Richard Jago. 1715-1781
452. Absence
WITH leaden foot Time creeps alongWhile Delia is away:With her, nor plaintive was the song,Nor tedious was the day.
Ah, envious Pow'r! reverse my doom;Now double thy career,Strain ev'ry nerve, stretch ev'ry plume,And rest them when she 's here!
Thomas Gray. 1716-1771
453. Elegy written in a Country Churchyard
THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,The plowman homeward plods his weary way,And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,And all the air a solemn stillness holds,Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'rThe moping owl does to the moon complainOf such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r,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 for ever laid,The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,Or busy housewife ply her evening care:No children run to lisp their sire's return,Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:How jocund did they drive their team afield!How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smileThe short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,Awaits alike th' inevitable hour:The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault,If Memory o'er their Tomb no Trophies raise,Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vaultThe pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn or animated bustBack to its mansion call the fleeting breath?Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of death?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laidSome 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 pageRich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray sereneThe 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 breastThe little tyrant of his fields withstood,Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.
Th' 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 aloneTheir glowing 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 PrideWith 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 lifeThey kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protectSome frail memorial still erected nigh,With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse,The place of fame and elegy supply:And many a holy text around she strews,That teach the rustic moralist to die.
For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,Nor cast one longing 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 dawnBrushing with hasty steps the dews awayTo meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
'There at the foot of yonder nodding beechThat 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,Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove,Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.
'One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,Along the heath and near his fav'rite 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 arraySlow through the church-way path we saw him borne.Approach and read (for thou canst read) the layGraved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn:'
Here rests his head upon the lap of EarthA Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,Heav'n did a recompense as largely send:He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear,He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.
No farther seek his merits to disclose,Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,(There they alike in trembling hope repose,)The bosom of his Father and his God.
Thomas Gray. 1716-1771
454. The Curse upon Edward
WEAVE the warp, and weave the woof,The winding-sheet of Edward's race.Give ample room, and verge enoughThe characters of hell to trace.Mark the year, and mark the night,When Severn shall re-echo with affrightThe shrieks of death, thro' Berkley's roofs that ring,Shrieks of an agonizing King!She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs,That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate,From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangsThe scourge of Heav'n. What terrors round him wait!Amazement in his van, with Flight combined,And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.
Mighty Victor, mighty Lord!Low on his funeral couch he lies!No pitying heart, no eye, affordA tear to grace his obsequies.Is the sable warrior fled?Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.The swarm that in thy noon tide beam were born?Gone to salute the rising morn.Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows,While proudly riding o'er the azure realmIn gallant trim the gilded vessel goes;Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm;Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway,That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey.
Fill high the sparkling bowl,The rich repast prepare;Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast:Close by the regal chairFell Thirst and Famine scowlA baleful smile upon their baffled guest.Heard ye the din of battle bray,Lance to lance, and horse to horse?Long years of havoc urge their destined course,And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way.Ye Towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,With many a foul and midnight murder fed,Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame,And spare the meek usurper's holy head.Above, below, the rose of snow,Twined with her blushing foe, we spread:The bristled boar in infant-goreWallows beneath the thorny shade.Now, brothers, bending o'er th' accursed loomStamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.
Edward, lo! to sudden fate(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun)Half of thy heart we consecrate.(The web is wove. The work is done.)
Thomas Gray. 1716-1771
455. The Progress of Poesy A PINDARIC ODE
AWAKE, Aeolian 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,Drink life and fragrance as they flow.Now the rich stream of music winds alongDeep, majestic, smooth, and strong,Thro' verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign:Now rolling down the steep amain,Headlong, impetuous, see it pour;The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar.
O Sovereign of the willing soul,Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs,Enchanting shell! the sullen CaresAnd frantic Passions hear thy soft controul.On Thracia's hills the Lord of WarHas curb'd the fury of his car,And dropp'd his thirsty lance at thy command.Perching on the sceptred handOf Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd kingWith ruffled plumes and flagging wing:Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lieThe terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye.
Thee the voice, the dance, obey,Temper'd to thy warbled lay.O'er Idalia's velvet-greenThe rosy-crowned Loves are seenOn Cytherea's dayWith antic Sports, and blue-eyed Pleasures,Frisking light in frolic measures;Now pursuing, now retreating,Now in circling troops they meet:To brisk notes in cadence beating,Glance their many-twinkling feet.Slow melting strains their Queen's approach declare:Where'er she turns the Graces homage pay.With arms sublime, that float upon the air,In gliding state she wins her easy way:O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom moveThe bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.
Man's feeble race what ills await,Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain,Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train,And Death, sad refuge from the storms of fate!The fond complaint, my song, disprove,And justify the laws of Jove.Say, has he giv'n in vain the heav'nly Muse?Night, and all her sickly dews,Her sceptres wan, and birds of boding cry,He gives to range the dreary sky:Till down the eastern cliffs afarHyperion's march they spy, and glitt'ring shafts of war.
In climes beyond the solar road,Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam,The Muse has broke the twilight gloomTo cheer the shiv'ring native's dull abode,And oft, beneath the od'rous shadeOf Chili's boundless forests laid,She deigns to hear the savage youth repeatIn loose numbers wildly sweetTheir feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky loves.Her track, where'er the Goddess roves,Glory pursue, and generous Shame,Th' unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy flame.
Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep,Isles, that crown th' Aegean deep,Fields, that cool Ilissus laves,Or where Maeander's amber wavesIn lingering lab'rinths creep,How do your tuneful echoes languish,Mute, but to the voice of anguish?Where each old poetic mountainInspiration breathed around:Ev'ry shade and hallow'd fountainMurmur'd deep a solemn sound:Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour,Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains.Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power,And coward Vice, that revels in her chains.When Latium had her lofty spirit lost,They sought, O Albion! next, thy sea-encircled coast.
Far from the sun and summer gale,In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid,What time, where lucid Avon stray'd,To Him the mighty mother did unveilHer awful face: the dauntless childStretch'd forth his little arms, and smiled.This pencil take (she said), whose colours clearRichly paint the vernal year:Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy!This can unlock the gates of joy;Of horror that, and thrilling fears,Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.
Nor second he, that rode sublimeUpon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy,The secrets of th' abyss to spy.He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time:The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze,Where Angels tremble while they gaze,He saw; but blasted with excess of light,Closed his eyes in endless night.Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car,Wide o'er the fields of glory bearTwo coursers of ethereal race,With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding pace.
Hark, his hands the lyre explore!Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o'erScatters from her pictured urnThoughts that breathe, and words that burn.But ah! 'tis heard no more——O Lyre divine! what daring SpiritWakes thee now? Tho' he inheritNor the pride, nor ample pinion,That the Theban eagle bearSailing with supreme dominionThro' the azure deep of air:Yet oft before his infant eyes would runSuch forms as glitter in the Muse's ray,With orient hues, unborrow'd of the Sun:Yet 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. 1716-1771
456. On a Favourite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes
TWAS on a lofty vase's side,Where China's gayest art had dyedThe azure flowers that blow;Demurest of the tabby kind,The pensive Selima reclined,Gazed on the lake below.
Her conscious tail her joy declared;The fair round face, the snowy beard,The velvet of her paws,Her coat, that with the tortoise vies,Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,She saw; and purr'd applause.
Still had she gazed; but 'midst the tideTwo angel forms were seen to glide,The Genii of the stream:Their scaly armour's Tyrian hueThro' richest purple to the viewBetray'd a golden gleam.
The hapless Nymph with wonder saw:A whisker first and then a claw,With many an ardent wish,She stretch'd in vain to reach the prize.What female heart can gold despise?What Cat 's averse to fish?
Presumptuous Maid! with looks intentAgain she stretch'd, again she bent,Nor knew the gulf between.(Malignant Fate sat by, and smiled.)The slipp'ry verge her feet beguiled,She tumbled headlong in.
Eight times emerging from the floodShe mew'd to ev'ry wat'ry god,Some speedy aid to send.No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd:Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard.A Fav'rite has no friend!
From hence, ye Beauties, undeceived,Know, one false step is ne'er retrieved,And be with caution bold.Not all that tempts your wand'ring eyesAnd heedless hearts, is lawful prize;Nor all that glisters, gold.
William Collins. 1721-1759
457. Ode to Simplicity
O THOU, by Nature taughtTo breathe her genuine thoughtIn numbers warmly pure and sweetly strong:Who first on mountains wild,In Fancy, loveliest child,Thy babe and Pleasure's, nursed the pow'rs of song!
Thou, who with hermit heartDisdain'st the wealth of art,And gauds, and pageant weeds, and trailing pall:But com'st a decent maid,In Attic robe array'd,O chaste, unboastful nymph, to thee I call!
By all the honey'd storeOn Hybla's thymy shore,By all her blooms and mingled murmurs dear,By her whose love-lorn woe,In evening musings slow,Soothed sweetly sad Electra's poet's ear:
By old Cephisus deep,Who spread his wavy sweepIn warbled wand'rings round thy green retreat;On whose enamell'd side,When holy Freedom died,No equal haunt allured thy future feet!
O sister meek of Truth,To my admiring youthThy sober aid and native charms infuse!The flow'rs that sweetest breathe,Though beauty cull'd the wreath,Still ask thy hand to range their order'd hues.
While Rome could none esteem,But virtue's patriot theme,You loved her hills, and led her laureate band;But stay'd to sing aloneTo one distinguish'd throne,And turn'd thy face, and fled her alter'd land.
No more, in hall or bow'r,The passions own thy pow'r.Love, only Love her forceless numbers mean;For thou hast left her shrine,Nor olive more, nor vine,Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile scene.
Though taste, though genius blessTo some divine excess,Faint 's the cold work till thou inspire the whole;What each, what all supply,May court, may charm our eye,Thou, only thou, canst raise the meeting soul!
Of these let others ask,To aid some mighty task,I only seek to find thy temperate vale;Where oft my reed might soundTo maids and shepherds round,And all thy sons, O Nature, learn my tale.
William Collins. 1721-1759
458. How sleep the Brave
HOW sleep the brave, who sink to restBy all their country's wishes blest!When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,She there shall dress a sweeter sodThan Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung;By forms unseen their dirge is sung;There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey,To bless the turf that wraps their clay;And Freedom shall awhile repairTo dwell, a weeping hermit, there!
William Collins. 1721-1759
459. Ode to Evening
IF aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,Like thy own solemn springs,Thy springs and dying gales;
O nymph reserved, while now the bright-hair'd sunSits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,With brede ethereal wove,O'erhang his wavy bed:
Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed batWith short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing,Or where the beetle windsHis small but sullen horn,
As oft he rises, 'midst the twilight pathAgainst the pilgrim borne in heedless hum:Now teach me, maid composed,To breathe some soften'd strain,
Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale,May not unseemly with its stillness suit,As musing slow, I hailThy genial loved return!
For when thy folding-star arising showsHis paly circlet, at his warning lampThe fragrant hours, and elvesWho slept in buds the day,
And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge,And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still,The pensive pleasures sweet,Prepare thy shadowy car:
Then lead, calm votaress, where some sheety lakeCheers the lone heath, or some time-hallow'd pile,Or upland fallows greyReflect its last cool gleam.
Or if chill blustering winds, or driving rain,Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hutThat from the mountain's sideViews wilds and swelling floods,
And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires,And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er allThy dewy fingers drawThe gradual dusky veil.
While Spring shall pour his show'rs, as oft he wont,And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!While Summer loves to sportBeneath thy lingering light;
While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves,Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,Affrights thy shrinking train,And rudely rends thy robes:
So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lipp'd HealthThy gentlest influence own,And hymn thy favourite name!
William Collins. 1721-1759
460. Fidele
TO fair Fidele's grassy tombSoft maids and village hinds shall bringEach opening sweet of earliest bloom,And rifle all the breathing Spring.
No wailing ghost shall dare appearTo vex with shrieks this quiet grove;But shepherd lads assemble here,And melting virgins own their love.
No wither'd 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 hoursShall kindly lend his little aid,With hoary moss, and gather'd flowers,To deck the ground where thou art laid.
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 mourn'd till Pity's self be dead.
Mark Akenside. 1721-1770
461. Amoret
IF rightly tuneful bards decide,If it be fix'd in Love's decrees,That Beauty ought not to be triedBut by its native power to please,Then tell me, youths and lovers, tell—What fair can Amoret excel?
Behold that bright unsullied smile,And wisdom speaking in her mien:Yet—she so artless all the while,So little studious to be seen—We naught but instant gladness know,Nor think to whom the gift we owe.
But neither music, nor the powersOf youth and mirth and frolic cheer,Add half the sunshine to the hours,Or make life's prospect half so clear,As memory brings it to the eyeFrom scenes where Amoret was by.
This, sure, is Beauty's happiest part;This gives the most unbounded sway;This shall enchant the subject heartWhen rose and lily fade away;And she be still, in spite of Time,Sweet Amoret in all her prime.
Mark Akenside. 1721-1770
462. The Complaint
AWAY! away!Tempt me no more, insidious Love:Thy soothing swayLong did my youthful bosom prove:At length thy treason is discern'd,At length some dear-bought caution earn'd:Away! nor hope my riper age to move.
I know, I seeHer merit. Needs it now be shown,Alas! to me?How often, to myself unknown,The graceful, gentle, virtuous maidHave I admired! How often said—What joy to call a heart like hers one's own!
But, flattering god,O squanderer of content and easeIn thy abodeWill care's rude lesson learn to please?O say, deceiver, hast thou wonProud Fortune to attend thy throne,Or placed thy friends above her stern decrees?
Mark Akenside. 1721-1770
463. The Nightingale
TO-NIGHT retired, the queen of heavenWith young Endymion stays;And now to Hesper it is givenAwhile to rule the vacant sky,Till she shall to her lamp supplyA stream of brighter rays.
Propitious send thy golden ray,Thou purest light above!Let no false flame seduce to strayWhere gulf or steep lie hid for harm;But lead where music's healing charmMay soothe afflicted love.
To them, by many a grateful songIn happier seasons vow'd,These lawns, Olympia's haunts, belong:Oft by yon silver stream we walk'd,Or fix'd, while Philomela talk'd,Beneath yon copses stood.
Nor seldom, where the beechen boughsThat roofless tower invade,We came, while her enchanting MuseThe radiant moon above us held:Till, by a clamorous owl compell'd,She fled the solemn shade.
But hark! I hear her liquid tone!Now Hesper guide my feet!Down the red marl with moss o'ergrown,Through yon wild thicket next the plain,Whose hawthorns choke the winding laneWhich leads to her retreat.
See the green space: on either handEnlarged it spreads around:See, in the midst she takes her stand,Where one old oak his awful shadeExtends o'er half the level mead,Enclosed in woods profound.
Hark! how through many a melting noteShe now prolongs her lays:How sweetly down the void they float!The breeze their magic path attends;The stars shine out; the forest bends;The wakeful heifers graze.
Whoe'er thou art whom chance may bringTo this sequester'd spot,If then the plaintive Siren sing,O softly tread beneath her bowerAnd think of Heaven's disposing power,Of man's uncertain lot.
O think, o'er all this mortal stageWhat mournful scenes arise:What ruin waits on kingly rage;How often virtue dwells with woe;How many griefs from knowledge flow;How swiftly pleasure flies!
O sacred bird! let me at eve,Thus wandering all alone,Thy tender counsel oft receive,Bear witness to thy pensive airs,And pity Nature's common cares,Till I forget my own.
Tobias George Smollett. 1721-1771
464. To Leven Water
PURE stream, in whose transparent waveMy youthful limbs I wont to lave;No torrents stain thy limpid source,No rocks impede thy dimpling courseDevolving from thy parent lakeA charming maze thy waters makeBy bowers of birch and groves of pineAnd edges flower'd with eglantine.
Still on thy banks so gaily greenMay 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 embrown'd with toil,And hearts resolved and hands preparedThe blessings they enjoy to guard.
Christopher Smart. 1722-1770
465. Song to David
SUBLIME—invention ever young,Of vast conception, tow'ring tongueTo God th' eternal theme;Notes from yon exaltations caught,Unrivall'd royalty of thoughtO'er meaner strains supreme.
His muse, bright angel of his verse,Gives balm for all the thorns that pierce,For all the pangs that rage;Blest light still gaining on the gloom,The more than Michal of his bloom,Th' Abishag of his age.
He sang of God—the mighty sourceOf all things—the stupendous forceOn which all strength depends;From whose right arm, beneath whose eyes,All period, power, and enterpriseCommences, reigns, and ends.
Tell them, I AM, Jehovah saidTo Moses; while earth heard in dread,And, smitten to the heart,At once above, beneath, around,All Nature, without voice or sound,Replied, O LORD, THOU ART.
The world, the clustering spheres, He made;The glorious light, the soothing shade,Dale, champaign, grove, and hill;The multitudinous abyss,Where Secrecy remains in bliss,And Wisdom hides her skill.
The pillars of the Lord are seven,Which stand from earth to topmost heaven;His Wisdom drew the plan;His Word accomplish'd the design,From brightest gem to deepest mine;From Christ enthroned, to Man.
For Adoration all the ranksOf Angels yield eternal thanks,And David in the midst;With God's good poor, which, last and leastIn man's esteem, Thou to Thy feast,O blessed Bridegroom, bidd'st!
For Adoration, David's PsalmsLift up the heart to deeds of alms;And he, who kneels and chants,Prevails his passions to control,Finds meat and medicine to the soul,Which for translation pants.
For Adoration, in the domeOf Christ, the sparrows find a home,And on His olives perch:The swallow also dwells with thee,O man of God's humility,Within his Saviour's church.
Sweet is the dew that falls betimes,And drops upon the leafy limes;Sweet Hermon's fragrant air:Sweet is the lily's silver bell,And sweet the wakeful tapers' smellThat watch for early prayer.
Sweet the young nurse, with love intense,Which smiles o'er sleeping innocence;Sweet, when the lost arrive:Sweet the musician's ardour beats,While his vague mind's in quest of sweets,The choicest flowers to hive.
Strong is the horse upon his speed;Strong in pursuit the rapid glede,Which makes at once his game:Strong the tall ostrich on the ground;Strong through the turbulent profoundShoots Xiphias to his aim.
Strong is the lion—like a coalHis eyeball,—like a bastion's moleHis chest against the foes:Strong, the gier-eagle on his sail;Strong against tide th' enormous whaleEmerges as he goes.
But stronger still, in earth and air,And in the sea, the man of prayer,And far beneath the tide:And in the seat to faith assign'd,Where ask is have, where seek is find,Where knock is open wide.
Precious the penitential tear;And precious is the sigh sincere,Acceptable to God:And precious are the winning flowers,In gladsome Israel's feast of bowersBound on the hallow'd sod.
Glorious the sun in mid career;Glorious th' assembled fires appear;Glorious the comet's train:Glorious the trumpet and alarm;Glorious the Almighty's stretched-out arm;Glorious th' enraptured main:
Glorious the northern lights astream;Glorious the song, when God 's the theme;Glorious the thunder's roar:Glorious Hosanna from the den;Glorious the catholic Amen;Glorious the martyr's gore:
Glorious—more glorious—is the crownOf Him that brought salvation down,By meekness call'd thy Son:Thou that stupendous truth believed;—And now the matchless deed 's achieved,Determined, dared, and done!
glede] kite. Xiphias] sword-fish.
Jane Elliot. 1727-1805
466. A Lament for Flodden
I'VE heard them lilting at our ewe-milking,Lasses a' lilting before dawn o' day;But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning—The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning,Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae;Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing,Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away.
In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray:At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching—The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
At e'en, in the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play;But ilk ane sits eerie, lamenting her dearie—The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border!The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,The prime of our land, lie cauld in the clay.
We'll hear nae mair lilting at our ewe-milking;Women and bairns are heartless and wae;Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning—The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
loaning] lane, field-track. wede] weeded. bughts] sheep-folds. daffing] joking. leglin] milk-pail. hairst] harvest. bandsters] binders. lyart] gray-haired. runkled] wrinkled. fleeching] coaxing. swankies] lusty lads. bogle] bogy, hide-and-seek. dool] mourning.
Oliver Goldsmith. 1728-1774
467. Woman
WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,And finds too late that men betray,What charm can soothe her melancholy?What art can wash her tears away?
The only art her guilt to cover,To hide her shame from ev'ry eye,To give repentance to her lover,And wring his bosom is—to die.
Oliver Goldsmith. 1728-1774
468. Memory
O MEMORY, thou fond deceiver,Still importunate and vain,To former joys recurring ever,And turning all the past to pain:
Thou, like the world, th' oppress'd oppressing,Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe:And he who wants each other blessingIn thee must ever find a foe.
Robert Cunninghame-Graham of Gartmore. 1735-1797
469. If Doughty Deeds
IF doughty deeds my lady please,Right soon I'll mount my steed;And strong his arm and fast his seat,That bears frae me the meed.I'll wear thy colours in my cap,Thy picture in my heart;And he that bends not to thine eyeShall rue it to his smart!Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;O tell me how to woo thee!For thy dear sake nae care I'll take,Tho' ne'er another trow me.
If gay attire delight thine eyeI'll dight me in array;I'll tend thy chamber door all night,And squire thee all the day.If sweetest sounds can win thine ear,These sounds I'll strive to catch;Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysel',That voice that nane can match.Then tell me how to woo thee, Love…
But if fond love thy heart can gain,I never broke a vow;Nae maiden lays her skaith to me,I never loved but you.For you alone I ride the ring,For you I wear the blue;For you alone I strive to sing,O tell me how to woo!Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;O tell me how to woo thee!For thy dear sake nae care I'll takeTho' ne'er another trow me.
William Cowper. 1731-1800
470. To Mary Unwin
MARY! I want a lyre with other strings,Such aid from Heaven as some have feign'd they drew,An eloquence scarce given to mortals, newAnd undebased by praise of meaner things;That ere through age or woe I shed my wings,I may record thy worth with honour due,In verse as musical as thou art true,And that immortalizes whom it sings:But thou hast little need. There is a BookBy seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light,On which the eyes of God not rarely look,A chronicle of actions just and bright—There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine;And since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.
William Cowper. 1731-1800
471. My Mary
THE twentieth year is wellnigh pastSince 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 fulfilThe same kind office for me still,Thy sight now seconds not thy will,My Mary!
But well thou play'dst the housewife's part,And all thy threads with magic artHave wound themselves about this heart,My Mary!
Thy indistinct expressions seemLike language utter'd in a dream;Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,My Mary!
Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,Are still more lovely in my sightThan golden beams of orient light,My Mary!
For could I view nor them nor thee,What sight worth seeing could I see?The sun would rise in vain for me.My Mary!
Partakers of thy sad decline,Thy hands their little force resign;Yet, gently press'd, press gently mine,My Mary!
Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st,That now at every step thou mov'stUpheld by two; yet still thou lov'st,My Mary!
And still to love, though press'd with ill,In wintry age to feel no chill,With me is to be lovely still,My Mary!
But ah! by constant heed I knowHow 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,Thy worn-out heart will break at last—My Mary!
James Beattie. 1735-1803
472. An Epitaph
LIKE thee I once have stemm'd the sea of life,Like thee have languish'd after empty joys,Like thee have labour'd in the stormy strife,Been grieved for trifles, and amused with toys.
Forget my frailties; thou art also frail:Forgive my lapses; for thyself may'st fall:Nor read unmoved my artless tender tale—I was a friend, O man, to thee, to all.
Isobel Pagan. 1740-1821
473. Ca' the Yowes to the Knowes
CA' the yowes to the knowes,Ca' them where the heather grows,Ca' them where the burnie rows,My bonnie dearie.
As I gaed down the water side,There I met my shepherd lad;He row'd me sweetly in his plaid,And he ca'd me his dearie.
'Will ye gang down the water side,And see the waves sae sweetly glideBeneath the hazels spreading wide?The moon it shines fu' clearly.'
'I was bred up at nae sic school,My shepherd lad, to play the fool,And a' the day to sit in dool,And naebody to see me.'
'Ye sall get gowns and ribbons meet,Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet,And in my arms ye'se lie and sleep,And ye sall be my dearie.'
'If ye'll but stand to what ye've said,I'se gang wi' you, my shepherd lad,And ye may row me in your plaid,And I sall be your dearie.'
'While waters wimple to the sea,While day blinks in the lift sae hie,Till clay-cauld death sall blin' my e'e,Ye aye sall be my dearie!'
yowes] ewes. knowes] knolls, little hills. rows] rolls. row'd] rolled, wrapped. dool] dule, sorrow. lift] sky.
Anna Laetitia Barbauld. 1743-1825
474. Life
LIFE! I know not what thou art,But know that thou and I must part;And when, or how, or where we met,I own to me 's a secret yet.But this I know, when thou art fled,Where'er they lay these limbs, this head,No clod so valueless shall beAs all that then remains of me.
O whither, whither dost thou fly?Where bend unseen thy trackless course?And in this strange divorce,Ah, tell where I must seek this compound I?To the vast ocean of empyreal flameFrom whence thy essence cameDost thou thy flight pursue, when freedFrom matter's base encumbering weed?Or dost thou, hid from sight,Wait, like some spell-bound knight,Through blank oblivious years th' appointed hourTo break thy trance and reassume thy power?Yet canst thou without thought or feeling be?O say, what art thou, when no more thou'rt thee?
Life! we have been long together,Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;'Tis hard to part when friends are dear;Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear;—Then steal away, give little warning,Choose thine own time;Say not Good-night, but in some brighter climeBid me Good-morning!
Fanny Greville. 18th Cent.
475. Prayer for Indifference
I ASK no kind return of love,No tempting charm to please;Far from the heart those gifts remove,That sighs for peace and ease.
Nor peace nor ease the heart can know,That, like the needle true,Turns at the touch of joy or woe,But turning, trembles too.
Far as distress the soul can wound,'Tis pain in each degree:'Tis bliss but to a certain bound,Beyond is agony.
John Logan. 1748-1788
476. To the Cuckoo
HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove!Thou messenger of Spring!Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,And woods thy welcome ring.
What time 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 theeI hail the time of flowers,And hear the sound of music sweetFrom birds among the bowers.
The schoolboy, wand'ring through the woodTo pull the primrose gay,Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear,And imitates thy lay.
What time the pea puts on the bloom,Thou fli'st 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!
O could I fly, I'd fly with thee!We'd make, with joyful wing,Our annual visit o'er the globe,Companions of the Spring.
Lady Anne Lindsay. 1750-1825
477. Auld Robin Gray
WHEN the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame,And a' the warld to rest are gane,The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e,While my gudeman lies sound by me.
Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride;But saving a croun he had naething else beside:To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea;And the croun and the pund were baith for me.
He hadna been awa' a week but only twa,When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown awa;My mother she fell sick,—and my Jamie at the sea—And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me.
My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin;I toil'd day and night, but their bread I couldna win;Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears in his e'eSaid, 'Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!'
My heart it said nay; I look'd for Jamie back;But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack;His ship it was a wrack—Why didna Jamie dee?Or why do I live to cry, Wae 's me?
My father urged me sair: my mother didna speak;But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break:They gi'ed him my hand, tho' my heart was in the sea;Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.
I hadna been a wife a week but only four,When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door,I saw my Jamie's wraith,—for I couldna think it he,Till he said, 'I'm come hame to marry thee.'
O sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say;We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves away:I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee;And why was I born to say, Wae 's me!
I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin;I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;But I'll do my best a gude wife aye to be,For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me.
Sir William Jones. 1746-1794
478. Epigram
ON parent knees, a naked new-born child,Weeping thou sat'st while all around thee smiled:So live, that sinking to thy life's last sleep,Calm thou may'st smile, whilst all around thee weep.
Thomas Chatterton. 1752-1770
479. Song from Aella
O SING unto my roundelay,O drop the briny tear with me;Dance no more at holyday,Like a running river be:My love is dead,Gone to his death-bedAll under the willow-tree.
Black his cryne as the winter night,White his rode as the summer snow,Red his face as the morning light,Cold he lies in the grave below:My love is dead,Gone to his death-bedAll under the willow-tree.
Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note,Quick in dance as thought can be,Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;O he lies by the willow-tree!My love is dead,Gone to his death-bedAll under the willow-tree.
Hark! the raven flaps his wingIn the brier'd dell below;Hark! the death-owl loud doth singTo the nightmares, as they go:My love is dead,Gone to his death-bedAll under the willow-tree.
See! the white moon shines on high;Whiter is my true-love's shroud:Whiter than the morning sky,Whiter than the evening cloud:My love is dead,Gone to his death-bedAll under the willow-tree.
Here upon my true-love's graveShall the barren flowers be laid;Not one holy saint to saveAll the coldness of a maid:My love is dead,Gone to his death-bedAll under the willow-tree.
With my hands I'll dent the briersRound his holy corse to gre:Ouph and fairy, light your fires,Here my body still shall be:My love is dead,Gone to his death-bedAll under the willow-tree.
Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,Drain my heartes blood away;Life and all its good I scorn,Dance by night, or feast by day:My love is dead,Gone to his death-bedAll under the willow-tree.
cryne] hair. rode] complexion. dent] fasten. gre] grow. ouph] elf.
George Crabbe. 1754-1832
480. Meeting
MY Damon was the first to wakeThe gentle flame that cannot die;My Damon is the last to takeThe faithful bosom's softest sigh:The life between is nothing worth,O cast it from thy thought away!Think of the day that gave it birth,And this its sweet returning day.
Buried be all that has been done,Or say that naught is done amiss;For who the dangerous path can shunIn such bewildering world as this?But love can every fault forgive,Or with a tender look reprove;And now let naught in memory liveBut that we meet, and that we love.
George Crabbe. 1754-1832
481. Late Wisdom
WE'VE trod the maze of error round,Long wandering in the winding glade;And now the torch of truth is found,It only shows us where we strayed:By long experience taught, we know—Can rightly judge of friends and foes;Can all the worth of these allow,And all the faults discern in those.
Now, 'tis our boast that we can quellThe wildest passions in their rage,Can their destructive force repel,And their impetuous wrath assuage.—Ah, Virtue! dost thou arm when nowThis bold rebellious race are fled?When all these tyrants rest, and thouArt warring with the mighty dead?
George Crabbe. 1754-1832
482. A Marriage Ring
THE ring, so worn as you behold,So thin, so pale, is yet of gold:The passion such it was to prove—Worn with life's care, love yet was love.
William Blake. 1757-1827
483. To the Muses
WHETHER on Ida's shady browOr in the chambers of the East,The chambers of the Sun, that nowFrom ancient melody have ceased;
Whether in heaven ye wander fair,Or the green corners of the earth,Or the blue regions of the airWhere the melodious winds have birth;
Whether on crystal rocks ye rove,Beneath the bosom of the sea,Wandering in many a coral grove;Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry;
How have you left the ancient loveThat bards of old enjoy'd in you!The languid strings do scarcely move,The sound is forced, the notes are few.
William Blake. 1757-1827
484. To Spring
O THOU with dewy locks, who lookest downThrough the clear windows of the morning, turnThine angel eyes upon our western isle,Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!
The hills tell one another, and the listeningValleys hear; all our longing eyes are turn'dUp to thy bright pavilions: issue forthAnd let thy holy feet visit our clime!
Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our windsKiss thy perfumed garments; let us tasteThy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearlsUpon our lovesick land that mourns for thee.
O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pourThy soft kisses on her bosom; and putThy golden crown upon her languish'd head,Whose modest tresses are bound up for thee.
William Blake. 1757-1827
485. Song
MY silks and fine array,My smiles and languish'd air,By Love are driven away;And mournful lean DespairBrings me yew to deck my grave:Such end true lovers have.
His face is fair as heavenWhen springing buds unfold:O why to him was 't given,Whose heart is wintry cold?His breast is Love's all-worshipp'd tomb,Where all Love's pilgrims come.
Bring me an axe and spade,Bring me a winding-sheet;When I my grave have made,Let winds and tempests beat:Then down I'll lie, as cold as clay:True love doth pass away!
William Blake. 1757-1827
486. Reeds of Innocence
PIPING down the valleys wild,Piping songs of pleasant glee,On a cloud I saw a child,And he laughing said to me:
'Pipe a song about a Lamb!'So I piped with merry cheer.'Piper, pipe that song again;'So I piped: he wept to hear.
'Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe;Sing thy songs of happy cheer!'So I sung the same again,While he wept with joy to hear.
'Piper, sit thee down and writeIn a book that all may read.'So he vanish'd from my sight;And I pluck'd a hollow reed,
And I made a rural pen,And I stain'd the water clear,And I wrote my happy songsEvery child may joy to hear.
William Blake. 1757-1827
487. The Little Black Boy
MY mother bore me in the southern wild,And I am black, but O, my soul is white!White as an angel is the English child,But I am black, as if bereaved of light.
My mother taught me underneath a tree,And, sitting down before the heat of day,She took me on her lap and kissed me,And, pointing to the East, began to say:
'Look at the rising sun: there God does live,And gives His light, and gives His heat away,And flowers and trees and beasts and men receiveComfort in morning, joy in the noonday.
'And we are put on earth a little space,That we may learn to bear the beams of love;And these black bodies and this sunburnt faceAre but a cloud, and like a shady grove.
'For when our souls have learn'd the heat to bear,The cloud will vanish; we shall hear His voice,Saying, "Come out from the grove, my love and care,And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice."'
Thus did my mother say, and kissed me,And thus I say to little English boy.When I from black and he from white cloud free,And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,
I'll shade him from the heat till he can bearTo lean in joy upon our Father's knee;And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair,And be like him, and he will then love me.
William Blake. 1757-1827
488. Hear the Voice
HEAR the voice of the Bard,Who present, past, and future, sees;Whose ears have heardThe Holy WordThat walk'd among the ancient trees;
Calling the lapsed soul,And weeping in the evening dew;That might controlThe starry pole,And fallen, fallen light renew!
'O Earth, O Earth, return!Arise from out the dewy grass!Night is worn,And the mornRises from the slumbrous mass.
'Turn away no more;Why wilt thou turn away?The starry floor,The watery shore,Is given thee till the break of day.'
William Blake. 1757-1827
489. The Tiger
TIGER, tiger, burning brightIn the forests of the night,What immortal hand or eyeCould frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skiesBurnt the fire of thine eyes?On what wings dare he aspire?What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder and what artCould twist the sinews of thy heart?And when thy heart began to beat,What dread hand and what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?In what furnace was thy brain?What the anvil? What dread graspDare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,And water'd heaven with their tears,Did He smile His work to see?Did He who made the lamb make thee?
Tiger, tiger, burning brightIn the forests of the night,What immortal hand or eyeDare frame thy fearful symmetry?
William Blake. 1757-1827
490. Cradle Song
SLEEP, sleep, beauty bright,Dreaming in the joys of night;Sleep, sleep; in thy sleepLittle sorrows sit and weep.
Sweet babe, in thy faceSoft desires I can trace,Secret joys and secret smiles,Little pretty infant wiles.
As thy softest limbs I feelSmiles as of the morning stealO'er thy cheek, and o'er thy breastWhere thy little heart doth rest.
O the cunning wiles that creepIn thy little heart asleep!When thy little heart doth wake,Then the dreadful night shall break.
William Blake. 1757-1827
491. Night
THE sun descending in the west,The evening star does shine;The birds are silent in their nest.And I must seek for mine.The moon, like a flowerIn heaven's high bower,With silent delightSits and smiles on the night.
Farewell, green fields and happy grove,Where flocks have took delight:Where lambs have nibbled, silent moveThe feet of angels bright;Unseen they pour blessingAnd joy without ceasingOn each bud and blossom,And each sleeping bosom.
They look in every thoughtless nestWhere birds are cover'd warm;They visit caves of every beast,To keep them all from harm:If they see any weepingThat should have been sleeping,They pour sleep on their head,And sit down by their bed.
When wolves and tigers howl for prey,They pitying stand and weep,Seeking to drive their thirst awayAnd keep them from the sheep.But, if they rush dreadful,The angels, most heedful,Receive each mild spirit,New worlds to inherit.
And there the lion's ruddy eyesShall flow with tears of gold:And pitying the tender cries,And walking round the fold:Saying, 'Wrath, by His meekness,And, by His health, sickness,Are driven awayFrom our immortal day.
'And now beside thee, bleating lamb,I can lie down and sleep,Or think on Him who bore thy name,Graze after thee, and weep.For, wash'd in life's river,My bright mane for everShall shine like the goldAs I guard o'er the fold.'
William Blake. 1757-1827
492. Love's Secret
NEVER seek to tell thy love,Love that never told can be;For the gentle wind doth moveSilently, invisibly.
I told my love, I told my love,I told her all my heart,Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears.Ah! she did depart!
Soon after she was gone from me,A traveller came by,Silently, invisibly:He took her with a sigh.
Robert Burns. 1759-1796
493. Mary Morison
O MARY, at thy window be,It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!Those smiles and glances let me see,That make the miser's treasure poor:How blythely wad I bide the stourA weary slave frae sun to sun,Could I the rich reward secure,The lovely Mary Morison!
Yestreen, when to the trembling stringThe dance gaed thro' the lighted ha',To thee my fancy took its wing,I sat, but neither heard nor saw:Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,And yon the toast of a' the town,I sigh'd, and said amang them a','Ye arena Mary Morison.'
O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?Or canst thou break that heart of his,Whase only faut is loving thee?If love for love thou wiltna gie,At least be pity to me shown;A thought ungentle canna beThe thought o' Mary Morison.
stour] dust, turmoil.
Robert Burns. 1759-1796
494. Jean
OF a' the airts the wind can blaw,I dearly like the west,For there the bonnie lassie lives,The lassie I lo'e best:There wild woods grow, and rivers row,And monie a hill between;But day and night my fancy's flightIs ever wi' my Jean.