155. JEAN.Of a' the airts the wind can blawI dearly like the West,For there the bonnie lassie lives,The lassie I lo'e best:There wild woods grow, and rivers row,And mony a hill between;But day and night my fancy's flightIs ever wi' my Jean.I see her in the dewy flowers,I see her sweet and fair:I hear her in the tunefu' birds,I hear her charm the air:There's not a bonnie flower that springs,By fountain, shaw, or green;There's not a bonnie bird that singsBut minds me o' my Jean.O blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saftAmang the leafy trees;Wi' balmy gale, frae hill and daleBring hame the laden bees;And bring the lassie back to meThat's aye sae neat and clean;Ae smile o' her wad banish care,Sae charming is my Jean.What sighs and vows amang the knowesHae pass'd atween us twa!How fond to meet, how wae to partThat night she gaed awa!The Powers aboon can only kenTo whom the heart is seen,That nane can be sae dear to meAs my sweet lovely Jean!R. BURNS.
156. JOHN ANDERSON.John Anderson my jo, John,When we were first acquentYour locks were like the raven,Your bonnie brow was brent;But now your brow is bald, John,Your locks are like the snow;But blessings on your frosty pow,John Anderson my jo.John Anderson my jo, John,We clamb the hill thegither,And mony a canty day, John,We've had wi' ane anither:Now we maun totter down, John,But hand in hand we'll go,And sleep thegither at the foot,John Anderson my jo.R. BURNS.
157. THE LAND O' THE LEAL.I'm wearing awa', JeanLike snaw when its thaw, Jean,I'm wearing awa'To the land o' the leal.There's nae sorrow there, Jean,There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,The day is aye fairIn the land o' the leal.Ye were aye leal and true, Jean,Your task's ended noo, Jean,And I'll welcome youTo the land o' the leal.Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean,She was baith guid and fair, Jean;O we grudged her right sairTo the land o' the leal!Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean,My soul langs to be free, Jean,And angels wait on meTo the land o' the leal.Now fare ye weel, my ain JeanThis warld's care is vain, Jean;We'll meet and aye be fainIn the land o' the leal.LADY NAIRN.
158. ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE.Ye distant spires, ye antique towersThat crown the wat'ry glade,Where grateful Science still adoresHer Henry's holy shade;And ye, that from the stately browOf Windsor's heights th' expanse belowOf grove, of lawn, of mead survey,Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers amongWanders the hoary Thames alongHis silver-winding way:Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade!Ah fields beloved in vain!Where once my careless childhood stray'd,A stranger yet to pain!I feel the gales that from ye blowA momentary bliss bestow,As waving fresh their gladsome wing,My weary soul they seem to soothe,And, redolent of joy and youth,To breathe a second spring.Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seenFull many a sprightly raceDisporting on thy margent greenThe paths of pleasure trace;Who foremost now delight to cleaveWith pliant arm, thy glassy wave?The captive linnet which enthral?What idle progeny succeedTo chase the rolling circle's speedOr urge the flying ball?While some, on earnest business bentTheir murmuring labours ply'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraintTo sweeten liberty:Some bold adventurers disdainThe limits of their little reignAnd unknown regions dare descry:Still as they run they look behind,They hear a voice in every windAnd snatch a fearful joy.Gay Hope is theirs by fancy fed,Less pleasing when possest;The tear forgot as soon as shed,The sunshine of the breast:Theirs buxom Health, of rosy hue,Wild Wit, Invention ever new,And lively Cheer, of Vigour born;The thoughtless day, the easy night,The spirits pure, the slumbers lightThat fly th' approach of morn.Alas! regardless of their doomThe little victims play!No sense have they of ills to comeNor care beyond to-day:Yet see how all around 'em waitThe ministers of human fateAnd black Misfortune's baleful train!Ah shew them where in ambush standTo seize their prey, the murderous band!Ah, tell them they are men!These shall the fury Passions tear,The vultures of the mind,Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,And Shame that skulks behind;Or pining Love shall waste their youth,Or Jealousy with rankling toothThat inly gnaws the secret heart,And Envy wan, and faded Care,Grim-visaged comfortless Despair,And Sorrow's piercing dart.Ambition this shall tempt to rise,Then whirl the wretch from highTo bitter Scorn a sacrificeAnd grinning Infamy.The stings of Falsehood those shall try,And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye,That mocks the tear it forced to flow;And keen Remorse with blood defiled,And moody Madness laughing wildAmid severest woe.Lo, in the Vale of Years beneathA griesly troop are seen,The painful family of Death,More hideous than their Queen:This racks the joints, this fires the veins,That every labouring sinew strains,Those in the deeper vitals rage:Lo, Poverty, to fill the band,That numbs the soul with icy hand,And slow-consuming Age.To each his sufferings: all are men,Condemn'd alike to groan;The tender for another's pain,Th' unfeeling for his own.Yet ah! why should they know their fate,Since sorrow never comes too late,And happiness too swiftly flies?Thought would destroy their paradise!No more;—where ignorance is bliss,'Tis folly to be wise.T. GRAY.
159. HYMN TO ADVERSITY.Daughter of Jove, relentless power,Thou tamer of the human breast,Whose iron scourge and torturing hourThe bad affright, afflict the best!Bound in thy adamantine chainThe proud are taught to taste of pain,And purple tyrants vainly groanWith pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone.When first thy Sire to send on earthVirtue, his darling child, design'd,To thee he gave the heavenly birthAnd bade to form her infant mind.Stern rugged Nurse! thy rigid loreWith patience many a year she bore:What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know,And from her own she learn'd to melt at others' woe.Scared at thy frown terrific, flySelf-pleasing Folly's idle brood,Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy,And leave us leisure to be good.Light they disperse, and with them goThe summer Friend, the flattering Foe;By vain Prosperity receivedTo her they vow their truth, and are again believed.And Melancholy, silent maid,With leaden eye, that loves the ground,Still on thy solemn steps attend:Warm Charity, the general friend,With Justice, to herself severe,And Pity dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear.Oh, gently on thy suppliant's head,Dread Goddess, lay thy chastening hand!Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad,Not circled with the vengeful band(As by the impious thou art seen)With thundering voice, and threatening mien,With screaming Horror's funeral cry,Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty:Thy form benign, O Goddess, wear,Thy milder influence impart,Thy philosophic train be thereTo soften, not to wound my heart.The generous spark extinct revive,Teach me to love and to forgive,Exact my own defects to scan,What others are to feel, and know myself a Man.T. GRAY.
160. THE SOLITUDE OF ALEXANDER SELKIRK.I am monarch of all I survey;My right there is none to dispute;From the centre all round to the seaI am lord of the fowl and the brute.O Solitude! Where are the charmsThat sages have seen in thy face?Better dwell in the midst of alarmsThan reign in this horrible place.I am out of humanity's reach,I must finish my journey alone,Never hear the sweet music of speech;I start at the sound of my own.The beasts that roam over the plainMy form with indifference see;They are so unacquainted with man,Their tameness is shocking to me.Society, Friendship, and LoveDivinely bestow'd upon man,O had I the wings of a doveHow soon would I taste you again!My sorrows I then might assuageIn the ways of religion and truth,Might learn from the wisdom of age,And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.Ye winds that have made me your sport,Convey to this desolate shoreSome cordial endearing reportOf a land I shall visit no more:My friends, do they now and then sendA wish or a thought after me?O tell me I yet have a friend,Though a friend I am never to see.How fleet is a glance of the mind!Compared with the speed of its flight,The tempest itself lags behind,And the swift-wingéd arrows of light.When I think of my own native landIn a moment I seem to be there;But alas! recollection at handSoon hurries me back to despair.But the seafowl is gone to her nest,The beast is laid down in his lair;Even here is a season of rest,And I to my cabin repair.There's mercy in every place,And mercy, encouraging thought!Gives even affliction a graceAnd reconciles man to his lot.W. COWPER.
161. TO MARY UNWIN.Mary! I want a lyre with other strings,Such aid from heaven as some have feign'd they drew,An eloquence scarce given to mortals, newAnd undebased by praise of meaner things,That ere through age or woe I shed my wingsI may record thy worth with honour due,In verse as musical as thou art trueAnd 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.W. COWPER.
162. TO MARY.The twentieth year is well nigh 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 brightAre 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 declineThy hands their little force resign;Yet gently press'd, press gently mine,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!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 pastThy worn-out heart will break at last—My Mary!W. COWPER.
163. THE DYING MAN IN HIS GARDEN.Why, Damon, with the forward dayDost thou thy little spot survey,From tree to tree, with doubtful cheer,Pursue the progress of the year,What winds arise, what rains descend,When thou before that year shalt end?What do thy noontide walks avail,To clear the leaf, and pick the snail,Then wantonly to death decreeAn insect usefuller than thee?Thou and the worm are brother-kind,As low, as earthy, and as blind.Vain wretch! canst thou expect to seeThe downy peach make court to thee?Or that thy sense shall ever meetThe bean-flower's deep-embosom'd sweetExhaling with an evening blast?Thy evenings then will all be past!Thy narrow pride, thy fancied green(For vanity's in little seen),All must be left when Death appears,In spite of wishes, groans, and tears;Nor one of all thy plants that growBut Rosemary will with thee go.G. SEWELL.
164. TO-MORROW.In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining,May my lot no less fortunate beThan a snug elbow-chair can afford for reclining,And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea;With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn,While I carol away idle sorrow,And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawnLook forward with hope for to-morrow.With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too,As the sunshine or rain may prevail;And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too,With a barn for the use of the flail:A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game,And a purse when a friend wants to borrow;I'll envy no nabob his riches or fame,Nor what honours await him to-morrow.From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completelySecured by a neighbouring hill;And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetlyBy the sound of a murmuring rill:And while peace and plenty I find at my board,With a heart free from sickness and sorrow,With my friends may I share what to-day may afford,And let them spread the table to-morrow.And when I at last must throw off this frail coveringWhich I've worn for three-score years and ten,On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hovering,Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again:But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey,And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow;As this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare to-dayMay become everlasting to-morrow.— COLLINS.
165.Life! I know not what thou art,But know that thou and I must part;And when, or how, or where we metI own to me's a secret yet.Life! we've been long togetherThrough 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.A L. BARBAULD.
It proves sufficiently the lavish wealth of our own age in Poetry, that the pieces which, without conscious departure from the standard of Excellence, render this Book by far the longest, were with very few exceptions composed during the first thirty years the nineteenth century. Exhaustive reasons can hardly be given for the strangely sudden appearance of individual genius: but none, in the Editor's judgment, can be less adequate than that which assigns the splendid national achievements of our recent poetry, to an impulse from the frantic follies and criminal wars that at the time disgraced the least essentially civilised of our foreign neighbours. The first French Revolution was rather, in his opinion, one result, and in itself by no means the most important, of that far wider and greater spirit which through enquiry and doubt, through pain and triumph, sweeps mankind round the circles of its gradual development: and it is to this that we must trace the literature of modern Europe. But, without more detailed discussion on the motive causes of Scott, Wordsworth, Campbell, Keats, and Shelley, we may observe that these Poets, with others, carried to further perfection the later tendencies of the Century preceding, in simplicity of narrative, reverence for human Passion and Character in every sphere, and impassioned love of Nature:—that, whilst maintaining on the whole the advances in art made since the Restoration, they renewed the half-forgotten melody and depth of tone which marked the best Elizabethan writers:—that, lastly, to what was thus inherited they added a richness in language and a variety in metre, a force and fire in narrative, a tenderness and bloom in feeling, an insight into the finer passages of the Soul and the inner meanings of the landscape, a larger and wiser Humanity,—hitherto hardly attained, and perhaps unattainable even by predecessors of not inferior individual genius. In a word, the Nation which, after the Greeks in their glory, has been the most gifted of all nations for Poetry, expressed in these men the highest strength and prodigality of its nature. They interpreted the age to itself—hence the many phases of thought and style they present:—to sympathise with each, fervently and impartially, without fear and without fancifulness, is no doubtful step in the higher education of the Soul. For, as with the Affections and the Conscience, Purity in Taste is absolutely proportionate to Strength:—and when once the mind has raised itself to grasp and to delight in Excellence, those who love most will be found to love most wisely.
166. ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER.Much have I travell'd in the realms of goldAnd many goodly states and kingdoms seen;Round many western islands have I beenWhich bards in fealty to Apollo hold.Oft of one wide expanse had I been toldThat deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne:Yet did I never breathe its pure sereneTill I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:—Then felt I like some watcher of the skiesWhen a new planet swims into his ken;Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyesHe stared at the Pacific—and all his menLook'd at each other with a wild surmise—Silent, upon a peak in Darien.J. KEATS.
167. ODE ON THE POETS.Bards of Passion and of MirthYe have left your souls on earth!Have ye souls in heaven too,Doubled-lived in regions new?—Yes, and those of heaven communeWith the spheres of sun and moon;With the noise of fountains wonderousAnd the parle of voices thunderous;With the whisper of heaven's treesAnd one another, in soft easeSeated on Elysian lawnsBrowsed by none but Dian's fawns;Underneath large blue-bells tented,Where the daisies are rose-scented,And the rose herself has gotPerfume which on earth is not;Where the nightingale doth singNot a senseless, trancéd thing,But divine melodious truth;Philosophic numbers smooth;Tales and golden historiesOf heaven and its mysteries.Thus ye live on high, and thenOn the earth ye live again;And the souls ye left behind youTeach us, here, the way to find youWhere your other souls are joying,Never slumber'd, never cloying.Here, your earth-born souls still speakTo mortals, of their little week;Of their sorrows and delights;Of their passions and their spites;Of their glory and their shame;What doth strengthen and what maim:—Thus ye teach us, every day,Wisdom, though fled far away.Bards of Passion and of MirthYe have left your souls on earth!Ye have souls in heaven too,Double-lived in regions new!J. KEATS.
168. LOVE.All thoughts, all passions, all delights,Whatever stirs this mortal frame,All are but ministers of Love,And feed his sacred flame.Oft in my waking dreams do ILive o'er again that happy hour,When midway on the mount I layBeside the ruin'd tower.The moonshine stealing o'er the sceneHad blended with the lights of eve;And she was there, my hope, my joy,My own dear Genevieve!She lean'd against the arméd man,The statue of the arméd knight;She stood and listen'd to my lay,Amid the lingering light.Few sorrows hath she of her ownMy hope! my joy! my Genevieve!She loves me best, whene'er I singThe songs that make her grieve.I play'd a soft and doleful air,I sang an old and moving story—An old rude song, that suited wellThat ruin wild and hoary.She listen'd with a flitting blush,With downcast eyes and modest grace;For well she knew, I could not chooseBut gaze upon her face.I told her of the Knight that woreUpon his shield a burning brand;And that for ten long years he woo'dThe Lady of the Land.I told her how he pined: and ah!The deep, the low, the pleading toneWith which I sang another's love,Interpreted my own.She listen'd with a flitting blush,With downcast eyes, and modest grace;And she forgave me, that I gazedToo fondly on her face.But when I told the cruel scornThat crazed that bold and lovely Knight,And that he cross'd the mountain-woods,Nor rested day nor night;That sometimes from the savage den,And sometimes from the darksome shade,And sometimes starting up at onceIn green and sunny glade.There came and look'd him in the faceAn angel beautiful and bright;And that he knew it was a Fiend,This miserable Knight!And that unknowing what he did,He leap'd amid a murderous band,And saved from outrage worse than deathThe Lady of the Land;And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees;And how she tended him in vain;And ever strove to expiateThe scorn that crazed his brain;And that she nursed him in a cave,And how his madness went away,When on the yellow forest-leavesA dying man he lay;—His dying words—but when I reach'dThat tenderest strain of all the ditty,My faltering voice and pausing harpDisturb'd her soul with pity!All impulses of soul and senseHad thrill'd my guileless Genevieve;The music and the doleful tale,The rich and balmy eve;And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,An undistinguishable throng,And gentle wishes long subdued,Subdued and cherish'd long!She wept with pity and delight,She blush'd with love, and virgin shame;And like the murmur of a dream,I heard her breathe my name.Her bosom heaved—she stepp'd aside,As conscious of my look she stept—Then suddenly, with timorous eyeShe fled to me and wept.She half enclosed me with her arms,She press'd me with a meek embrace;And bending back her head, look'd up,And gazed upon my face.'Twas partly love, and partly fear,And partly 'twas a bashful art,That I might rather feel, than see.The swelling of her heart.I calm'd her fears, and she was calm,And told her love with virgin pride;And so I won my Genevieve,My bright and beauteous Bride.S. T. COLERIDGE.
169. ALL FOR LOVE.O talk not to me of a name great in story;The days of our youth are the days of our glory;And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twentyAre worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled:Then away with all such from the head that is hoary—What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?O Fame!—if I e'er took delight in thy praises,'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discoverShe thought that I was not unworthy to love her.There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee;When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story,I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.LORD BYRON.
170. THE OUTLAW.O Brignall banks are wild and fair,And Greta woods are green,And you may gather garlands thereWould grace a summer-queen.And as I rode by Dalton-HallBeneath the turrets high,A Maiden on the castle-wallWas singing merrily:"O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair,And Greta woods are green;I'd rather rove with Edmund thereThan reign our English queen.""If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me,To leave both tower and town,Thou first must guess what life lead weThat dwell by dale and down.And if thou canst that riddle read,As read full well you may,Then to the greenwood shalt thou speedAs blithe as Queen of May."Yet sung she "Brignall banks are fair,And Greta woods are green;I'd rather rove with Edmund thereThan reign our English queen."I read you by your bugle-hornAnd by your palfrey good,I read you for a ranger swornTo keep the King's greenwood.""A Ranger, Lady, winds his horn,And 'tis at peep of light;His blast is heard at merry morn,And mine at dead of night."Yet sung she, "Brignall banks are fair,And Greta woods are gay;I would I were with Edmund thereTo reign his Queen of May!"With burnish'd brand and musketoonSo gallantly you come,I read you for a bold Dragoon,That lists the tuck of drum.""I list no more the tuck of drum,No more the trumpet hear;But when the beetle sounds his humMy comrades take the spear.And O! though Brignall banks be fair,And Greta woods be gay,Yet mickle must the maiden dare,Would reign my Queen of May!"Maiden! a nameless life I lead,A nameless death I'll die;The fiend whose lantern lights the meadWere better mate than I!And when I'm with my comrades metBeneath the greenwood bough,What once we were we all forget,Nor think what we are now.Chorus.Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair,And Greta woods are green,And you may gather flowers thereWould grace a summer-queen.SIR W. SCOTT.
171.There be none of Beauty's daughtersWith a magic like Thee;And like music on the watersIs thy sweet voice to me:When, as if its sound were causingThe charméd ocean's pausing,The waves lie still and gleaming,And the lull'd winds seem dreamingAnd the midnight moon is weavingHer bright chain o'er the deep,Whose breast is gently heaving,As an infant's asleep:So the spirit bows before theeTo listen and adore thee;With a full but soft emotion,Like the swell of Summer's ocean.LORD BYRON.
172. LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR.I arise from dreams of TheeIn the first sweet sleep of night,When the winds are breathing lowAnd the stars are shining bright:I arise from dreams of thee,And a spirit in my feetHath led me—who knows how?To thy chamber-window, Sweet!The wandering airs they faintOn the dark, the silent stream—The champak odours failLike sweet thoughts in a dream;The nightingale's complaint,It dies upon her heart,As I must on thine,Oh, belovéd as thou art!Oh lift me from the grass!I die! I faint, I fail!Let thy love in kisses rainOn my lips and eyelids pale.My cheek is cold and white, alas!My heart beats loud and fast;O! press it to thine own againWhere it will break at last.P.B. SHELLEY.
173.She walks in beauty, like the nightOf cloudless climes and starry skies,And all that's best of dark and brightMeets in her aspect and her eyes,Thus mellow'd to that tender lightWhich heaven to gaudy day denies.One shade the more, one ray the less,Had half impair'd the nameless graceWhich waves in every raven tressOr softly lightens o'er her face,Where thoughts serenely sweet expressHow pure, how dear their dwelling-place.And on that cheek, and o'er that browSo soft, so calm, yet eloquent,The smiles that win, the tints that glowBut tell of days in goodness spent,—A mind at peace with all below,A heart whose love is innocent.LORD BYRON.
174.She was a phantom of delightWhen first she gleam'd upon my sight;A lovely apparition, sentTo be a moment's ornament;Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;But all things else about her drawnFrom May-time and the cheerful dawn;A dancing shape, an image gay,To haunt, to startle, and waylay.I saw her upon nearer view,A spirit, yet a woman too!Her household motions light and free,And steps of virgin-liberty;A countenance in which did meetSweet records, promises as sweet;A creature not too bright or goodFor human nature's daily food,For transient sorrows, simple wiles,Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.And now I see with eye sereneThe very pulse of the machine;A being breathing thoughtful breath,A traveller between life and death:The reason firm, the temperate will,Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;A perfect woman, nobly plann'd,To warn, to comfort, and command;And yet a Spirit still, and brightWith something of an angel-light.W. WORDSWORTH.
175.She is not fair to outward viewAs many maidens be;Her loveliness I never knewUntil she smiled on me.O then I saw her eye was bright,A well of love, a spring of light.But now her looks are coy and cold,To mine they ne'er reply,And yet I cease not to beholdThe love-light in her eye:Her very frowns are fairer farThan smiles of other maidens are.H. COLERIDGE.
176.I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden;Thou needest not fear mine;My spirit is too deeply ladenEver to burthen thine.I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion;Thou needest not fear mine;Innocent is the heart's devotionWith which I worship thine.P.B. SHELLEY.
177. THE LOST LOVE.She dwelt among the untrodden waysBeside the springs of Dove;A maid whom there were none to praise,And very few to love.A violet by a mossy stoneHalf hidden from the eye!—Fair as a star, when only oneIs shining in the sky.She lived unknown, and few could knowWhen Lucy ceased to be;But she is in her grave, and O!The difference to me!W. WORDSWORTH.
178.I travell'd among unknown menIn lands beyond the sea;Nor, England! did I know till thenWhat love I bore to thee.'Tis past, that melancholy dream!Nor will I quit thy shoreA second time, for still I seemTo love thee more and more.Among thy mountains did I feelThe joy of my desire;And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheelBeside an English fire.Thy mornings showed, thy nights conceal'd,The bowers where Lucy play'd;And thine too is the last green fieldThat Lucy's eyes survey'd.W. WORDSWORTH.
179. THE EDUCATION OF NATURE.Three years she grew in sun and shower;Then Nature said, "A lovelier flowerOn earth was never sown;This child I to myself will take;She shall be mine, and I will makeA lady of my own."Myself will to my darling beBoth law and impulse: and with meThe girl, in rock and plain,In earth and heaven, in glade and bowerShall feel an overseeing powerTo kindle or restrain."She shall be sportive as the fawnThat wild with glee across the lawnOr up the mountain springs;And her's shall be the breathing balm,And her's the silence and the calmOf mute insensate things."The floating clouds their state shall lendTo her; for her the willow bend;Nor shall she fail to seeE'en in the motions of the stormGrace that shall mould the maiden's formBy silent sympathy."The stars of midnight shall be dearTo her; and she shall lean her earIn many a secret placeWhere rivulets dance their wayward round,And beauty born of murmuring soundShall pass into her face."And vital feelings of delightShall rear her form to stately height,Her virgin bosom swell;Such thoughts to Lucy I will giveWhile she and I together liveHere in this happy dell."Thus Nature spake—The work was done—How soon my Lucy's race was run!She died, and left to meThis heath, this calm and quiet scene;The memory of what has been,And never more will be.W. WORDSWORTH.
180.A slumber did my spirit seal;I had no human fears:She seem'd a thing that could not feelThe touch of earthly years.No motion has she now, no force;She neither hears nor sees;Roll'd round in earth's diurnal courseWith rocks, and stones, and trees!W. WORDSWORTH.
181. LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.A Chieftain to the Highlands boundCries "Boatman, do not tarry!And I'll give thee a silver poundTo row us o'er the ferry!""Now who be ye, would cross LochgyleThis dark and stormy water?""O I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,And this, Lord Ullin's daughter."And fast before her father's menThree days we've fled together,For should he find us in the glen,My blood would stain the heather."His horsemen hard behind us ride—Should they our steps discover,Then who will cheer my bonny brideWhen they have slain her lover?"Out spoke the hardy Highland wight"I'll go, my chief, I'm ready:It is not for your silver bright,But for your winsome lady:—"And by my word! the bonny birdIn danger not shall tarry;So though the waves are raging whiteI'll row you o'er the ferry."By this the storm grew loud apace,The water-wraith was shrieking;And in the scowl of heaven each faceGrew dark as they were speaking.But still as wilder blew the windAnd as the night grew drearer,Adown the glen rode arméd men,Their trampling sounded nearer."O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,"Though tempests round us gather;I'll meet the raging of the skies,But not an angry father."The boat has left a stormy land,A stormy sea before her,—When O! too strong for human handThe tempest gather'd o'er her.And still they row'd amidst the roarOf waters fast prevailing:Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,—His wrath was changed to wailing.For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shadeHis child he did discover:—One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,And one was round her lover."Come back! come back!" he cried in grief,"Across this stormy water:And I'll forgive your Highland chief,My daughter!—O my daughter!"'Twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore,Return or aid preventing:The waters wild went o'er his child,And he was left lamenting.T. CAMPBELL.