CLVIIISONNET.

Awake, Æolian lyre, awake,And give to rapture all thy trembling strings.From Helicon’s harmonious springsA thousand rills their mazy progress take:The laughing flowers, that round them blow,5Drink life and fragrance as they flow,Now the rich stream of music winds along,Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong,Through verdant vales, and Ceres’ golden reign:Now rolling down the steep amain,10Headlong, impetuous, see it pour:The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar.O Sovereign of the willing soul,Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs,Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares15And frantic Passions hear thy soft control:On Thracia’s hills the Lord of WarHas curbed the fury of his car,And dropped his thirsty lance at thy command.Perching on the sceptred hand20Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feathered kingWith ruffled plumes, and flagging wing:Quenched in dark clouds of slumber lieThe terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye.Thee the voice, the dance, obey,25Tempered to thy warbled lay;O’er Idalia’s velvet-greenThe rosy-crownèd Loves are seenOn Cytherea’s day,With antic Sports, and blue-eyed Pleasures,30Frisking light in frolic measures;Now pursuing, now retreating,Now in circling troops they meet:To brisk notes in cadence beatingGlance their many-twinkling feet.35Slow-melting strains their Queen’s approach declare:Where’er she turns, the Graces homage pay:With arms sublime that float upon the air,In gliding state she wins her easy way:O’er her warm cheek and rising bosom move40The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.Man’s feeble race what ills await,Labour and penury, the racks of pain,Disease, and sorrow’s weeping train,And death, sad refuge from the storms of fate!45The fond complaint, my song, disprove,And justify the laws of Jove.Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse?Night, and all her sickly dews,Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry,50He gives to range the dreary sky;Till down the eastern cliffs afarHyperion’s march they spy, and glittering shafts of war.In climes beyond the solar road,Where shaggy forms o’er ice-built mountains roam,55The Muse has broke the twilight gloom,To cheer the shivering native’s dull abode.And oft, beneath the odorous shadeOf Chili’s boundless forests laid,She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat,60In loose numbers wildly sweet,Their feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky loves.Her track, where’er the Goddess roves,Glory pursue, and generous Shame,The unconquerable Mind, and Freedom’s holy flame.65Woods that wave o’er Delphi’s steep,Isles that crown the Ægean deep,Fields that cool Ilissus laves,Or where Mæander’s amber wavesIn lingering labyrinths creep,70How do your tuneful echoes languish,Mute, but to the voice of anguish?Where each old poetic mountainInspiration breathed around;Every shade and hallowed fountain75Murmured deep a solemn sound:Till the sad Nine, in Greece’s evil hour,Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains.Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power,And coward Vice, that revels in her chains.80When Latium had her lofty spirit lost,They sought, O Albion, next thy sea-encircled coast.Far from the sun and summer-gale,In thy green lap was Nature’s darling laid,What time, where lucid Avon strayed,85To him the mighty Mother did unveilHer awful face: the dauntless ChildStretched forth his little arms, and smiled.‘This pencil take (she said), whose colours clearRichly paint the vernal year:90Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal Boy!This can unlock the gates of joy;Of horror that, and thrilling fears,Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.’Nor second he, that rode sublime95Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy,The secrets of the abyss to spy.He passed the flaming bounds of place and time:The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze,Where angels tremble while they gaze,100He saw; but, blasted with excess of light,Closed his eyes in endless night.Behold, where Dryden’s less presumptuous car,Wide o’er the fields of glory bearTwo coursers of ethereal race,105With necks in thunder clothed, and long resounding pace.Hark, his hands the lyre explore!Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o’er,Scatters from her pictured urnThoughts that breathe, and words that burn.110But ah! ’tis heard no more—O lyre divine, what daring spiritWakes thee now? Though he inheritNor the pride, nor ample pinion,That the Theban Eagle bear,115Sailing with supreme dominionThrough the azure deep of air:Yet oft before his infant eyes would runSuch forms as glitter in the Muse’s rayWith orient hues, unborrowed of the sun:120Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant wayBeyond the limits of a vulgar fate,Beneath the good how far!—but far above the great.Thomas Gray.

Awake, Æolian lyre, awake,

And give to rapture all thy trembling strings.

From Helicon’s harmonious springs

A thousand rills their mazy progress take:

The laughing flowers, that round them blow,5

Drink life and fragrance as they flow,

Now the rich stream of music winds along,

Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong,

Through verdant vales, and Ceres’ golden reign:

Now rolling down the steep amain,10

Headlong, impetuous, see it pour:

The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar.

O Sovereign of the willing soul,Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs,Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares15And frantic Passions hear thy soft control:On Thracia’s hills the Lord of WarHas curbed the fury of his car,And dropped his thirsty lance at thy command.Perching on the sceptred hand20Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feathered kingWith ruffled plumes, and flagging wing:Quenched in dark clouds of slumber lieThe terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye.

O Sovereign of the willing soul,

Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs,

Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares15

And frantic Passions hear thy soft control:

On Thracia’s hills the Lord of War

Has curbed the fury of his car,

And dropped his thirsty lance at thy command.

Perching on the sceptred hand20

Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feathered king

With ruffled plumes, and flagging wing:

Quenched in dark clouds of slumber lie

The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye.

Thee the voice, the dance, obey,25Tempered to thy warbled lay;O’er Idalia’s velvet-greenThe rosy-crownèd Loves are seenOn Cytherea’s day,With antic Sports, and blue-eyed Pleasures,30Frisking light in frolic measures;Now pursuing, now retreating,Now in circling troops they meet:To brisk notes in cadence beatingGlance their many-twinkling feet.35Slow-melting strains their Queen’s approach declare:Where’er she turns, the Graces homage pay:With arms sublime that float upon the air,In gliding state she wins her easy way:O’er her warm cheek and rising bosom move40The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.

Thee the voice, the dance, obey,25

Tempered to thy warbled lay;

O’er Idalia’s velvet-green

The rosy-crownèd Loves are seen

On Cytherea’s day,

With antic Sports, and blue-eyed Pleasures,30

Frisking light in frolic measures;

Now pursuing, now retreating,

Now in circling troops they meet:

To brisk notes in cadence beating

Glance their many-twinkling feet.35

Slow-melting strains their Queen’s approach declare:

Where’er she turns, the Graces homage pay:

With arms sublime that float upon the air,

In gliding state she wins her easy way:

O’er her warm cheek and rising bosom move40

The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.

Man’s feeble race what ills await,Labour and penury, the racks of pain,Disease, and sorrow’s weeping train,And death, sad refuge from the storms of fate!45The fond complaint, my song, disprove,And justify the laws of Jove.Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse?Night, and all her sickly dews,Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry,50He gives to range the dreary sky;Till down the eastern cliffs afarHyperion’s march they spy, and glittering shafts of war.

Man’s feeble race what ills await,

Labour and penury, the racks of pain,

Disease, and sorrow’s weeping train,

And death, sad refuge from the storms of fate!45

The fond complaint, my song, disprove,

And justify the laws of Jove.

Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse?

Night, and all her sickly dews,

Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry,50

He gives to range the dreary sky;

Till down the eastern cliffs afar

Hyperion’s march they spy, and glittering shafts of war.

In climes beyond the solar road,Where shaggy forms o’er ice-built mountains roam,55The Muse has broke the twilight gloom,To cheer the shivering native’s dull abode.And oft, beneath the odorous shadeOf Chili’s boundless forests laid,She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat,60In loose numbers wildly sweet,Their feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky loves.Her track, where’er the Goddess roves,Glory pursue, and generous Shame,The unconquerable Mind, and Freedom’s holy flame.65

In climes beyond the solar road,

Where shaggy forms o’er ice-built mountains roam,55

The Muse has broke the twilight gloom,

To cheer the shivering native’s dull abode.

And oft, beneath the odorous shade

Of Chili’s boundless forests laid,

She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat,60

In loose numbers wildly sweet,

Their feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky loves.

Her track, where’er the Goddess roves,

Glory pursue, and generous Shame,

The unconquerable Mind, and Freedom’s holy flame.65

Woods that wave o’er Delphi’s steep,Isles that crown the Ægean deep,Fields that cool Ilissus laves,Or where Mæander’s amber wavesIn lingering labyrinths creep,70How do your tuneful echoes languish,Mute, but to the voice of anguish?Where each old poetic mountainInspiration breathed around;Every shade and hallowed fountain75Murmured deep a solemn sound:Till the sad Nine, in Greece’s evil hour,Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains.Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power,And coward Vice, that revels in her chains.80When Latium had her lofty spirit lost,They sought, O Albion, next thy sea-encircled coast.

Woods that wave o’er Delphi’s steep,

Isles that crown the Ægean deep,

Fields that cool Ilissus laves,

Or where Mæander’s amber waves

In lingering labyrinths creep,70

How do your tuneful echoes languish,

Mute, but to the voice of anguish?

Where each old poetic mountain

Inspiration breathed around;

Every shade and hallowed fountain75

Murmured deep a solemn sound:

Till the sad Nine, in Greece’s evil hour,

Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains.

Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power,

And coward Vice, that revels in her chains.80

When Latium had her lofty spirit lost,

They sought, O Albion, next thy sea-encircled coast.

Far from the sun and summer-gale,In thy green lap was Nature’s darling laid,What time, where lucid Avon strayed,85To him the mighty Mother did unveilHer awful face: the dauntless ChildStretched forth his little arms, and smiled.‘This pencil take (she said), whose colours clearRichly paint the vernal year:90Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal Boy!This can unlock the gates of joy;Of horror that, and thrilling fears,Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.’

Far from the sun and summer-gale,

In thy green lap was Nature’s darling laid,

What time, where lucid Avon strayed,85

To him the mighty Mother did unveil

Her awful face: the dauntless Child

Stretched forth his little arms, and smiled.

‘This pencil take (she said), whose colours clear

Richly paint the vernal year:90

Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal Boy!

This can unlock the gates of joy;

Of horror that, and thrilling fears,

Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.’

Nor second he, that rode sublime95Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy,The secrets of the abyss to spy.He passed the flaming bounds of place and time:The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze,Where angels tremble while they gaze,100He saw; but, blasted with excess of light,Closed his eyes in endless night.Behold, where Dryden’s less presumptuous car,Wide o’er the fields of glory bearTwo coursers of ethereal race,105With necks in thunder clothed, and long resounding pace.

Nor second he, that rode sublime95

Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy,

The secrets of the abyss to spy.

He passed the flaming bounds of place and time:

The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze,

Where angels tremble while they gaze,100

He saw; but, blasted with excess of light,

Closed his eyes in endless night.

Behold, where Dryden’s less presumptuous car,

Wide o’er the fields of glory bear

Two coursers of ethereal race,105

With necks in thunder clothed, and long resounding pace.

Hark, his hands the lyre explore!Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o’er,Scatters from her pictured urnThoughts that breathe, and words that burn.110But ah! ’tis heard no more—O lyre divine, what daring spiritWakes thee now? Though he inheritNor the pride, nor ample pinion,That the Theban Eagle bear,115Sailing with supreme dominionThrough the azure deep of air:Yet oft before his infant eyes would runSuch forms as glitter in the Muse’s rayWith orient hues, unborrowed of the sun:120Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant wayBeyond the limits of a vulgar fate,Beneath the good how far!—but far above the great.Thomas Gray.

Hark, his hands the lyre explore!

Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o’er,

Scatters from her pictured urn

Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.110

But ah! ’tis heard no more—

O lyre divine, what daring spirit

Wakes thee now? Though he inherit

Nor the pride, nor ample pinion,

That the Theban Eagle bear,115

Sailing with supreme dominion

Through the azure deep of air:

Yet oft before his infant eyes would run

Such forms as glitter in the Muse’s ray

With orient hues, unborrowed of the sun:120

Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way

Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate,

Beneath the good how far!—but far above the great.

Thomas Gray.

When I behold thee, blameless Williamson,Wrecked like an infant on a savage shore,While others round on borrowed pinions soar,My busy fancy calls thy thread misspun;Till Faith instructs me the deceit to shun,5While thus she speaks,—‘Those wings that from the storeOf virtue were not lent, howe’er they boreIn this gross air, will melt when near the sun.The truly’ ambitious wait for nature’s time,Content by certain, though by slow, degrees10To mount above the reach of vulgar flight;Nor is that man confined to this low clime,Who but the extremest skirts of glory sees,And hears celestial echoes with delight.’Benjamin Stillingfleet.

When I behold thee, blameless Williamson,

Wrecked like an infant on a savage shore,

While others round on borrowed pinions soar,

My busy fancy calls thy thread misspun;

Till Faith instructs me the deceit to shun,5

While thus she speaks,—‘Those wings that from the store

Of virtue were not lent, howe’er they bore

In this gross air, will melt when near the sun.

The truly’ ambitious wait for nature’s time,

Content by certain, though by slow, degrees10

To mount above the reach of vulgar flight;

Nor is that man confined to this low clime,

Who but the extremest skirts of glory sees,

And hears celestial echoes with delight.’

Benjamin Stillingfleet.

Ah! what a weary race my feet have run,Since first I trod thy banks with alders crowned,And thought my way was all through fairy ground,Beneath thy azure sky and golden sun;Where first my Muse to lisp her notes begun!5While pensive Memory traces back the roundWhich fills the varied interval between,Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene.Sweet native stream! those skies and suns so pureNo more return, to cheer my evening road;10Yet still one joy remains—that not obscure,Nor useless, all my vacant days have flowed,From youth’s gay dawn to manhood’s prime mature,Nor with the Muse’s laurel unbestowed.Thomas Warton.

Ah! what a weary race my feet have run,

Since first I trod thy banks with alders crowned,

And thought my way was all through fairy ground,

Beneath thy azure sky and golden sun;

Where first my Muse to lisp her notes begun!5

While pensive Memory traces back the round

Which fills the varied interval between,

Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene.

Sweet native stream! those skies and suns so pure

No more return, to cheer my evening road;10

Yet still one joy remains—that not obscure,

Nor useless, all my vacant days have flowed,

From youth’s gay dawn to manhood’s prime mature,

Nor with the Muse’s laurel unbestowed.

Thomas Warton.

Mary! I want a lyre with other strings,Such aid from heaven as some have feigned they drew,An eloquence scarce given to mortals, newAnd undebased by praise of meaner things,That ere through age or woe I shed my wings,5I may record thy worth with honour due,In verse as musical as thou art true,And that immortalizes whom it sings:—But thou hast little need. There is a BookBy seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,10On which the eyes of God not rarely look,A chronicle of actions just and bright—There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine;And since thou own’st that praise, I spare thee mine.William Cowper.

Mary! I want a lyre with other strings,

Such aid from heaven as some have feigned they drew,

An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new

And undebased by praise of meaner things,

That ere through age or woe I shed my wings,5

I may record thy worth with honour due,

In verse as musical as thou art true,

And that immortalizes whom it sings:—

But thou hast little need. There is a Book

By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,10

On which the eyes of God not rarely look,

A chronicle of actions just and bright—

There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine;

And since thou own’st that praise, I spare thee mine.

William Cowper.

The twentieth year is well nigh past,Since first our sky was overcast;Ah would that this might be the last,My Mary!Thy spirits have a fainter flow,5I 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,10Now rust disused, and shine no more,My Mary!For though thou gladly wouldst fulfilThe same kind office for me still,Thy sight now seconds not thy will,15My Mary!But well thou play’dst the housewife’s part,And all thy threads with magic artHave wound themselves about this heart,My Mary!20Thy indistinct expressions seemLike language uttered in a dream;Yet me they charm, whate’er the theme,My Mary!Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,25Are still more lovely in my sightThan golden beams of orient light,My Mary!For could I view nor them nor thee,What sight worth seeing could I see?30The 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,35My Mary!Such feebleness of limbs thou prov’stThat now at every step thou mov’stUpheld by two; yet still thou lov’st,My Mary!40And still to love, though pressed with ill,In wintry age to feel no chill,With me is to be lovely still,My Mary!But ah! by constant heed I know45How oft the sadness that I showTransforms thy smiles to looks of woe,My Mary!And should my future lot be castWith much resemblance of the past,50Thy worn-out heart will break at last—My Mary!William Cowper.

The twentieth year is well nigh past,Since first our sky was overcast;Ah would that this might be the last,My Mary!

The twentieth year is well nigh past,

Since first our sky was overcast;

Ah would that this might be the last,

My Mary!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow,5I see thee daily weaker grow—’Twas my distress that brought thee low,My Mary!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow,5

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,10Now rust disused, and shine no more,My Mary!

Thy needles, once a shining store,

For my sake restless heretofore,10

Now rust disused, and shine no more,

My Mary!

For though thou gladly wouldst fulfilThe same kind office for me still,Thy sight now seconds not thy will,15My Mary!

For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil

The same kind office for me still,

Thy sight now seconds not thy will,15

My Mary!

But well thou play’dst the housewife’s part,And all thy threads with magic artHave wound themselves about this heart,My Mary!20

But well thou play’dst the housewife’s part,

And all thy threads with magic art

Have wound themselves about this heart,

My Mary!20

Thy indistinct expressions seemLike language uttered in a dream;Yet me they charm, whate’er the theme,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,25Are still more lovely in my sightThan golden beams of orient light,My Mary!

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,25

Are still more lovely in my sight

Than golden beams of orient light,

My Mary!

For could I view nor them nor thee,What sight worth seeing could I see?30The sun would rise in vain for me,My Mary!

For could I view nor them nor thee,

What sight worth seeing could I see?30

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,35My Mary!

Partakers of thy sad decline,

Thy hands their little force resign;

Yet gently pressed, press gently mine,35

My Mary!

Such feebleness of limbs thou prov’stThat now at every step thou mov’stUpheld by two; yet still thou lov’st,My Mary!40

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!40

And still to love, though pressed with ill,In wintry age to feel no chill,With me is to be lovely still,My Mary!

And still to love, though pressed with ill,

In wintry age to feel no chill,

With me is to be lovely still,

My Mary!

But ah! by constant heed I know45How oft the sadness that I showTransforms thy smiles to looks of woe,My Mary!

But ah! by constant heed I know45

How oft the sadness that I show

Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,

My Mary!

And should my future lot be castWith much resemblance of the past,50Thy worn-out heart will break at last—My Mary!William Cowper.

And should my future lot be cast

With much resemblance of the past,50

Thy worn-out heart will break at last—

My Mary!

William Cowper.

If, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath stayed,And left her debt to Addison unpaid,Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoan,And judge, oh judge, my bosom by your own.What mourner ever felt poetic fires!5Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires:Grief unaffected suits but ill with art,Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart.Can I forget the dismal night that gaveMy soul’s best part for ever to the grave!10How silent did his old companions tread,By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead,Through breathing statues, then unheeded things,Through rows of warriors, and through walks of kings!What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire;15The pealing organ, and the pausing choir;The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid;And the last words that dust to dust conveyed!While speechless o’er thy closing grave we bend,Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend.20Oh, gone for ever! take this long adieu;And sleep in peace, next thy loved Montague.To strew fresh laurels let the task be mine,A frequent pilgrim at thy sacred shrine;Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan,25And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone.If e’er from me thy loved memorial part,May shame afflict this alienated heart;Of thee forgetful if I form a song,My lyre be broken, and untuned my tongue,30My grief be doubled, from thy image free,And mirth a torment, unchastised by thee.Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone,Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown,Along the walls where speaking marbles show35What worthies form the hallowed mould below;Proud names, who once the reins of empire held;In arms who triumphed; or in arts excelled;Chiefs, graced with scars, and prodigal of blood;Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood;40Just men, by whom impartial laws were given;And saints who taught, and led, the way to heaven.Ne’er to these chambers, where the mighty rest,Since their foundation, came a nobler guest;Nor e’er was to the bowers of bliss conveyed45A fairer spirit or more welcome shade.In what new region, to the just assigned,What new employments please the unbodied mind?A wingèd Virtue, through the ethereal sky,From world to world unwearied does he fly?50Or curious trace the long laborious mazeOf Heaven’s decrees, where wondering angels gaze?Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tellHow Michael battled, and the dragon fell;Or, mixed with milder cherubim, to glow55In hymns of love, not ill essayed below?Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind,A task well suited to thy gentle mind?Oh! if sometimes thy spotless form descend,To me thy aid, thou guardian Genius, lend!60When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms,When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms,In silent whisperings purer thoughts impart,And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart;Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before,65Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more.That awful form, which, so the Heavens decree,Must still be loved and still deplored by me,In nightly visions seldom fails to rise,Or, roused by Fancy, meets my waking eyes.70If business calls, or crowded courts invite,The unblemished statesman seems to strike my sight;If in the stage I seek to soothe my care,I meet his soul which breathes in Cato there;If pensive to the rural shades I rove,75His shape o’ertakes me in the lonely grove;’Twas there of just and good he reasoned strong,Cleared some great truth, or raised some serious song:There patient showed us the wise course to steer,A candid censor, and a friend severe;80There taught us how to live; and (oh! too highThe price for knowledge) taught us how to die.Thou Hill, whose brow the antique structures grace,Reared by bold chiefs of Warwick’s noble race,Why, once so loved, whene’er thy bower appears,85O’er my dim eyeballs glance the sudden tears!How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair,Thy sloping walks, and unpolluted air!How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees,Thy noon-tide shadow, and thy evening breeze!90His image thy forsaken bowers restore;Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more;No more the summer in thy glooms allayed,Thy evening breezes, and thy noon-day shade.From other ills, however Fortune frowned;95Some refuge in the Muse’s art I found:Reluctant now I touch the trembling string,Bereft of him who taught me how to sing;And these sad accents, murmured o’er his urn,Betray that absence they attempt to mourn.100Oh must I then (now fresh my bosom bleeds,And Craggs in death to Addison succeeds)The verse, begun to one lost friend, prolong,And weep a second in the unfinished song!These works divine, which, on his death-bed laid,105To thee, O Craggs, the expiring sage conveyed,Great, but ill-omened, monument of fame,Nor he survived to give, nor thou to claim.Swift after him thy social spirit flies,And close to his, how soon! thy coffin lies.110Blest pair! whose union future bards shall tellIn future tongues: each other’s boast! farewell,Farewell! whom joined in fame, in friendship tried,No chance could sever, nor the grave divide.Thomas Tickell.

If, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath stayed,

And left her debt to Addison unpaid,

Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoan,

And judge, oh judge, my bosom by your own.

What mourner ever felt poetic fires!5

Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires:

Grief unaffected suits but ill with art,

Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart.

Can I forget the dismal night that gave

My soul’s best part for ever to the grave!10

How silent did his old companions tread,

By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead,

Through breathing statues, then unheeded things,

Through rows of warriors, and through walks of kings!

What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire;15

The pealing organ, and the pausing choir;

The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid;

And the last words that dust to dust conveyed!

While speechless o’er thy closing grave we bend,

Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend.20

Oh, gone for ever! take this long adieu;

And sleep in peace, next thy loved Montague.

To strew fresh laurels let the task be mine,

A frequent pilgrim at thy sacred shrine;

Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan,25

And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone.

If e’er from me thy loved memorial part,

May shame afflict this alienated heart;

Of thee forgetful if I form a song,

My lyre be broken, and untuned my tongue,30

My grief be doubled, from thy image free,

And mirth a torment, unchastised by thee.

Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone,

Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown,

Along the walls where speaking marbles show35

What worthies form the hallowed mould below;

Proud names, who once the reins of empire held;

In arms who triumphed; or in arts excelled;

Chiefs, graced with scars, and prodigal of blood;

Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood;40

Just men, by whom impartial laws were given;

And saints who taught, and led, the way to heaven.

Ne’er to these chambers, where the mighty rest,

Since their foundation, came a nobler guest;

Nor e’er was to the bowers of bliss conveyed45

A fairer spirit or more welcome shade.

In what new region, to the just assigned,

What new employments please the unbodied mind?

A wingèd Virtue, through the ethereal sky,

From world to world unwearied does he fly?50

Or curious trace the long laborious maze

Of Heaven’s decrees, where wondering angels gaze?

Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell

How Michael battled, and the dragon fell;

Or, mixed with milder cherubim, to glow55

In hymns of love, not ill essayed below?

Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind,

A task well suited to thy gentle mind?

Oh! if sometimes thy spotless form descend,

To me thy aid, thou guardian Genius, lend!60

When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms,

When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms,

In silent whisperings purer thoughts impart,

And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart;

Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before,65

Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more.

That awful form, which, so the Heavens decree,

Must still be loved and still deplored by me,

In nightly visions seldom fails to rise,

Or, roused by Fancy, meets my waking eyes.70

If business calls, or crowded courts invite,

The unblemished statesman seems to strike my sight;

If in the stage I seek to soothe my care,

I meet his soul which breathes in Cato there;

If pensive to the rural shades I rove,75

His shape o’ertakes me in the lonely grove;

’Twas there of just and good he reasoned strong,

Cleared some great truth, or raised some serious song:

There patient showed us the wise course to steer,

A candid censor, and a friend severe;80

There taught us how to live; and (oh! too high

The price for knowledge) taught us how to die.

Thou Hill, whose brow the antique structures grace,

Reared by bold chiefs of Warwick’s noble race,

Why, once so loved, whene’er thy bower appears,85

O’er my dim eyeballs glance the sudden tears!

How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair,

Thy sloping walks, and unpolluted air!

How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees,

Thy noon-tide shadow, and thy evening breeze!90

His image thy forsaken bowers restore;

Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more;

No more the summer in thy glooms allayed,

Thy evening breezes, and thy noon-day shade.

From other ills, however Fortune frowned;95

Some refuge in the Muse’s art I found:

Reluctant now I touch the trembling string,

Bereft of him who taught me how to sing;

And these sad accents, murmured o’er his urn,

Betray that absence they attempt to mourn.100

Oh must I then (now fresh my bosom bleeds,

And Craggs in death to Addison succeeds)

The verse, begun to one lost friend, prolong,

And weep a second in the unfinished song!

These works divine, which, on his death-bed laid,105

To thee, O Craggs, the expiring sage conveyed,

Great, but ill-omened, monument of fame,

Nor he survived to give, nor thou to claim.

Swift after him thy social spirit flies,

And close to his, how soon! thy coffin lies.110

Blest pair! whose union future bards shall tell

In future tongues: each other’s boast! farewell,

Farewell! whom joined in fame, in friendship tried,

No chance could sever, nor the grave divide.

Thomas Tickell.

What beckoning ghost, along the moonlight shade,Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?’Tis she!—but why that bleeding bosom gored,Why dimly gleams the visionary sword?Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,5Is it, in heaven, a crime to love too well?To bear too tender, or too firm a heart,To act a lovers, or a Roman’s part?Is there no bright reversion in the sky,For those who greatly think, or bravely die?10Why bade ye else, ye Powers! her soul aspireAbove the vulgar flight of low desire?Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes:The glorious fault of angels and of gods:Thence to their images on earth it flows,15And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows.Most souls, ’tis true, but peep out once an age,Dull sullen prisoners in the body’s cage:Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years,Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres;20Like eastern kings a lazy state they keep,And, close confined to their own palace, sleep.From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die)Fate snatched her early to the pitying sky.As into air the purer spirits flow,25And separate from their kindred dregs below;So flew the soul to its congenial place,Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.But thou, false guardian of a charge too good,Thou, mean deserter of thy brother’s blood!30See on these ruby lips the trembling breath,These cheeks now fading at the blast of death;Cold is that breast which warmed the world before,And those love-darting eyes must roll no more.Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball,35Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall;On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates;There passengers shall stand, and pointing say,(While the long funerals blacken all the way)40Lo! these were they, whose souls the Furies steeled,And curst with hearts unknowing how to yield.Thus unlamented pass the proud away,The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!So perish all, whose breast ne’er learned to glow45For others’ good, or melt at others’ woe.What can atone (O ever injured shade!)Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid?No friend’s complaint, no kind domestic tear,Pleased thy pale ghost, or graced thy mournful bier:50By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed,By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed,By foreign hands thy humble grave adorned,By strangers honoured, and by strangers mourned!What though no friends in sable weeds appear;55Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,And bear about the mockery of woeTo midnight dances, and the public show?What though no weeping Loves thy ashes grace,Nor polished marble emulate thy face?60What though no sacred earth allow thee room,Nor hallowed dirge be muttered o’er thy tomb?Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be drest,And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:There shall the Morn her earliest tears bestow,65There the first roses of the year shall blow;While angels with their silver wings o’ershadeThe ground now sacred by thy relics made.So, peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame.70How loved, how honoured once, avails thee not,To whom related, or by whom begot;A heap of dust alone remains of thee;’Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung,75Deaf the praised ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.Even he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays,Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays;Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part,And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart,80Life’s idle business at one gasp be o’er,The Muse forgot, and thou beloved no more!Alexander Pope.

What beckoning ghost, along the moonlight shade,

Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?

’Tis she!—but why that bleeding bosom gored,

Why dimly gleams the visionary sword?

Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,5

Is it, in heaven, a crime to love too well?

To bear too tender, or too firm a heart,

To act a lovers, or a Roman’s part?

Is there no bright reversion in the sky,

For those who greatly think, or bravely die?10

Why bade ye else, ye Powers! her soul aspire

Above the vulgar flight of low desire?

Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes:

The glorious fault of angels and of gods:

Thence to their images on earth it flows,15

And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows.

Most souls, ’tis true, but peep out once an age,

Dull sullen prisoners in the body’s cage:

Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years,

Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres;20

Like eastern kings a lazy state they keep,

And, close confined to their own palace, sleep.

From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die)

Fate snatched her early to the pitying sky.

As into air the purer spirits flow,25

And separate from their kindred dregs below;

So flew the soul to its congenial place,

Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.

But thou, false guardian of a charge too good,

Thou, mean deserter of thy brother’s blood!30

See on these ruby lips the trembling breath,

These cheeks now fading at the blast of death;

Cold is that breast which warmed the world before,

And those love-darting eyes must roll no more.

Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball,35

Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall;

On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,

And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates;

There passengers shall stand, and pointing say,

(While the long funerals blacken all the way)40

Lo! these were they, whose souls the Furies steeled,

And curst with hearts unknowing how to yield.

Thus unlamented pass the proud away,

The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!

So perish all, whose breast ne’er learned to glow45

For others’ good, or melt at others’ woe.

What can atone (O ever injured shade!)

Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid?

No friend’s complaint, no kind domestic tear,

Pleased thy pale ghost, or graced thy mournful bier:50

By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed,

By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed,

By foreign hands thy humble grave adorned,

By strangers honoured, and by strangers mourned!

What though no friends in sable weeds appear;55

Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,

And bear about the mockery of woe

To midnight dances, and the public show?

What though no weeping Loves thy ashes grace,

Nor polished marble emulate thy face?60

What though no sacred earth allow thee room,

Nor hallowed dirge be muttered o’er thy tomb?

Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be drest,

And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:

There shall the Morn her earliest tears bestow,65

There the first roses of the year shall blow;

While angels with their silver wings o’ershade

The ground now sacred by thy relics made.

So, peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,

What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame.70

How loved, how honoured once, avails thee not,

To whom related, or by whom begot;

A heap of dust alone remains of thee;

’Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!

Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung,75

Deaf the praised ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.

Even he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays,

Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays;

Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part,

And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart,80

Life’s idle business at one gasp be o’er,

The Muse forgot, and thou beloved no more!

Alexander Pope.

A PRACTISER IN PHYSIC.

Condemned to Hope’s delusive mine,As on we toil from day to day,By sudden blasts, or slow decline,Our social comforts drop away.Well tried through many a varying year,5See Levet to the grave descend,Officious, innocent, sincere,Of every friendless name the friend.Yet still he fills affection’s eye,Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind;10Nor, lettered Arrogance, denyThy praise to merit unrefined.When fainting nature called for aid,And hovering death prepared the blow,His vigorous remedy displayed15The power of art without the show.In Misery’s darkest cavern known,His useful care was ever nigh,Where hopeless Anguish poured his groan,And lonely Want retired to die.20No summons mocked by chill delay,No petty gain disdained by pride,The modest wants of every dayThe toil of every day supplied.His virtues walked their narrow round,25Nor made a pause, nor left a void;And sure the Eternal Master foundThe single talent well employed.The busy day—the peaceful night,Unfelt, uncounted, glided by;30His frame was firm, his powers were bright,Though now his eightieth year was nigh.Then with no fiery throbbing pain,No cold gradations of decay,Death broke at once the vital chain,35And freed his soul the nearest way.Samuel Johnson.

Condemned to Hope’s delusive mine,As on we toil from day to day,By sudden blasts, or slow decline,Our social comforts drop away.

Condemned to Hope’s delusive mine,

As on we toil from day to day,

By sudden blasts, or slow decline,

Our social comforts drop away.

Well tried through many a varying year,5See Levet to the grave descend,Officious, innocent, sincere,Of every friendless name the friend.

Well tried through many a varying year,5

See Levet to the grave descend,

Officious, innocent, sincere,

Of every friendless name the friend.

Yet still he fills affection’s eye,Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind;10Nor, lettered Arrogance, denyThy praise to merit unrefined.

Yet still he fills affection’s eye,

Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind;10

Nor, lettered Arrogance, deny

Thy praise to merit unrefined.

When fainting nature called for aid,And hovering death prepared the blow,His vigorous remedy displayed15The power of art without the show.

When fainting nature called for aid,

And hovering death prepared the blow,

His vigorous remedy displayed15

The power of art without the show.

In Misery’s darkest cavern known,His useful care was ever nigh,Where hopeless Anguish poured his groan,And lonely Want retired to die.20

In Misery’s darkest cavern known,

His useful care was ever nigh,

Where hopeless Anguish poured his groan,

And lonely Want retired to die.20

No summons mocked by chill delay,No petty gain disdained by pride,The modest wants of every dayThe toil of every day supplied.

No summons mocked by chill delay,

No petty gain disdained by pride,

The modest wants of every day

The toil of every day supplied.

His virtues walked their narrow round,25Nor made a pause, nor left a void;And sure the Eternal Master foundThe single talent well employed.

His virtues walked their narrow round,25

Nor made a pause, nor left a void;

And sure the Eternal Master found

The single talent well employed.

The busy day—the peaceful night,Unfelt, uncounted, glided by;30His frame was firm, his powers were bright,Though now his eightieth year was nigh.

The busy day—the peaceful night,

Unfelt, uncounted, glided by;30

His frame was firm, his powers were bright,

Though now his eightieth year was nigh.

Then with no fiery throbbing pain,No cold gradations of decay,Death broke at once the vital chain,35And freed his soul the nearest way.Samuel Johnson.

Then with no fiery throbbing pain,

No cold gradations of decay,

Death broke at once the vital chain,35

And freed his soul the nearest way.

Samuel Johnson.

Ye banks and braes and streams aroundThe castle o’ Montgomery,Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,Your waters never drumlie!There simmer first unfauld her robes,5And there the langest tarry;For there I took the last fareweelO’ my sweet Highland Mary.How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk,How rich the hawthorn’s blossom,10As underneath their fragrant shadeI clasped her to my bosom!The golden hours on angel wingsFlew o’er me and my dearie;For dear to me as light and life15Was my sweet Highland Mary.Wi’ mony a vow and locked embraceOur parting was fu’ tender;And pledging aft to meet again,We tore oursels asunder;20But, oh! fell Deaths 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,25I aft hae kissed sae fondly!And closed for aye the sparkling glanceThat dwelt on me sae kindly;And mouldering now in silent dustThat heart that lo’ed me dearly!30But still within my bosom’s coreShall live my Highland Mary.Robert Burns

Ye banks and braes and streams around

The castle o’ Montgomery,

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,

Your waters never drumlie!

There simmer first unfauld her robes,5

And there the langest tarry;

For there I took the last fareweel

O’ my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk,How rich the hawthorn’s blossom,10As underneath their fragrant shadeI clasped her to my bosom!The golden hours on angel wingsFlew o’er me and my dearie;For dear to me as light and life15Was my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk,

How rich the hawthorn’s blossom,10

As underneath their fragrant shade

I clasped her to my bosom!

The golden hours on angel wings

Flew o’er me and my dearie;

For dear to me as light and life15

Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi’ mony a vow and locked embraceOur parting was fu’ tender;And pledging aft to meet again,We tore oursels asunder;20But, oh! fell Deaths untimely frost,That nipt my flower sae early!Now green’s the sod, and cauld’s the clay,That wraps my Highland Mary!

Wi’ mony a vow and locked embrace

Our parting was fu’ tender;

And pledging aft to meet again,

We tore oursels asunder;20

But, oh! fell Deaths 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,25I aft hae kissed sae fondly!And closed for aye the sparkling glanceThat dwelt on me sae kindly;And mouldering now in silent dustThat heart that lo’ed me dearly!30But still within my bosom’s coreShall live my Highland Mary.Robert Burns

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,25

I aft hae kissed 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!30

But still within my bosom’s core

Shall live my Highland Mary.

Robert Burns

Obscurest night involved the sky;The Atlantic billows roared,When such a destined wretch as I,Washed headlong from on board,Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,5His floating home for ever left.No braver chief could Albion boast,Than he, with whom he went,Nor ever ship left Albion’s coastWith warmer wishes sent.10He loved them both, but both in vain,Nor him beheld, nor her again.Not long beneath the whelming brine,Expert to swim, he lay:Nor soon he felt his strength decline,15Or courage die away;But waged with death a lasting strife,Supported by despair of life.He shouted; nor his friends had failedTo check the vessel’s course,20But so the furious blast prevailed,That, pitiless perforce,They left their outcast mate behind,And scudded still before the wind.Some succour yet they could afford;25And, such as storms allow,The cask, the coop, the floated cord,Delayed not to bestow.But he, they knew, nor ship nor shore,Whate’er they gave, should visit more.30Nor, cruel as it seemed, could heTheir haste himself condemn,Aware that flight, in such a sea,Alone could rescue them;Yet bitter felt it still to die35Deserted, and his friends so nigh.He long survives, who lives an hourIn ocean, self-upheld:And so long he, with unspent power,His destiny repelled:40And ever as the minutes flew,Entreated help, or cried—‘Adieu!’At length, his transient respite past,His comrades, who beforeHad heard his voice in every blast,45Could catch the sound no more.For then by toil subdued, he drankThe stifling wave, and then he sank.No poet wept him; but the pageOf narrative sincere,50That tells his name, his worth, his age,Is wet with Anson’s tear.And tears by bards or heroes shedAlike immortalize the dead.I therefore purpose not, or dream,55Descanting on his fate,To give the melancholy themeA more enduring date;But misery still delights to traceIts semblance in another’s case.60No voice divine the storm allayed,No light propitious shone,When snatched from all effectual aidWe perished, each alone:But I beneath a rougher sea,65And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.William Cowper.

Obscurest night involved the sky;The Atlantic billows roared,When such a destined wretch as I,Washed headlong from on board,Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,5His floating home for ever left.

Obscurest night involved the sky;

The Atlantic billows roared,

When such a destined wretch as I,

Washed headlong from on board,

Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,5

His floating home for ever left.

No braver chief could Albion boast,Than he, with whom he went,Nor ever ship left Albion’s coastWith warmer wishes sent.10He loved them both, but both in vain,Nor him beheld, nor her again.

No braver chief could Albion boast,

Than he, with whom he went,

Nor ever ship left Albion’s coast

With warmer wishes sent.10

He loved them both, but both in vain,

Nor him beheld, nor her again.

Not long beneath the whelming brine,Expert to swim, he lay:Nor soon he felt his strength decline,15Or courage die away;But waged with death a lasting strife,Supported by despair of life.

Not long beneath the whelming brine,

Expert to swim, he lay:

Nor soon he felt his strength decline,15

Or courage die away;

But waged with death a lasting strife,

Supported by despair of life.

He shouted; nor his friends had failedTo check the vessel’s course,20But so the furious blast prevailed,That, pitiless perforce,They left their outcast mate behind,And scudded still before the wind.

He shouted; nor his friends had failed

To check the vessel’s course,20

But so the furious blast prevailed,

That, pitiless perforce,

They left their outcast mate behind,

And scudded still before the wind.

Some succour yet they could afford;25And, such as storms allow,The cask, the coop, the floated cord,Delayed not to bestow.But he, they knew, nor ship nor shore,Whate’er they gave, should visit more.30

Some succour yet they could afford;25

And, such as storms allow,

The cask, the coop, the floated cord,

Delayed not to bestow.

But he, they knew, nor ship nor shore,

Whate’er they gave, should visit more.30

Nor, cruel as it seemed, could heTheir haste himself condemn,Aware that flight, in such a sea,Alone could rescue them;Yet bitter felt it still to die35Deserted, and his friends so nigh.

Nor, cruel as it seemed, could he

Their haste himself condemn,

Aware that flight, in such a sea,

Alone could rescue them;

Yet bitter felt it still to die35

Deserted, and his friends so nigh.

He long survives, who lives an hourIn ocean, self-upheld:And so long he, with unspent power,His destiny repelled:40And ever as the minutes flew,Entreated help, or cried—‘Adieu!’

He long survives, who lives an hour

In ocean, self-upheld:

And so long he, with unspent power,

His destiny repelled:40

And ever as the minutes flew,

Entreated help, or cried—‘Adieu!’

At length, his transient respite past,His comrades, who beforeHad heard his voice in every blast,45Could catch the sound no more.For then by toil subdued, he drankThe stifling wave, and then he sank.

At length, his transient respite past,

His comrades, who before

Had heard his voice in every blast,45

Could catch the sound no more.

For then by toil subdued, he drank

The stifling wave, and then he sank.

No poet wept him; but the pageOf narrative sincere,50That tells his name, his worth, his age,Is wet with Anson’s tear.And tears by bards or heroes shedAlike immortalize the dead.

No poet wept him; but the page

Of narrative sincere,50

That tells his name, his worth, his age,

Is wet with Anson’s tear.

And tears by bards or heroes shed

Alike immortalize the dead.

I therefore purpose not, or dream,55Descanting on his fate,To give the melancholy themeA more enduring date;But misery still delights to traceIts semblance in another’s case.60

I therefore purpose not, or dream,55

Descanting on his fate,

To give the melancholy theme

A more enduring date;

But misery still delights to trace

Its semblance in another’s case.60

No voice divine the storm allayed,No light propitious shone,When snatched from all effectual aidWe perished, each alone:But I beneath a rougher sea,65And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.William Cowper.

No voice divine the storm allayed,

No light propitious shone,

When snatched from all effectual aid

We perished, each alone:

But I beneath a rougher sea,65

And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.

William Cowper.

I’m wearing awa’, John,Like snaw when its thaw, John,I’m wearing awa’To the land o’ the leal.There’s nae sorrow there, John,5There’s neither cauld nor care, John,The day is aye fairIn the land o’ the leal.Ye were aye leal and true, John,Your task’s ended noo, John,10And I’ll welcome youTo the land o’ the leal.Our bonnie bairn’s there, John,She was baith guid and fair, John;Oh we grudged her right sair15To the land o’ the leal!Then dry that tearfu’ e’e, John,My soul langs to be free, John,And angels wait on meTo the land o’ the leal.20Now fare ye weel, my ain John,This warld’s care is vain, John;We’ll meet and aye be fainIn the land o’ the leal.Lady Nairn.

I’m wearing awa’, John,

Like snaw when its thaw, John,

I’m wearing awa’

To the land o’ the leal.

There’s nae sorrow there, John,5

There’s neither cauld nor care, John,

The day is aye fair

In the land o’ the leal.

Ye were aye leal and true, John,Your task’s ended noo, John,10And I’ll welcome youTo the land o’ the leal.Our bonnie bairn’s there, John,She was baith guid and fair, John;Oh we grudged her right sair15To the land o’ the leal!

Ye were aye leal and true, John,

Your task’s ended noo, John,10

And I’ll welcome you

To the land o’ the leal.

Our bonnie bairn’s there, John,

She was baith guid and fair, John;

Oh we grudged her right sair15

To the land o’ the leal!

Then dry that tearfu’ e’e, John,My soul langs to be free, John,And angels wait on meTo the land o’ the leal.20Now fare ye weel, my ain John,This warld’s care is vain, John;We’ll meet and aye be fainIn the land o’ the leal.Lady Nairn.

Then dry that tearfu’ e’e, John,

My soul langs to be free, John,

And angels wait on me

To the land o’ the leal.20

Now fare ye weel, my ain John,

This warld’s care is vain, John;

We’ll meet and aye be fain

In the land o’ the leal.

Lady Nairn.

The 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,5And all the air a solemn stillness holds,Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;Save that from yonder ivy-mantled towerThe moping owl does to the moon complain10Of such, as wandering near her secret bower,Molest her ancient solitary reign.Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade,Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,15The 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.20For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,Or busy housewife ply her evening care:No children run to lisp their sire’s return,Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,25Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:How jocund did they drive their team afield!How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;30Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smileThe short and simple annals of the poor.The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,Await alike the inevitable hour;35The paths of glory lead but to the grave.Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,If memory o’er their tomb no trophies raise,Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vaultThe pealing anthem swells the note of praise.40Can 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 laid45Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed,Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,Rich with the spoils of time, did ne’er unroll;50Chill penury repressed their noble rage,And froze the genial current of the soul.Full many a gem of purest ray sereneThe dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear:Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,55And waste its sweetness on the desert air.Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breastThe little tyrant of his fields withstood;Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,Some Cromwell guiltless of his country’s blood.60The applause of listening senates to command,The threats of pain and ruin to despise,To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land,And read their history in a nation’s eyes,Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone65Their 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,70Or heap the shrine of luxury and prideWith incense kindled at the Muse’s flame.Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,Their sober wishes never learned to stray;Along the cool sequestered vale of life75They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.Yet e’en these bones from insult to protectSome frail memorial still erected nigh,With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.80Their names, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse,The place of fame and elegy supply;And many a holy text around she strews,That teach the rustic moralist to die.For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,85This pleasing anxious being e’er resigned,Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?On some fond breast the parting soul relies,Some pious drops the closing eye requires;90E’en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,E’en in our ashes live their wonted fires.For thee, who, mindful of the unhonoured dead,Dost in these lines their artless tales relate;If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,95Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,‘Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn,Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.100‘There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,His listless length at noontide would he stretch,And pore upon the brook that babbles by.‘Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,105Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn,Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.‘One morn, I missed him on the customed hill,Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;110Another 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 churchway path we saw him borne:Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,115Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.’

The 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.

The 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,5And all the air a solemn stillness holds,Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,5

And all the air a solemn stillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled towerThe moping owl does to the moon complain10Of such, as wandering near her secret bower,Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower

The moping owl does to the moon complain10

Of such, as wandering near her secret bower,

Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade,Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,15The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade,

Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,15

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.20

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.20

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.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,

Or busy housewife ply her evening care:

No children run to lisp their sire’s return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,25Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:How jocund did they drive their team afield!How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,25

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:

How jocund did they drive their team afield!

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;30Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smileThe short and simple annals of the poor.

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;30

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile

The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,Await alike the inevitable hour;35The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,

Await alike the inevitable hour;35

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,If memory o’er their tomb no trophies raise,Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vaultThe pealing anthem swells the note of praise.40

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,

If memory o’er their tomb no trophies raise,

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.40

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?

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 laid45Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed,Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid45

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;

Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed,

Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,Rich with the spoils of time, did ne’er unroll;50Chill penury repressed their noble rage,And froze the genial current of the soul.

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,

Rich with the spoils of time, did ne’er unroll;50

Chill penury repressed their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray sereneThe dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear:Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,55And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene

The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear:

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,55

And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breastThe little tyrant of his fields withstood;Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,Some Cromwell guiltless of his country’s blood.60

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast

The little tyrant of his fields withstood;

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,

Some Cromwell guiltless of his country’s blood.60

The applause of listening senates to command,The threats of pain and ruin to despise,To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land,And read their history in a nation’s eyes,

The applause of listening senates to command,

The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land,

And read their history in a nation’s eyes,

Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone65Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;

Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone65

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,70Or heap the shrine of luxury and prideWith incense kindled at the Muse’s flame.

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,

To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,70

Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride

With incense kindled at the Muse’s flame.

Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,Their sober wishes never learned to stray;Along the cool sequestered vale of life75They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.

Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,

Their sober wishes never learned to stray;

Along the cool sequestered vale of life75

They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.

Yet e’en these bones from insult to protectSome frail memorial still erected nigh,With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.80

Yet e’en these bones from insult to protect

Some frail memorial still erected nigh,

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.80

Their names, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse,The place of fame and elegy supply;And many a holy text around she strews,That teach the rustic moralist to die.

Their names, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse,

The place of fame and elegy supply;

And many a holy text around she strews,

That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,85This pleasing anxious being e’er resigned,Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,85

This pleasing anxious being e’er resigned,

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,

Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,Some pious drops the closing eye requires;90E’en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,E’en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,

Some pious drops the closing eye requires;90

E’en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,

E’en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of the unhonoured dead,Dost in these lines their artless tales relate;If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,95Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

For thee, who, mindful of the unhonoured dead,

Dost in these lines their artless tales relate;

If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,95

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,‘Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn,Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.100

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,

‘Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn,

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.100

‘There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,His listless length at noontide would he stretch,And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

‘There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,

That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,

His listless length at noontide would he stretch,

And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

‘Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,105Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn,Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.

‘Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,105

Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;

Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn,

Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.

‘One morn, I missed him on the customed hill,Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;110Another came, nor yet beside the rill,Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

‘One morn, I missed him on the customed hill,

Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;110

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 churchway path we saw him borne:Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,115Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.’

‘The next with dirges due in sad array,

Slow through the churchway path we saw him borne:

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,115

Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.’

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