITHOUT HOPE. A LL nature seems at work. Stags leave their laii The bees are stirring — birds are on the wing- And Winter, slumbering in the open air. Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring ! And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing. Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. * * * * Work without hope draws nectar in a sieve. And hope without an object cannot live. 24» GOLDEN LEAVES. Eobeit Soutl]eM. THE SCHOLAR. TV /f"Y days among the dead are passea ^^ ^ Around me I behold. Where'er these casual eyes are cast. The mighty minds of old ; My never-failing friends are they. With whom I converse day by day. With them I take delight in weal. And seek relief in woe ; And while -I understand and feel How much to them I owe. My cheeks have often been bedewed With tears of thoughtfiil gratitude. My thoughts are with the dead; with them I Hve in long-past years ; Their virtues love, their faults condemn, Partake their hopes and fears. And irom their lessons seek and find Instruction with an humble mind. My hopes are with the dead ; anon My place with them will be. And I with them shall travel on Through all futurity : Yet leaving here a name, I tiast. That will not perish in the dust. BOUTHEY. 249 THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE. A WELL there is in the west country, "^ ^ And a clearer one never was seen ; There is not a wife in the west country But has heard of the well of St. Keyne. An oak and an elm-tree stand beside. And behind does an ash-tree grow ; And a willow from the bank above Droops to the water below. A traveller came to the well of St. Keyne ; Joyfully he drew nigh. For from cock-crow he had been travelling. And there was not a cloud in the sky. He drank of the water so cool and clear. For thirsty and hot was he ; And he sat down upon the bank Under the willow-tree. There came a man from the neighbouring town. At the well to fill his pail j On the well-side he rested it. And he bade* the stranger hail. " Now, art thou a bachelor, stranger ?" quoth he ; " For an if thou hast a wife. The happiest draught thou hast drank this day That ever thou didst in thy life. 250 G OLDEN LEAVES. " Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast. Ever here in Cornwall been ? For an if she have, I'll venture mv life She has drank of the well of St. Keyne." ** I have left a good woman who never was here," The stranger he made reply ; " But that my draught should be the better for that, I pray you answer me why." " St. Keyne," quoth the Cornish man, ** many a time Drank of this crystal well ; And before the angel summoned her, She laid on the water a spell. " If the husband of this gifted well Shall drink before his wife, A happy man henceforth is he. For he shall be master for hfe. *' But if the wife should drink of it first, God help the husband then !" The stranger stooped to the well of St. Keyne, And drank of the water again. ** You drank of the well I warrant betimes ?" He to the Cornish man said ; But the Cornish man smiled as the stranger spoke. And sheepishly shook his head. " I hastened as soon as the wedding was done. And left my wife in the porch • But i' faith she had been wiser than I, For she took a bottle to church." S OUT HEY. 2^ J ASP AR. JASPAR was poor, and vice and want Had made his heart like stone : And Jaspar looked with envious eyes On riches not his own. On plunder bent, abroad he went Toward the close of day. And loitered on the lonely road Impatient for his prey. No traveller came, he loitered long, And often looked around. And paused and listened eagerly To catch some coming sound. He sate him down beside the stream That crossed the lonely way. So fair a scene might well have charmed All evil thoughts away : He sate beneath a willow-tree. Which cast a trembling shade ; The gentle river full in front A little island made — Where pleasantly the moonbeam shone Upon the poplar-trees. Whose shadow on the stream below Played slowly to the breeze. 25^ G OLDEN LEAVES. He listened — and he heard the wind That waved the willow-tree ; He heard the waters flow along. And murmur quietly. He listened for the traveller's tread. The nightingale sang sweet ; — He started up, for now he heard The sound of coming feet : He started up, and grasped a stake. And waited for his prey ; There came a lonely traveller. And Jaspar crossed his way. But Jaspar's threats and curses failed The traveller to appal ; He would not lightly yield the purse Which held his little all. Awhile he struggled, but he strove With Jaspar's strength in vain ; Beneath his blows he fell and groaned. And never spake again. Jaspar raised up the murdered man. And plunged him in the flood, And in the running water then He cleansed his hands from blood. The waters closed around the corpse. And cleansed his hands from gore ; The willow waved, the stream flowed on. And murmured as before. SOUTUEY. 253 There was no human eye had seen The blood the murderer spilt, And Jaspar's conscience never felt The avenging goad of guilt. And soon the ruffian had consumed The gold he gained so ill ; And years of secret guilt passed And he was needy still. on. One eve beside the alehouse fire He sate as it befell, When in there came a labouring man Whom Jaspar knew fall well. He sate him down by Jaspar's side, A melancholy man -, Fo", spite of honest toil, the world Went hard with Jonathan. His toil a little earned, and he With little was content ; But sickness on his wife had fallen. And all was well-nigh spent. Long, with his wife and little ones. He shared the scanty meal, And saw their looks of wretchedness. And felt what wretches feel. Their landlord, a hard man, that day Had seized the little left. And now the sufferer found himself Of every thing bereft. 254 G OLDEN LEAVES. He leaned his head upon his hand. His elbow on his knee. And so by Jaspar's side he sate. And not a word said he. *' Nay — why so downcast ?" Jaspar cried, " Come — cheer up, Jonathan ! Drink, neighbour, drink ! 'twill warm thy heart- Come ! come ! take courage, man !" He took the cup that Jaspar gave. And down he drained it quick ; " I have a wife," said Jonathan, " And she is deadly sick. " She has no bed to He upon, I saw them take her bed — And I have children — would to God That they and I were dead ! " Our landlord he goes home to-night And he will sleep in peace — I would that I were in my grave. For there all troubles cease. " In vain I prayed him to forbear. Though wealth enough has he ! " God be to him as merciless As he has been to me !" When Jaspar saw the poor man's soul On all his ills intent. He plied him with the heartenmg cup And with him forth he went. sou THEY. 25 " This landlord on his homeward road 'Twere easy now to meet : The road is lonesome, Jonathan ! And vengeance, man ! is sweet." He listened to the tempter's voice, The thought it made him start ! — His head was hot, and wretchedness Had hardened now his heart. Along the lonely road they went, And waited for their prey ; They sate them down beside the stream That crossed the lonely way. They sate them down beside the stream. And never a word they said : They sate, and listened silently To hear the traveller's tread. The night was calm, the night was dark. No star was in -the sky ; The wind it waved the willow-boughs, The stream flowed quietly. The night was calm, the air was still. Sweet sang the nightingale ; The soul of Jonathan was soothed. His heart began to fail. ** 'Tis weary waiting here," he cried, *' And now the hour is late ; Methinks he will not come to-night — No longer let us wait." 256 G OLDEN LEAVES. "Have patience, man !" the ruffian said, '* A little we may wait ; But longer shall his wife expect Her husband at the gate." Then Jonathan grew sick at heart : " My conscience yet is clear ! Jaspar — it is not yet too late — I will not linger here," " How now !" cried Jaspar, ** why, I thought Thy conscience was asleep ; No more such qualms ! — the night is dark. The river here is deep." ** What matters that," said Jonathan, Whose blood began to freeze, ** When there is One above whose eye The deeds of darkness sees ?" "We are safe enough," said Jaspar then, " If that be all thy fear ! Nor eye above, nor eye below. Can pierce the darkness here." That instant as the murderer spake, There came a sudden light ; Strong as the mid-day sun it shone. Though all around was night : It hung upon the willow-tree. It hung upon the flood. It gave to view the poplar-isle. And all the scene of blood. CAMPBELL. 2>7 The traveller who journeys there. He surely hath espied A madman who has made his home Upon the river's side. His cheek is pale, his eye is wild, His look bespeaks despair ; For Jaspar since that hour has made His home unsheltered there. And fearful are his dreams at night. And dread to him the day ; He thinks upon his untold crime. And never dares to pray. The summer suns, the winter storms, O'er him unheeded roll. For heavy is the weight of blood Upon the maniac's soul. ^1)011100 (Campbell. HOHENLINDEN. /^N Linden, when the sun was low, ^^ All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 258 GOLDEN LEAVES. But Linden saw another sight. When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery. By torch and trumpet fast arrayed. Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neighed. To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills with thunder riven. Then rushed the steed to battle driven, And louder than the bolts of heaven, Far flashed the red artillery. But redder yet that light shall glow. On Linden's hills of stained snow ; And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. *Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolhng dun. Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulph'rous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye brave. Who rush to glory, or the grave ! Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave. And charge with all thy chivalry ! Few, few shall part where many meet ! The snow shall be their winding-sheer, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. HOHENLINDEN. CAMPBELL. 259 THE SOLDIERS DREAM. /^UR bugles sang truce — for the night-cloud had lowered, ^-^ And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky ; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain ; At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw^ And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array. Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track ; 'Twas autumn — and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young ; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft. And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to part ; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er. And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. " Stay, stay with us — rest, thou art weary and worn" — . And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ; But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. 26o GOLDEN LEAVES. LORD ULLINS DAUGHTER. A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound, ■*■ ^ Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry ! And I'll give thee a silver pound To row us o'er the ferry." " Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water ?" " Oh, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle. And this Lord Ullin's daughter. ** And fast before her father's men Three days we've fled together; For should he find us in the glen. My blood would stain the heather ** His horsemen hard behind us ride ; Should they our steps discover. Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover ?" Outspoke the hardy Highland wight : " I'll go, my chief — I'm ready. It is not for your silver bright. But for your winsome lady. " And by my word ! the bonny bird . In danger shall not tarry ; So, though the waves are raging white, I'll row you o'er the ferry." CAMPBELL. ztM By this the storm grew loud apace ; The water-wraith was shrieking ; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking. But still as wilder blew the wind. And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men — Their trampling sounded nearer. " O haste thee, haste !" the lady cries, " Though tempests round us gather ; I'll meet the raging of the skies. But not an angry father." The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her — When, oh ! too strong for human hand, The tempest gathered o'er her. And still they rowed amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing — Lord UUin reached that fatal shore ; His wrath was changed to wailing. For sore dismayed, through storm and shade His child he did discover ; One lovely hand she stretched for aid, And one was round her lover. ** Come back ' come back !" he cried in grief, " Across this stormy water ; And I'll forgive your Highland chief. My daughter ! — O my daughter !" a62 G OLDEN LEAVES. Twas vain : — the loud waves lashed the shore. Return or aid preventing ; The waters wild went o'er his child. And he was left lamenting. BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. I. /^F Nelson and the North ^^ Sing the glorious day's renown. When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark's crown. And her arms along the deep proudly shone ; By each gun the lighted brand In a bold, determined hand. And the Prince of all the land Led them on. II. Like leviathans afloat Lay their bulwarks on the brine ; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line — It was ten of April morn by the chime. As they drifted on their path There was silence deep as death ; And the boldest held his breath For a time. III. But the might of England flushed To anticipate the scene ; CAMPBELL. 263 And her van the fleeter rushed O'er the deadly space between. " Hearts oF oak !" our captain cried ; when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships. Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun. IV. Again ! again ! again ! And the havoc did not slack. Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back ; Their shots along the deep slowly boom — Then ceased — and all is wail, As they strike the shattered sail. Or, in conflagration pale. Light the gloom. V. Out spoke the victor then. As he hailed them o'er the wave : *' Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! And we conquer but to save ; So peace instead of death let us bring ; But yield, proud foe, thy fleet. With the crews, at England's feet. And make submission meet To our king." VI. Then Denmark blessed our chief. That he gave her wounds repose ; 264 G OL DEN LEAVE S. And the sounds of joy and grief From her people wildly rose, As Death withdrew his shades from the o.wy- While the sun looked smiling bright O'er a wide and woeful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died awav. Now joy, Old England, raise ! For the tidings of thy might. By the festal cities' blaze. Whilst the wine-cup shines in light And yet, amidst that joy and uproar. Let us think of them that sleep Full many a fathom deep. By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore ! Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride Once so faithful and so true. Or the deck of fame that died. With the gallant, good Riou — Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave ! While the billow mournful rolls. And the mermaid's song condoles. Singing glory to the souls Of the brave ! CAMPBELL, 265 VALEDICTORY STANZAS TO JOHN PHILIP KEMBLH pRIDE of the British stage, A long and last adieu ! Whose image brought the heroic age Revived to Fancy's view. Like fields refreshed with dewy light ^ When the sun smiles his last. Thy parting presence makes more bright Our memory of the past ; And memory conjures feehngs up That wine or music need not swell. As high we lift the festal cup To Kemble ! fare thee well ! His was the spell o'er hearts Which only acting lends, — The youngest of the sister arts. Where all their beauty blends : For ill can poetry express Full many a tone of thought sublime. And painting, mute and motionless, Steals but a glance of time. But by the mighty actor brought, Illusion's perfect triumphs come — Verse ceases to be airy thought. And sculpture to be dumb. Time may again revive. But ne'er eclipse the charm. When Cato spoke in him alive, Or Hotspur kindled warm. 266 GOLDEXLEA VE S. What soul was not resigned entire To the deep sorrows of the Moor, — What English heart was not on lire With him at Agincourt? And yet a majesty possessed His transport's most impetuous tone, And to each passion of his breast The Graces gave their zone. High were the task — too high. Ye conscious bosoms here ! In words to paint your memory Of Kemble and of Lear ; But who forgets that white, discrowned head, Those bursts of reason's half-extinguished glare Those tears upon Cordelia's bosom shed, In doubt more touching than despair. If *twas reality he felt ? Had Shakespeare's self amidst you been. Friends, he had seen you melt. And triumphed to have seen ! And there was many an hour Of blended kindred fame. When Siddons's auxiliar power And sister magic came. Together at the Muse's side The tragic paragons had grown — They were the children of her pride. The columns of her throne ; And undivided favour ran From heart to heart in their applause, CAMPBELL. '^7 Save for the gallantry of man In lovelier woman's cause. Fair as some classic dome. Robust and richly graced, Vour Kemble's spirit was the home Of genius and of taste : — Taste like the silent dial's power. That, when supernal light is given. Can measure inspiration's hour. And tell its height in heaven. At once ennobled and correct. His mind surveyed the tragic page, And what the actor could effect. The scholar could presage. These were his traits of worth : — And must we lose them now ! And shall the scene no more sho\V forth His sternly pleasing brow ! Alas, the moral brings a tear ! — 'Tis all a transient hour below ; And we that would detain thee here. Ourselves as fleetly go ! Yet shall our latest age This parting scene review : — Pride of the British stage, A long and last adieu ! 268 G OLDEN LEAVES. 5ir ID alter dcott. THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. THE MINSTREL. 'nr^HE way was long, the wind was cold, ^ The Minstrel was infirm and old ; His withered cheek, and tresses gray. Seemed to have known a better day ; The harp, his sole remaining joy. Was carried by an orphan boy. The last of all the bards was he Who sung of Border chivalry ; For, well-a-day ! their date was fled. His tuneM brethren all were dead ; And he, neglected and oppressed. Wished to be with them, and at rest. No more, on prancing palfrey borne. He carolled, light as lark at morn ; No longer courted and caressed. High placed in hall, a welcome guest. He poured, to lord and lady gay. The unpremeditated lay : Old times were changed, old manners gone, A stranger filled the Stuart's throne ; The bigots of the iron time Had called his harmless art a crime. A wandering harper, scorned and poor. He begged his bread from door to door ; SCOTT. 269 And tuned_, to please a peasant's ear. The harp, a king had loved to hear. He passed where Newark's stately tower Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower : The Minstrel gazed with wishful eye — No humbler resting-place was nigh ; With hesitating step, at last. The embattled portal-arch he passed. Whose ponderous grate, and massy bar, Had oft rolled back the tide of war. But never closed the iron door Against the desolate and poor. The Duchess^ marked his weary pace. His timid mien, and reverend face. And bade her page the menials tell. That they should tend the old man v/ell : For she had known adversity. Though born in such a high degree; In pride of power, in beauty's bloom. Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb. When kindness had his wants supplied. And the old man was gratified. Began to rise his minstrel pride ; And he began to talk, anon. Of good Earl Francis," dead and gone. ^ Anne, Duchess of Buccleuch and Monmouth, representative of the ancient lords of Buccleuch, and widow of the unfortunate James, Duke of Monmouth, who was beheaded in 1685. " Francis Scott, Earl of Buccleuch, father to the Duchess. Z70 G OLDEN LEAVES. And of Earl Walter/ rest him God ! A braver ne'er to battle rode ; And how full many a tale he knew. Of the old warriors of Buccleuch : And, would the noble Duchess deign To listen to an old man's strain. Though stiff his hand, his voice though weak. He thought even yet, the sooth to speak. That, if she loved the harp to hear. He could make music to her ear. The humble boon was soon obtained ; The Aged Minstrel audience gained. But when he reached the room of state. Where she, with all her ladies, sate. Perchance he wished his boon denied ; For, when to tune his harp he tried. His trembling hand had lost the ease Which marks security to please ; And scenes, long past, of joy and pain. Came wiMering o'er his aged brain — He tried to tune his harp in vain. The pitying Duchess praised its chime. And gave him heart and gave him time. Till every string's according glee Was blended into harmony. And then, he said, he would full fain He could recall an ancient strain He never thought to sing again. ' Walter, Earl of Buccleuch, grandfather to the Duchess, and a celebrated warrior. SCOTT. 2?i It was not framed for village churls. But for high dames and mighty earls ; He had played it to King Charles the Good, When he kept court at Holyrood ; And much he wished, yet feared, to try The long-forgotten melody. Amid the strings his lingers strayed. And an uncertain warbling made. And oft he shook his hoary head. But when he caught the measure wild. The old man raised his face, and smiled. And lightened up his faded eye With all a poet's ecstasy ! In varying cadence, soft or strong. He swept the sounding chords along : The present scene, the future lot. His toils, his wants, were all forgot : Cold diffidence, and age's frost. In the fiill tide of song were lost ; Each blank, in faithless memory void. The poet's glowing thought supplied ; A^nd, while his harp responsive rung, 'Twas thus the Latest Minstrel sung. Hushed is the harp — the Minstrel gone. And did he wander forth alone ? Alone, in indigence and age. To linger out his pilgrimage ? No — close beneath proud Newark's tower Arose the Minstrel's lowly bower : . 13 272 G OLDEN LEAVES. A simple hut ; but there was seen The little garden hedged with green. The cheerful hearth, and lattice clean. There sheltered wanderers, by the blaze. Oft heard the tale of other days ; For much he loved to ope his door. And give the aid he begged before. So passed the winter's day ; but still. When summer smiled on sweet Bowhill, And July's eve, with balmy breath. Waved the blue-bells on Newark-heath ; When throstles sung in Harehead-shaw, And corn was green on Carterhaugh, And flourished, broad, Blackandro's oak, The aged Harper's soul awoke ! Then would he sing achievements high. And circumstance of chivalry. Till the rapt traveller would stay. Forgetful of the closing day ; And noble youths, the strain to hear. Forsook the hunting of the deer ; And Yarrow, as he rolled along. Bore burden to the Minstrel's song. M ARMION. THE TRIAL OF CONSTANCE. XT ZHILE round the fire such legends go. Far diiFerent was the scene of woe. Where, in a secret aisle beneath. Council was held of life and death. SCOTT. 27^ It was more dark and lone, that vault. Than the worst dungeon-cell ; Old Colwulf built it,^ for his fault, In penitence to dwell. When he, for cowl and beads, laid down The Saxon battle-axe and crown. This den, which, chilling every sense Of feeling, hearing, sight. Was called the Vault of Penitence, Excluding air and light. Was, by the prelate Sexhelm, made A place of burial, for such dead As, having died in mortal sin. Might not be laid the church within. 'Twas now a place of punishment ; Whence if so loud a shriek were sent. As reached the upper air. The hearers blessed themselves, and said The spirits of the sinful dead Bemoaned their torments there. But though, in the monastic pile. Did of this penitential aisle Some vague tradition go. Few only, save the Abbot, knew ' Ceclwolf, or Colwulf, King of Northumberland, flourished in the eighth century. He abdicated the throne about 738, and retired to Holy Island, where he died in the odour of sanctity. These peni- tential vaults served as places of meeting for the chapter, when measures of uncommon severity were to be adopted. But their most frequent use, as implied by the name, was as places for performing penances, or undergoing punishment. 274 G OLDEN LEAVES. Where the place lay ; and still more few Were those, who had from him the clew To that dread vault to go. Victim and executioner Were blindfold when transported there. In low, dark rounds the arches hung, From the rude rock the side-walls sprung ; The grave-stones, rudely sculptured o'er, Half sunk in earth, by time half wore, Were all the pavement of the floor ; The mildew-drops fell one by one. With tinkling plash, upon the stone. A cresset,^ in an iron chain. Which served to light this drear domain, With damp and darkness seemed to strive, As if it scarce might keep alive ; And yet it dimly served to show The awful conclave met below\ There, met to doom in secrecy, Were placed the heads of convents three : All servants of Saint Benedict, The statutes of whose order strict On iron table lay ; In long black dress, on seats of stone. Behind were these three judges shown. By the pale cresset's ray : The Abbess of Saint Hilda's, there, Sat for a space with visage bare. Until, to hide her bosom's swell. And tear-drops that for pity fell, ' Antique chandelier. SCOT r. She closely drew her veil : Yon shrouded figure, as I guess. By her proud mien and flowing dress. Is Tynemouth's haughty Prioress,^ And she with awe looks pale : And he, that Ancient Man, whose sight Has long been quenched by age's night. Upon whose wrinkled brow alone. Nor ruth, nor mercy's trace, is shown. Whose look is hard and stern, — Saint Cuthbert's Abbot is his style ; For sanctity called, through the isle. The Saint of Lindisfarne. Before them stood a guilty pair ; But, though an equal fate they share. Yet one alone deserves our care. Her sex a page's dress belied ; The cloak and doublet, loosely tied. Obscured her charms, but could not hide Her cap down o'er her face she drew ; And, on her doublet breast. She tried to hide the badge of blue. Lord Marmion's falcon crest. But, at the Prioress' command, A ?vIonk undid the silken band That tied her tresses fair. And raised the bonnet from her head. 27 <; ' As in the case of Whitby and of Holy Island, the introduction of nuns at Tynemouth, in the reign of Henry VHL, Is an ana- chronism. 27C> G OLDEN LEAVES. And down her slender form they spread, In ringlets rich and rare. Constance de Beverley they know. Sister professed of Fontevraud, Whom the church numbered with the dead. For broken vows and convent fled. When thus her face was given to view (Although so pallid was her hue. It did a ghastly contrast bear To those bright ringlets glistening fair). Her look composed, and steady eye. Bespoke a matchless constancy ; And there she stood so calm and pale. That, but her breathing did not fail. And motion slight of eye and head. And of her bosom, warranted That neither sense nor pulse she lacks. You might have thought a form of wax. Wrought to the life, was there ; So still she was, so pale, so fair. Her comrade was a sordid soul. Such as does murder for a meed ; Who, but of fear, knows no control. Because his conscience, seared and foul. Feels not the import of his deed ; One, whose brute-feeling ne'er aspires Beyond his own more brute desires. Such tools the tempter ever needs. To do the savagest of deeds ; For them no visioned terrors daunt. Their nights no fancied spectres haunt , SCOTT. 277 One fear with them, of all most base. The fear of death, — alone finds place. This wretch was clad in frock and cowl. And shamed not loud to moan and howl. His body on the floor to dash. And crouch, like hound beneath the lash ; While his mute partner, standing near. Waited her doom without a tear. Yet well the luckless wretch might shriek. Well might her paleness terror speak ! For there were seen, in that dark wall. Two niches, narrow, deep, and tall. Who enters at such grisly door. Shall ne'er, I ween, find exit more. In each a slender meal was laid. Of roots, of water, and of bread : By each, in Benedictine dress. Two haggard monks stood motionless ; Who, holding high a blazing torch. Showed the grim entrance of the porch : Reflecting back the smoky beam. The dark-red walls and arches gleam. Hewn stones and cement were displayed. And building tools in order laid.* ' It is well known, that the religious who broke their vows of chastity, were subjected to the same penalty as the Roman vestals in a similar case. A small niche, sufficient to inclose their bodies, was made in the massive wall of the convent ; a slender pittance of food and water was deposited in it, and the awful words, V/de in Pacfm, were the signal for immuring the criminal. ^ 278 GOLD K S L E A V K S. These executioners were chose. As men who were with mankind foes. And, with despite and envy fired. Into the cloister had retired ; Or who, in desperate doubt of grace. Strove, by deep penance, to efface Of some foul crime the stain ; For, as the vassals of her will. Such men the church selected still. As either joyed in doing ill. Or thought more grace to gain. If, in her cause, they wrestled down Feelings their nature strove to own. By strange device were they brought there, Thcv knew not how, and knew not where. And now that blind old Abbot rose. To speak the Chapter's doom On those the wall was to inclose, Ahve, within the tomb ; But stopped, because that woeful maid. Gathering her powers, to speak essayed. Twice she essayed, and twice in vain ; Her accents might no utterance gain ; Naught but imperfect murmurs slip From her convulsed and quivering lip : 'TwLxt each attempt all was so still. You seemed to hear a distant rill — 'Twas ocean's swells and falls ; For though this vault of sin and fear Was to the sounding surge so near, A tempest there you scarce could hea So massive were the walls. HQOTT. 21 Cj At length, an eirort sent apart The blood that curdled to her heart. And light came to her eye. And color dawned upon her cheek, A hectic and a fluttered streak. Like that left on the Cheviot peak By Autumn's stormy sky ; And when her silence broke at length. Still as she spoke, she gathered strength, And armed herself to bear. It was a fearful sight to see Such high resolve and constancy. In form so soft and fair. " I speak not to implore your grace ; Well know I, for one minute's space Successless might I sue : Nor do I speak your prayers to gain ; For if a death of lingering pain. To cleanse my sins, be penance vain. Vain are your masses too. — I listened to a traitor's talc, I left the convent and the veil ; For three long years I bowed my pride, A horse-boy in his train to ride ; And well my folly's meed he gave. Who forfeited, to be his slave. All here, and all beyond the grave. — He saw young Clara's face more fair. He knew her of broad lands the heir. Forgot his vows, his faith forswore. And Constance was beloved no more. — 1,* 28o GOLD EN L EAVE S. 'Tis an old tale, and often told ; But, did my fate and wish agree. Ne'er had been read, in story old. Of maiden true betrayed for gold. That loved, or was avenged, like me ! *' The king approved his favorite's ain ; In vain a rival barred his claim. Whose faith with Clare's was plight, For he attaints that rival's fame With treason's charge — and on they cam**. In mortal lists to fight. Their oaths are said. Their prayers are prayed. Their lances in the rest are laid. They meet in mortal shock ; And hark ! the throng, with thundering cry. Shout, ' Marmion, Marmion, to the sky ! De Wilton to the block !' Say ye, who preach heaven shall decide. When in the lists two champions ride. Say, was heaven's justice here ? When, loyal in his love and faith, Wilton found overthrow or death. Beneath a traitor's spear. How false the charge, how true he fell. This guilty packet best can tell." — Then drew a packet from her breast. Paused, gathered voice, and spoke the rest. " Still was false Marmion's bridal staid ; To Whitby's convent fled the maid. SCOTT. 281 The hated match to shun. ' Ho ! shifts she thus ?' King Henry cried, ' Sir Marmion, she shall be thy bride^ If she were sworn a nun.' One way remained — the king's command Sent Marmion to the Scottish land : I lingered here, and rescue planned For Clara and for me : This caitiff Monk, for gold, did swear. He would to Whitby's shrine repair. And, by his drugs, my rival fair A saint in heaven should be. But ill the dastard kept his oath. Whose cowardice hath undone us both. " And now my tongue the secret tells. Not that remorse my bosom swells. But to assure my soul, that none Shall ever wed with Marmion. Had fortune my last hope betrayed. This packet, to the king conveyed. Had given him to the headsman's stroke. Although my heart that instant broke. — Now, men of death, work forth your v/il' For I can suffer, and be still ; And come he slow, or come he fast. It is but death who comes at last. " Yet dread me, from my living tomb. Ye vassal slaves of bloody Rome ! If Marmion's late remorse should wake. Full soon such vengeance will he take. 282 GOLDEN LEAVES. That you shall wish the iiery Dane Kad rather been your guest again. Behind, a darker hour ascends ! The altars quake, the crosier bends. The ire of a despotic king Rides forth upon destruction's wing ; Then shall these vaults, so strong and deep Burst open to the sea-winds' sweep ; Some traveller then shall find my bones. Whitening amid disjointed stones. And, ignorant of priests' cruelty. Marvel such relics here should be." — Fixed was her look, and stern her air ; Back from her shoulders streamed her hair: The locks, that wont her brow to shade. Stared up erectly from her head ; Her figure seemed to rise more high ; Her voice, despair's wild energy Had given a tone of prophecy. Appalled the astonished conclave sate ; With stupid eyes, the men of fate Gazed on the light inspired form, And listened for the avenging storm ; The judges felt the victim's dread; No hand was moved, no word was said. Till thus the Abbot's doom was given. Raising his sightless balls to heaven : — " Sister, let thy sorrows cease ; Sinfi]] brother, part in peace !" — From that dire dungeon, place ot doom. Of execution too, and tomb. SCOTT. 283 Paced forth the judges three ; Sorrow it were, and shame, to tell The butcher-work that there befell. When they had glided from the cell Of sin and misery. An hundred winding steps convey That conclave to the upper day ; But, ere they breathed the fresher air. They heard the shriekings of despair. And many a stifled groan : With speed their upward way they take (Such speed as age and fear can make). And crossed themselves for terror's sake. As hurrying, tottering on. Even in the vesper's heavenly tone. They seemed to hear a dying groan. And bade the passing knell to toll For welfare of a parting soul. Slow o'er the midnight wave it swung, Northumbrian rocks in answer rung ; To Warkworth cell the echoes rolled. His beads the wakeful hermit told ; The Bamborough peasant raised his heac But slept ere half a prayer he said : So far was heard the mighty knell. The stag sprung up on Cheviot Fell, Spread his broad nostril to the wind. Listed before, aside, behind ; Then couched him down beside the hnu., And quaked among the mountain fern. To hear that sound so dull and stern. • 284 G OLDEN LEAVES. THE DEATH OF MARMION'. OLOUNT and Fitz-Eustace rested still ^^ With Lady Clare upon the hill ; On which (for far the day was spent) The western sunbeams now were bent. The cry they heard, its meaning knew. Could plain their distant comrades view. Sadly to Blount did Eustace say, " Unworthy office here to stay ! No hope of gilded spurs to-day. — Rut, see ! look up — on Flodden bent. The Scottish foe has fired his tent." — And sudden, as he spoke. From the sharp ridges of the hill. All downward to the banks of Till, Was wreathed in sable smoke ; Volumed and vast, and rolling far. The cloud enveloped Scotland's war. As down the hill they broke ; Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone. Announced their march ; their tread alone. At times one warning trumpet blown. At times a stifled hum. Told England, from his mountain-throne. King James did rushing come. — Scarce could they hear, or see their foes. Until at weapon-point they close. — They close, in clouds of smoke and dust. With sword-sway, and with lance's thrust And such a yell was there. SCOTT. 28. Of sudden and portentous birth. As if men fought upon the earth. And fiends in upper air. Long looked the anxious squires ; their eye Could in the darkness naught desery. At length the freshening western blast Aside the shroud of battle cast ; And, first, the ridge of mingled spears Above the brightening cloud appears ; And in the smoke the pennons flew. As in the storm the white sea-mew. Then marked they, dashing broad and far. The broken billows of the war, And plumed crests of chieftains brave, Floating like foam upon the wave ; But naught distinct they see : Wide raged the battle on the plain ; Spears shook, and falchions flashed amain ; Fell England's arrow-flight like rain ; Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again. Wild and disorderly. Amid the scene of tumult, high They saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly : And stainless Tunstall's banner white. And Edmund Howard's lion bright. Still bear them bravely in the fight ; Although against them come. Of gallant Gordons many a one. And many a stubborn Highlandman, And many a rugged Border clan. With Huntley, and with Home. 286 a OLDEN LEAVES. Far on the left, unseen the while, Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle ; Though there the western mountaineer Rushed with bare bosom on the spear. And flung the feeble targe aside. And with both hands the broadsword plied . 'Twas vain. — But Fortune, on the right. With fickle smile, cheered Scotland's fight. Then fell that spotless banner white, The Howard's lion fell ; Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew With wavering flight, while fiercer grew Around the battle-yell. The Border slogan rent the sky ! *' A Home ! a Gordon !" was the cry ; Loud were the clanging blows ; Advanced, — forced back, — now low, now high The pennon sunk and rose ; As bends the bark's mast in the gale. When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail. It wavered 'mid the foes. No longer Blount the view could bear : — " By Heaven, and all its saints ! I swear, I will not see it lost ! Fitz-Eustace, you with Lady Clare May bid your beads, and patter prayer, — I gallop to the host." And to the fray he rode amain. Followed by all the archer train. The fiery youth, with desperate charge, Made, for a space, an opening large, — The rescued banner rose, — SCOTT. zHj But darkly closed the war around; Like pine-tree, rooted from the ground, It sunk among the foes. Then Eustace mounted too ; — yet staid, As loth to leave the helpless maid. When, fast as shaft can fly, Bloodshot his eyes, his nostrils spread. The loose rein dangling from his head. Housing and saddle bloody red. Lord Marmion's steed rushed by ; And Eustace, maddening at the sight, A look and sign to Clara cast. To mark he would return in haste. Then plunged into the fight. Ask me not what the maiden feels. Left in that dreadful hour alone : Perchance her reason stoops, or reels ; Perchance a courage, not her own. Braces her mind to desperate tone. — The scattered van of England v/heels ; She only said, as loud in air The tumult roared, " Is Wilton there r" — ■ They fly, or, maddened by despair. Fight but to die. — " Is Wilton there ?" With that, straight up the hill there rode Two horsemen drenched with gore, And in their arms, a helpless load, A wounded knight they bore. His hand still strained the broken brand ; His arms were smeared with blood and sand : Dragged from among the horses' feet. 288 G OLDEN LEAVES. With dinted shield, and hehnct beat. The falcon-crest and plumage gone. Can that be haughty Marmion ! . . . . Young Blount his armour did unlace. And, gazing on his ghastly face. Said — '* By Saint George, he's gone ! That spear-wound has our master sped. And see the deep cut on his head ! Good-night to Marmion." — ** Unnurtured Blount ! — thy brawling cease : He opes his eyes," said Eustace ; " peace '." — When, doffed his casque, he felt free aij. Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare : — " Where's Harry Blount ? Fitz-Eustace where Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare ! Redeem my pennon, — charge again ! Cry — * Marmion to the rescue !' — Vain ! Last of my race, on battle-plain That shout shall ne*er be heard again ! — Yet my last thought is England's : — fly. To Dacre bear my signet -ring; Tell him his squadrons up to bring. — Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie : Tunstall lies dead upon the field ; His life-blood stains the spotless shield : Edmund is down ; — my life is reft ; — The Admiral alone is left. Let Stanley charge with spur of fire, — With Chester charge, and Lancashire. Full upon Scotland's central host. Or victory and England's lost. — SCOTT. 289 Must I bid twice ? — hence, varlets, fly 1 Leave Marmion here alone — to die." They parted, and alone he lay : Clare drew her from the sight away. Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan. And half he murmured, — '' Is there none, Of all my halls have nurst. Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring Of blessed water from the spring. To slake my dying thirst ?" O woman ! in our hours of ease. Uncertain, coy, and hard to please. And variable as the shade By the light, quivering aspen made ; When pain and anguish wring the brow, A ministering angel thou ! — Scarce were the piteous accents said. When, with the Baron's casque, the maid To the nigh streamlet ran : Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears ; The plaintive voice alone she hears. Sees but the dying man. She stooped her by the runnel's side. But in abhorrence backward drew; For, oozing from the mountain wide. Where raged the war, a dark-red tide Was curdling in the streamlet blue. Where shall she turn ! — behold her maik A little fountain-cell. Where water, clear as diamond-spark. In a stone basin fell. zgo GOLDEN LEA VE S. Above, some half-worn letters say — " Mtink . Iu£ar2 • silBrint . irrink . ani) . jiraj) . jFor . t{)t . ki'niJ . soul . of . %^Ul . dKrcs . Wila . iui'lt . ttis . txoss . anlj . Indl." She filled the helm, and back she hied, And with surprise and joy espied A Monk supporting Marmion's head : A pious man, whom duty brought To dubious verge of battle fought, To shrieve the dying, bless the dead. Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave. And as she stooped his brow to lave — " Is it the hand of Clare," he said, *' Or injured Constance, bathes my head ?' Then, as remembrance rose, — ** Speak not to me of shrift or prayer ! I must redress her woes. Short space, few words, are mine to spare Forgive and listen, gentle Clare !" — **Alas!" she said, ** the while, — think of your immortal weal ! In vain for Constance is your zeal ; She died at Holy Isle."— Lord Marmion started from the ground As light as if he felt no wound ; Though in the action burst the tide, In torrents, from his wounded side. " Then it was truth," he said — " I knew That the dark presage must be true. — 1 would the Fiend, to whom belongs The vengeance due to all her wrongs. Would spare me but a day ! SGOTT. 291 For, wasting fire, and dying groan. And priests slain on the altar-stone. Might bribe him for delay. It may not be ! — this dizzy trance — Curse on yon base marauder's lance. And doubly cursed my failing brand ! A sinful heart makes feeble hand." — Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk. Supported by the trembling Monk. With fruitless labour, Clara bound And strove to stanch the gushing wound : The Monk, with unavaihng cares, Exhausted all the Church's prayers ; Ever, he said, that, close and near, A lady's voice was in his ear. And that the priest he could not hear. For that she ever sung, "In the lost battle, borne down by the. Jlying, Where mingles war's rattle with groans of ihz dying /" So the notes rung; ** Avoid thee. Fiend ! — with cruel hand, Shake not the dying sinner's sand ! — O look, my son, upon yon sign Of the Redeemer's grace divine ; O, think on faith and bhss ! — By many a death-bed I have been. And many a sinner's parting seen. But never aught hke this." — The war, that for a space did fail. Now trebly thundering, swelled the gale. 292 G OLDEN LEAVES. And — " Stanley !" was the cry ; — A light on Marmion's visage spread. And fired his glazing eye : With dying hand, above his head He shook the fragment of his blade. And shouted, " Victory ! — Charge, Chester, charge ! on, Stanley, on Were the last words of Marmion. THE LADY OF THE LAKE. MEETING OF ELLEN AND FITZJAMES. 'T^HE western waves of ebbing day -*■ Rolled o'er the glen their level way ; Each purple peak, each flinty spire. Was bathed in floods of living fire. But not a setting beam could glow Within the dark ravines below. Where twined the path in shadow hid. Round many a rocky pyramid. Shooting abruptly from the dell Its thunder-splintered pinnacle ; Round many an insulated mass. The native bulwarks of the pass. Huge as the tower which builders vain Presumptuous piled on Shinar's plain. Their rocky summits, split and rent. Formed turret, dome, or battlement. Or seemed fantastically set With cupola or minaret. SCOTT 293 Wild crests as pagod ever decked. Or mosque of Eastern architect. Nor were these earth-born castles bare. Nor lacked they many a banner fair ; For, from their shivered brows displayed, Far o'er the unfathomable glade. All twinkling with the dewdrops' sheen, The brier-rose fell in streamers green ; And creeping shrubs, of thousand dyes, Waved in the west-wind's summer sighs. Boon Nature scattered, free and wild. Each plant or flower, the mountain's child. Here eglantine embalmed the air. Hawthorn and hazel mingled there ; The primrose pale, and violet flower. Found in each cliff a narrow bower ; Fox-glove and night-shade, side by side, Emblems o^ punishment and pride. Grouped their dark hues with every stain The weather-beaten crags retain. With boughs that quaked at every breath. Gray birch and aspen wept beneath ; Aloft, the ash and warrior oak Cast anchor in the rifted rock ; And, higher yet, the pine-tree hung His shattered trunk, and frequent flung, Where seemed the cliffs to meet on high, His boughs athwart the narrowed sky. Highest of all, where white peaks glanced. Where glistening streamers waved and danced. The wanderer's eye could barely view • 2 94 ^ OLD EX LKAVES. The summer heaven's delicious blue ; So wondrous wild, the whole might seem The scenery ot" a fairy dream. Onward, amid tlio copse *gan peep A narrow inlet, still and deep, AtFording scarce such breadth of brim As served the wild-duck's brood to swim. Lost for a space, through thickets veering, But broader when again appearing. Tall rocks and tufced knolls their face Could on the dark-blue mirror trace ; And farther as the hunter strayed. Still broader sweep its channels made. The shaggy mounds no longer stood. Emerging from entangled wood. But, wave-encircled, seemed to float. Like castle girdled with its moat ; Yet broader floods extending still. Divide them from their parent hill. Till each, retiring, claims to be An islet in an inland sea. And now, to issue from the glen. No pathway meets the wanderer's ken. Unless he climb, with footing nice, A far-projecting precipic ICC. ^ Until the present road was made through this romantic pass, there was no mode of issuing out ot the detile called the Trosachs, except by a sort of ladder, composed of the branches and roots of the trres. SCOTT. 29s The broom's tough roots his ladder made. The hazel saplings lent their aid ; And thus an airy point he won. Where, gleaming with the setting sun. One burnished sheet of living gold. Loch Katrine lay beneath him rolled. In all her length far winding lay. With promontory, creek, and bay. And islands that, empurpled bright. Floated amid the livelier light ; And mountains, that like giants stand. To sentinel enchanted land. High on the south, huge Benvenue Down on the lake in masses threv/ Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurled, The fragments of an earlier world j A wildering forest feathered o'er His ruined sides and summit hoar ; While on the north, through middle air, Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare. From the steep promontory gazed The stranger, raptured and amazed ; And, " What a scene was here," he cried, "For princely pomp, or churchman's pride ! On this bold brow, a lordly tower ; In that soft vale, a lady's bower ; On yonder meadow, far away. The turrets of a cloister gray. How blithely might the bugle-horn Chide, on the lake, the lingering morn I How sweet, at eve, the lover's lute « 14 296 GOLDEN LEAVES. Chime, when the groves were still and mute And, when the midnight moon should lave Her forekead in the silver wave. How solemn on the ear would come The holy matin's distant hum. While the deep peal's commanding tone Should wake, in yonder islet lone, A sainted hermit from his cell. To drop a bead with every knell ! — And bugle, lute, and bell, and all. Should each bewildered stranger call To friendly feast, and lighted hall. " Blithe were it then to wander here ! But now — beshrew yon nimble deer, — Like that same hermit's, thin and spare. The copse must give my evening fare ; Some mossy bank my couch must be, Some rustling oak my canopy. Yet pass we that — the war and chase Give little choice of resting-place ;— A summer night, in greenwood spent, Were but to-morrow's merriment ; But hosts may in these wilds abound. Such as are better missed than found ; To meet with Highland plunderers here Were worse than loss of steed or deer.^ I am alone ; — my bugle-strain May call some straggler of the train ; ' The clans in the neighbourhood of Loch K:itrine, from theii proximity to the Lowlands, were among the most warlike ana pre- datory of the Highlanders. SG OIT zQfj Or, faJI the worst that may betide. Ere now this falchion h^ds been tried.'* But scarce agaii. his horn he wound. When 'o ! forth starting at the sound, Frorr underneath an aged oak, 1 hftt slanted from the islet rock, A damsel, guider oi its way, A little skiff shot to the bay. That round iht promontory steep. Led its deep line in graceful sweep, Eddying, in almost viewless wave, The weeping-willow twig to lave ; And kiss, with whispering sound and slow, The beach of pebbles bright as snow. The boat had touched this silver strand, Just as the hunter left his stand. And stood concealed amid the brake. To view this Lady of the Lake. The maiden paused, as if again She thought to catch the distant strain, With head up-raised, and look intent. And eye and ear attentive bent. And locks flung back, and lips apart, Like monument of Grecian art. In listening mood she seemed to star.d. The guardian Naiad of the strand. And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace. Of finer form, or lovelier face ! What though the sun, with ardent frown. 2g8 GOLDEN LEAVES. Had slight! V tinged her cheek with brown, — The sportive toil, which, short and light. Had dyed her glowing hue so bright. Served too in hastier swell to show Short glimpses of a breast of snow ; What though no rule of courtly grace To measured mood had trained her pace, — A foot more light, a step more true. Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew; E'en the slight hare-bell raised its head. Elastic from her airy tread : What though upon her speech there hung The accents of the mountain tongue, — Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear. The listener held his breath to hear. A chieftain's daughter seemed the maid : Her satin snood, her silken plaid. Her golden brooch, such birth betrayed. And seldom was a snood amid Such wild, luxuriant ringlets hid. Whose glossy black to shame might bring The plumage of the raven's wing ; And seldom o'er a breast so fair. Mantled a plaid with modest care. And never brooch the folds combined Above a heart more good and kind. Her kindness and her worth to spy. You need but gaze on Ellen's eye ; Not Katrine, in her mirror blue. Gives back ihe shaggy banks more true. Than every free-born glance confessed SCOTT. 299 The guileless movements of her breast ; Whether joy danced in her dark eye. Or woe or pity claimed a sigh. Or filial love was glowing there. Or meek devotion poured a prayer, Or tale of injury called forth The indignant spirit of the North. One only passion, unrevealed. With maiden pride the maid concealed. Yet not less purely felt the flame ; — Oh, need I tell that passion's name ! Impatient of the silent horn. Now on the gale her voice was borne : — " Father !" she cried ; the rocks around Loved to prolong the gentle sound. A while she paused, no answer came, — " Malcolm, was thine the blast ?" the name Less resolutely uttered fell. The echoes could not catch the swell. "A stranger I," the Huntsman said. Advancing from the hazel shade. The maid, alarmed, with hasty oar Pushed her light shallop from the shore And, when a space was gained between, Closer she drew her bosom's scree?i (So forth the startled swan could swing. So turn to prune his ruffled wing). Then safe, though fluttered and amazed. She paused and on the stranger gazed. Not his the form, nor his the eye, That youthful maidens wont to fly. , 300 GCLD EN LEAVES On his bold visage middle age Had slightly pressed its signer. sap;e. Yet had not quenched the open truth And fiery vehemence of youth ; Forward and frolic glee was there. The will to do, the soul to dare. The sparkling glance, soon blown to fire, Of ha.^ty love, or headlong ire. His limbs were cast in manly mould, Tor hardy sports, or contest bold ; And though in peaceful garb arrayed. And weaponless, except his blade. His stately mien as well implied ■ A high-born heart, a martial pride. As if a Baron's crest he wore. And sheathed in armour trod the shore. Slighting the petty need he showed. He told of his benighted road : His ready speech flowed fair and free. In phrase of gentlest courtesy ; Yet seemed that tone and gesture bland. Less used to sue than to command. A while the maid the stranger eyed. And, reassured, at last replied. That Highland halls were open still To wildered wanderers of the hill. " Nor think you unexpected come To yon lone isle, our desert home : Before the heath had lost the dew. This morn a couch was pulled for you ; On yonder mountain's purple head SCOTT. 301 Have ptarmigan and heath-cock bled. And our broad nets have swept the mere, To furnish forth your evening cheer." *' Now, by the rood, my lovely maid, Your courtesy has erred," he said; " No right have I to claim, misplaced. The welcome of expected guest. A wanderer, here by fortune tossed. My way, my friends, my courser lost, I ne'er before, believe me, fair. Have ever drawn your mountain air. Till on this lake's romantic strand I found a fay in fairy -land." " I well believe," the maid replied. As her light skiff approached the side — " I well believe, that ne'er before Your foot has trod Loch Katrine's shore ; But yet, as far as yesternight. Old Allan-Bane foretold your plight — A gray-haired sire, whose eye intent Was on the visioned future bent.^ He saw your steed, a dappled gray. Lie dead beneath the birchen way ; Painted exact your form and mien. Your hunting-suit of Lincoln green, ' A superstitious belief in second sight prevailed in the H-ghlands : U was called in Gaelic Taishitaraugh^ from Taish, an unreal or shad- owy appearance} and those possessed of the faculty are called Taisha- trivy which may be aptly translated •visionaries. They pretended to see visions, and to be informed of future events, which obtained for •hem an extraordinary influence over their countrymen. • 302 G OLDEN LEAVES. That tasselled horn so gayly gilt. That falchion's crooked blade and hilt. That cap with heron's plumage trim. And yon two hounds so dark and grim. He bade that all should ready be. To grace a guest of fair degree ; But light I held his prophecy. And deemed it was my father's horn. Whose echoes o'er the lake were borne." The stranger smiled : — *'* Since to your home A destined errant-knight I come. Announced by prophet sooth and old, Doomed, doubtless, for achievement bold, I'll lightly front each high emprize. For one kind glance of those bright eyes : Permit me, first, the task to guide Your fairy frigate o'er the tide." The maid, with smile suppressed and sly, The toil unwonted saw him try ; For seldom, sure, if e'er before. His noble hand had grasped an oar : Yet with main strength his strokes he drew. And o'er the lake the shallop flew ; With heads erect and whimpering cry, The hounds behind their passage ply. Nor frequent does the bright oar break The darkening mirror of the lake, Until the rocky isle they reach. And moor their shallop on the beach. SCOTT. R O K E B Y . WILFRID, THE YOUTHFUL VISIONARY. ' I ^HE lovely heir of Rokeby's Knight Waits in his halls the event of fighi ; For England's war revered the claim Of every unprotected name. And spared, amid its fiercest rage. Childhood, and womanhood, and- age. But Wilfrid, son to Rokeby's foe. Must the dear privilege forego. By Greta's side, in evening gray. To steal upon Matilda's way. Striving, with fond hypocrisy For careless step and vacant eye ; Calming each anxious look and glance. To give the meeting all to chance. Or framing, as a fair excuse. The book, the pencil, or the muse ; Something to give, to sing, to say. Some modern tale, some ancient lay. Then, while the longed-for minutes last, — Ah ! minutes quickly over-past ! — Recording each oxpression free. Of kind or careless courtesy. Each friendly look, each softer tone, As food for fancy when alone. And this is o'er — but still, unseen, Wilfrid may lurk in Eastwood green. To watch Matilda's wonted rouna. While springs his heart at every sounc. JOl i04 G OLBEN LEAVES. Sne comes — 'tis but a passing sight. Yet serves to cheat his weary night ; She comes not — he will wait the hour. When her lamp lightens in the tower ; 'Tis something yet, if, as she passed. Her shade is o'er the lattice cast. ** What is my life, my hope ?" he said ; "Alas! a transitory shade." Thus wore his life, though reason strove For mastery in vain with love. Forcing upon his thoughts the sum Of present woe and ills to come. While still he turned impatient ear From Truth's intrusive voice severe. Gentle, indifferent, and subdued. In all but this, unmoved he viewed Each outward change of ill and good : But Wilfrid, docile, soft, and mild. Was Fancy's spoiled and wayward child ; In her bright car she bade him ride. With one fair form to grace his side. Or, in some wild and lone retreat. Flung her high spells around his seat. Bathed in her dews his languid head. Her fairv mantle o'er him spread. For him her opiates gave to flow. Which he who tastes can ne'er forego. And placed him in her circle, free From every stern reality. Till, to the Visionary, seem Her dav-dreams truth, and truth a dream. SCOTT. 305 Woe to the youth whom Fancy gains. Winning from Reason s hand the reins. Pity and woe ! for such a mind Is soft, contemplative, and kind ; And woe to those who train such youth. And spare to press the rights of truth. The mind to strengthen and anneal. While on the stithy glows the steel ! O teach him, while your lessons last. To judge the present by the past; Remind him of each wish pursued. How rich it glowed with promised good : Remind him of each wish enjoyed. How soon his hopes possession cloyed ! Tell him, we play unequal game. Whene'er we shoot by Fancy's aim ! And, ere he strip him for her race. Show the conditions of the chase. Two sisters by the goal are set. Cold Disappointment and Regret : One disenchants the winner's eyes. And strips o^ all its worth the prize ; While one augments its gaudy show More to enhance the loser's woe. The victor sees his fairy gold Transformed, when won, to drossy mould. But still the vanquished mourns his loss. And rues, as gold, that glittering dross. More wouldst thou know — yon tower survey. Yon couch unpressed since parting day. Von untrimmed lamp, whose yellow gleam 3o6 G OLDEN LEAVES. Is mingling with the cold moonbeam. And yon thin form ! — the hectic red On his pale cheek unequal spread ; The head reclined, the loosened hair. The limbs relaxed, the mournful air. — See, he looks up ; — a woflil smile Lightens his wx)e-worn cheek a while, — 'Tib Fancy wakes some idle thought. To gild the ruin she has wrought ; For, like the bat of Indian brakes. Her pinions fan the wound she makes, And soothing thus the dreamer's pain. She drinks his life-blood from the vein. Now to the lattice turn his eyes. Vain hope ! to see the sun arise. The moon with clouds is still o'ercasi ; StiU howls by fits the stormy blast ; Another hour must wear away. Ere the East kindle into day ; And hark ! to waste that weary hour. He tries the minstrel's magic power. James fjogg. TO THE SKYLARK. B' IRD of the wilderness. Blithesome and cumberless. Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea I Emblem of happiness. Blest is thy dwelling-place — SMITH. 307 Oh to abide in the desert with thee ! Wild is thy lay, and loud. Far in the downy cloud. Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. Where, on thy dewy wing. Where art thou journeying ? Thy by is in heaven, thy love is on earth O'er fell and fountain sheen. O'er moor and mountain green. O'er the red streamer that heralds the day. Over the cloudlet dim. Over the rainbow's rim. Musical cherub, soar, singing away ! Then, when the gloaming comes. Low in the heather blooms Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be ! • Emblem of happiness. Blest is thy dwelling-place — Oh to abide in the desert with thee ! TO AN EGYPTIAN MUMMY. A ND thou hast walked about — how strange a story !• In Thebes's streets, three thousand years ago ! When the Memnonium was in all its glory. And time had not begun to overthrow Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendoos. Of which the very ruins are tremendous !