Constancy

ALL my past life is mine no more;The flying hours are gone,Like transitory dreams given o’er,Whose images are kept in storeBy memory alone.The time that is to come is not;How can it then be mine?The present moment’s all my lot;And that, as fast as it is got,Phillis, is only thine.Then talk not of inconstancy.False hearts, and broken vows;If I by miracle can beThis live-long minute true to thee,’Tis all that Heaven allows.

ALL my past life is mine no more;The flying hours are gone,Like transitory dreams given o’er,Whose images are kept in storeBy memory alone.

The time that is to come is not;How can it then be mine?The present moment’s all my lot;And that, as fast as it is got,Phillis, is only thine.

Then talk not of inconstancy.False hearts, and broken vows;If I by miracle can beThis live-long minute true to thee,’Tis all that Heaven allows.

415.

ICANNOT change as others do,Though you unjustly scorn;Since that poor swain that sighs for youFor you alone was born.No, Phillis, no; your heart to moveA surer way I’ll try;And, to revenge my slighted love,Will still love on and die.When kill’d with grief Amyntas lies,And you to mind shall callThe sighs that now unpitied rise,The tears that vainly fall—That welcome hour, that ends this smart,Will then begin your pain;For such a faithful tender heartCan never break in vain.

When kill’d with grief Amyntas lies,And you to mind shall callThe sighs that now unpitied rise,The tears that vainly fall—That welcome hour, that ends this smart,Will then begin your pain;For such a faithful tender heartCan never break in vain.

416.

(After Quarles)

WHY dost thou shade thy lovely face? O whyDoes that eclipsing hand of thine denyThe sunshine of the Sun’s enlivening eye?Without thy light what light remains in me?Thou art my life; my way, my light’s in thee;I live, I move, and by thy beams I see.Thou art my life—if thou but turn awayMy life’s a thousand deaths. Thou art my way—Without thee, Love, I travel not but stray.My light thou art—without thy glorious sightMy eyes are darken’d with eternal night.My Love, thou art my way, my life, my light.Thou art my way; I wander if thou fly.Thou art my light; if hid, how blind am I!Thou art my life; if thou withdraw’st, I die.My eyes are dark and blind, I cannot see:To whom or whither should my darkness flee,But to that light?—and who’s that light but thee?If I have lost my path, dear lover, say,Shall I still wander in a doubtful way?Love, shall a lamb of Israel’s sheepfold stray?My path is lost, my wandering steps do stray;I cannot go, nor can I safely stay;Whom should I seek but thee, my path, my way?And yet thou turn’st thy face away and fly’st me!And yet I sue for grace and thou deny’st me!Speak, art thou angry, Love, or only try’st me?Thou art the pilgrim’s path, the blind man’s eye,The dead man’s life. On thee my hopes rely:If I but them remove, I surely die.Dissolve thy sunbeams, close thy wings and stay!See, see how I am blind, and dead, and stray!—O thou that art my life, my light, my way!Then work thy will! If passion bid me flee,My reason shall obey, my wings shall beStretch’d out no farther than from me to thee!

WHY dost thou shade thy lovely face? O whyDoes that eclipsing hand of thine denyThe sunshine of the Sun’s enlivening eye?

Without thy light what light remains in me?Thou art my life; my way, my light’s in thee;I live, I move, and by thy beams I see.

Thou art my life—if thou but turn awayMy life’s a thousand deaths. Thou art my way—Without thee, Love, I travel not but stray.

My light thou art—without thy glorious sightMy eyes are darken’d with eternal night.My Love, thou art my way, my life, my light.

Thou art my way; I wander if thou fly.Thou art my light; if hid, how blind am I!Thou art my life; if thou withdraw’st, I die.

My eyes are dark and blind, I cannot see:To whom or whither should my darkness flee,But to that light?—and who’s that light but thee?

If I have lost my path, dear lover, say,Shall I still wander in a doubtful way?Love, shall a lamb of Israel’s sheepfold stray?

My path is lost, my wandering steps do stray;I cannot go, nor can I safely stay;Whom should I seek but thee, my path, my way?

And yet thou turn’st thy face away and fly’st me!And yet I sue for grace and thou deny’st me!Speak, art thou angry, Love, or only try’st me?

Thou art the pilgrim’s path, the blind man’s eye,The dead man’s life. On thee my hopes rely:If I but them remove, I surely die.

Dissolve thy sunbeams, close thy wings and stay!See, see how I am blind, and dead, and stray!—O thou that art my life, my light, my way!

Then work thy will! If passion bid me flee,My reason shall obey, my wings shall beStretch’d out no farther than from me to thee!

1649-1720

417.

COME, let us now resolve at lastTo live and love in quiet;We’ll tie the knot so very fastThat Time shall ne’er untie it.The truest joys they seldom proveWho free from quarrels live:’Tis the most tender part of loveEach other to forgive.When least I seem’d concern’d, I tookNo pleasure nor no rest;And when I feign’d an angry look,Alas! I loved you best.Own but the same to me—you’ll findHow blest will be our fate.O to be happy—to be kind—Sure never is too late!

COME, let us now resolve at lastTo live and love in quiet;We’ll tie the knot so very fastThat Time shall ne’er untie it.

The truest joys they seldom proveWho free from quarrels live:’Tis the most tender part of loveEach other to forgive.

When least I seem’d concern’d, I tookNo pleasure nor no rest;And when I feign’d an angry look,Alas! I loved you best.

Own but the same to me—you’ll findHow blest will be our fate.O to be happy—to be kind—Sure never is too late!

418.

SOME vex their souls with jealous pain,While others sigh for cold disdain:Love’s various slaves we daily see—Yet happy all compared with me!Of all mankind I loved the bestA nymph so far above the restThat we outshined the Blest above;In beauty she, as I in love.And therefore They, who could not bearTo be outdone by mortals here,Among themselves have placed her now,And left me wretched here below.All other fate I could have borne,And even endured her very scorn;But oh! thus all at once to findThat dread account—both dead and kind!What heart can hold? If yet I live,’Tis but to show how much I grieve.

SOME vex their souls with jealous pain,While others sigh for cold disdain:Love’s various slaves we daily see—Yet happy all compared with me!

Of all mankind I loved the bestA nymph so far above the restThat we outshined the Blest above;In beauty she, as I in love.

And therefore They, who could not bearTo be outdone by mortals here,Among themselves have placed her now,And left me wretched here below.

All other fate I could have borne,And even endured her very scorn;But oh! thus all at once to findThat dread account—both dead and kind!What heart can hold? If yet I live,’Tis but to show how much I grieve.

1652-1685

419.

IDID but look and love awhile,’Twas but for one half-hour;Then to resist I had no will,And now I have no power.To sigh and wish is all my ease;Sighs which do heat impartEnough to melt the coldest ice,Yet cannot warm your heart.O would your pity give my heartOne corner of your breast,’Twould learn of yours the winning art,And quickly steal the rest.

IDID but look and love awhile,’Twas but for one half-hour;Then to resist I had no will,And now I have no power.

To sigh and wish is all my ease;Sighs which do heat impartEnough to melt the coldest ice,Yet cannot warm your heart.

O would your pity give my heartOne corner of your breast,’Twould learn of yours the winning art,And quickly steal the rest.

1653-1683

420.

THY soul within such silent pomp did keep,As if humanity were lull’d asleep;So gentle was thy pilgrimage beneath,Time’s unheard feet scarce make less noise,Or the soft journey which a planet goes:Life seem’d all calm as its last breath.A still tranquillity so hush’d thy breast,As if some Halcyon were its guest,And there had built her nest;It hardly now enjoys a greater rest.

1661-1707

421.

ONLY tell her that I love:Leave the rest to her and Fate:Some kind planet from aboveMay perhaps her pity move:Lovers on their stars must wait.—Only tell her that I love!Why, O why should I despair!Mercy’s pictured in her eye:If she once vouchsafe to hear,Welcome Hope and farewell Fear!She’s too good to let me die.—Why, O why should I despair?

ONLY tell her that I love:Leave the rest to her and Fate:Some kind planet from aboveMay perhaps her pity move:Lovers on their stars must wait.—Only tell her that I love!

Why, O why should I despair!Mercy’s pictured in her eye:If she once vouchsafe to hear,Welcome Hope and farewell Fear!She’s too good to let me die.—Why, O why should I despair?

1664-1721

422.

WHAT nymph should I admire or trust,But Chloe beauteous, Chloe just?What nymph should I desire to see,But her who leaves the plain for me?To whom should I compose the lay,But her who listens when I play?To whom in song repeat my cares,But her who in my sorrow shares?For whom should I the garland make,But her who joys the gift to take,And boasts she wears it for my sake?In love am I not fully blest?Lisetta, prithee tell the rest.

LISETTA’S REPLY

SURE Chloe just, and Chloe fair,Deserves to be your only care;But, when you and she to-dayFar into the wood did stray,And I happened to pass by,Which way did you cast your eye?But, when your cares to her you sing,You dare not tell her whence they spring;Does it not more afflict your heart,That in those cares she bears a part?When you the flowers for Chloe twine,Why do you to her garland joinThe meanest bud that falls from mine?Simplest of swains! the world may seeWhom Chloe loves, and who loves me.

423.

LORDS, knights, and squires, the numerous bandThat wear the fair Miss Mary’s fetters,Were summoned by her high commandTo show their passions by their letters.My pen amongst the rest I took,Lest those bright eyes, that cannot read,Should dart their kindling fire, and lookThe power they have to be obey’d.Nor quality, nor reputation,Forbid me yet my flame to tell;Dear Five-years-old befriends my passion,And I may write till she can spell.For, while she makes her silkworms bedsWith all the tender things I swear;Whilst all the house my passion reads,In papers round her baby’s hair;She may receive and own my flame;For, though the strictest prudes should know it,She’ll pass for a most virtuous dame,And I for an unhappy poet.Then too, alas! when she shall tearThe rhymes some younger rival sends,She’ll give me leave to write, I fear,And we shall still continue friends.For, as our different ages move,’Tis so ordain’d (would Fate but mend it!),That I shall be past making loveWhen she begins to comprehend it.

LORDS, knights, and squires, the numerous bandThat wear the fair Miss Mary’s fetters,Were summoned by her high commandTo show their passions by their letters.

My pen amongst the rest I took,Lest those bright eyes, that cannot read,Should dart their kindling fire, and lookThe power they have to be obey’d.

Nor quality, nor reputation,Forbid me yet my flame to tell;Dear Five-years-old befriends my passion,And I may write till she can spell.

For, while she makes her silkworms bedsWith all the tender things I swear;Whilst all the house my passion reads,In papers round her baby’s hair;

She may receive and own my flame;For, though the strictest prudes should know it,She’ll pass for a most virtuous dame,And I for an unhappy poet.

Then too, alas! when she shall tearThe rhymes some younger rival sends,She’ll give me leave to write, I fear,And we shall still continue friends.

For, as our different ages move,’Tis so ordain’d (would Fate but mend it!),That I shall be past making loveWhen she begins to comprehend it.

424.

THE merchant, to secure his treasure,Conveys it in a borrow’d name:Euphelia serves to grace my measure;But Chloe is my real flame.My softest verse, my darling lyre,Upon Euphelia’s toilet lay;When Chloe noted her desireThat I should sing, that I should play.My lyre I tune, my voice I raise;But with my numbers mix my sighs:And while I sing Euphelia’s praise,I fix my soul on Chloe’s eyes.Fair Chloe blush’d: Euphelia frown’d:I sung, and gazed: I play’d, and trembled:And Venus to the Loves aroundRemark’d, how ill we all dissembled.

THE merchant, to secure his treasure,Conveys it in a borrow’d name:Euphelia serves to grace my measure;But Chloe is my real flame.

My softest verse, my darling lyre,Upon Euphelia’s toilet lay;When Chloe noted her desireThat I should sing, that I should play.

My lyre I tune, my voice I raise;But with my numbers mix my sighs:And while I sing Euphelia’s praise,I fix my soul on Chloe’s eyes.

Fair Chloe blush’d: Euphelia frown’d:I sung, and gazed: I play’d, and trembled:And Venus to the Loves aroundRemark’d, how ill we all dissembled.

425.

I, my dear, was born to-day—So all my jolly comrades say:They bring me music, wreaths, and mirth,And ask to celebrate my birth:Little, alas! my comrades knowThat I was born to pain and woe;To thy denial, to thy scorn,Better I had ne’er been born:I wish to die, even whilst I say—‘I, my dear, was born to-day.’I, my dear, was born to-day:Shall I salute the rising ray,Well-spring of all my joy and woe?Clotilda, thou alone dost know.Shall the wreath surround my hair?Or shall the music please my ear?Shall I my comrades’ mirth receive,And bless my birth, and wish to live?Then let me see great Venus chaseImperious anger from thy face;Then let me hear thee smiling say—‘Thou, my dear, wert born to-day.’

I, my dear, was born to-day:Shall I salute the rising ray,Well-spring of all my joy and woe?Clotilda, thou alone dost know.Shall the wreath surround my hair?Or shall the music please my ear?Shall I my comrades’ mirth receive,And bless my birth, and wish to live?Then let me see great Venus chaseImperious anger from thy face;Then let me hear thee smiling say—‘Thou, my dear, wert born to-day.’

426.

VENUS, take my votive glass:Since I am not what I was,What from this day I shall be,Venus, let me never see.

427.

to Lady Margaret Cavendish Holles-Harley, when a Child

MY noble, lovely, little Peggy,Let this my First Epistle beg ye,At dawn of morn, and close of even,To lift your heart and hands to Heaven.In double duty say your prayer:Our Fatherfirst, thenNotre Père.And, dearest child, along the day,In every thing you do and say,Obey and please my lord and lady,So God shall love and angels aid ye.If to these precepts you attend,No second letter need I send,And so I rest your constant friend.

And, dearest child, along the day,In every thing you do and say,Obey and please my lord and lady,So God shall love and angels aid ye.

If to these precepts you attend,No second letter need I send,And so I rest your constant friend.

428.

AS doctors give physic by way of prevention,Mat, alive and in health, of his tombstone took care;For delays are unsafe, and his pious intentionMay haply be never fulfill’d by his heir.Then take Mat’s word for it, the sculptor is paid;That the figure is fine, pray believe your own eye;Yet credit but lightly what more may be said,For we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to lie.Yet counting as far as to fifty his years,His virtues and vices were as other men’s are;High hopes he conceived, and he smother’d great fears,In a life parti-colour’d, half pleasure, half care.Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave,He strove to make interest and freedom agree;In public employments industrious and grave,And alone with his friends, Lord! how merry was he!Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot,Both fortunes he tried, but to neither would trust;And whirl’d in the round as the wheel turn’d about,He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust.This verse, little polish’d, tho’ mighty sincere,Sets neither his titles nor merit to view;It says that his relics collected lie here,And no mortal yet knows too if this may be true.Fierce robbers there are that infest the highway,So Mat may be kill’d, and his bones never found;False witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea,So Mat may yet chance to be hang’d or be drown’d.If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, fly in air,To Fate we must yield, and the thing is the same;And if passing thou giv’st him a smile or a tear,He cares not—yet, prithee, be kind to his fame.

AS doctors give physic by way of prevention,Mat, alive and in health, of his tombstone took care;For delays are unsafe, and his pious intentionMay haply be never fulfill’d by his heir.

Then take Mat’s word for it, the sculptor is paid;That the figure is fine, pray believe your own eye;Yet credit but lightly what more may be said,For we flatter ourselves, and teach marble to lie.

Yet counting as far as to fifty his years,His virtues and vices were as other men’s are;High hopes he conceived, and he smother’d great fears,In a life parti-colour’d, half pleasure, half care.

Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave,He strove to make interest and freedom agree;In public employments industrious and grave,And alone with his friends, Lord! how merry was he!

Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot,Both fortunes he tried, but to neither would trust;And whirl’d in the round as the wheel turn’d about,He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust.

This verse, little polish’d, tho’ mighty sincere,Sets neither his titles nor merit to view;It says that his relics collected lie here,And no mortal yet knows too if this may be true.

Fierce robbers there are that infest the highway,So Mat may be kill’d, and his bones never found;False witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea,So Mat may yet chance to be hang’d or be drown’d.

If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, fly in air,To Fate we must yield, and the thing is the same;And if passing thou giv’st him a smile or a tear,He cares not—yet, prithee, be kind to his fame.

1663-1708

429.

OF all the torments, all the cares,With which our lives are curst;Of all the plagues a lover bears,Sure rivals are the worst!By partners in each other kindAfflictions easier grow;In love alone we hate to findCompanions of our woe.Sylvia, for all the pangs you seeAre labouring in my breast,I beg not you would favour me,Would you but slight the rest!How great soe’er your rigours are,With them alone I’ll cope;I can endure my own despair,But not another’s hope.

Sylvia, for all the pangs you seeAre labouring in my breast,I beg not you would favour me,Would you but slight the rest!How great soe’er your rigours are,With them alone I’ll cope;I can endure my own despair,But not another’s hope.

1665-1746

430.

THERE ance was a may, and she lo’ed na men;She biggit her bonnie bow’r doun in yon glen;But now she cries, Dool and a well-a-day!Come doun the green gait and come here away!When bonnie young Johnnie cam owre the sea,He said he saw naething sae lovely as me;He hecht me baith rings and mony braw things—And werena my heart’s licht, I wad dee.He had a wee titty that lo’ed na me,Because I was twice as bonnie as she;She raised sic a pother ’twixt him and his motherThat werena my heart’s licht, I wad dee.The day it was set, and the bridal to be:The wife took a dwam and lay doun to dee;She maned and she graned out o’ dolour and pain,Till he vow’d he never wad see me again.His kin was for ane of a higher degree,Said—What had he do wi’ the likes of me?Appose I was bonnie, I wasna for Johnnie—And werena my heart’s licht, I wad dee.They said I had neither cow nor calf,Nor dribbles o’ drink rins thro’ the draff,Nor pickles o’ meal rins thro’ the mill-e’e—And werena my heart’s licht, I wad dee.

THERE ance was a may, and she lo’ed na men;She biggit her bonnie bow’r doun in yon glen;But now she cries, Dool and a well-a-day!Come doun the green gait and come here away!

When bonnie young Johnnie cam owre the sea,He said he saw naething sae lovely as me;He hecht me baith rings and mony braw things—And werena my heart’s licht, I wad dee.

He had a wee titty that lo’ed na me,Because I was twice as bonnie as she;She raised sic a pother ’twixt him and his motherThat werena my heart’s licht, I wad dee.

The day it was set, and the bridal to be:The wife took a dwam and lay doun to dee;She maned and she graned out o’ dolour and pain,Till he vow’d he never wad see me again.

His kin was for ane of a higher degree,Said—What had he do wi’ the likes of me?Appose I was bonnie, I wasna for Johnnie—And werena my heart’s licht, I wad dee.

They said I had neither cow nor calf,Nor dribbles o’ drink rins thro’ the draff,Nor pickles o’ meal rins thro’ the mill-e’e—And werena my heart’s licht, I wad dee.

may] maid. biggit] built. gait] way, path. hecht] promised. titty] sister. dwam] sudden illness. appose] suppose. pickles] small quantities.

HIS titty she was baith wylie and slee:She spied me as I cam owre the lea;And then she ran in and made a loud din—Believe your ain e’en, an ye trow not me.His bonnet stood ay fu’ round on his brow,His auld ane look’d ay as well as some’s new:But now he lets ’t wear ony gait it will hing,And casts himsel dowie upon the corn bing.And now he gaes daund’ring about the dykes,And a’ he dow do is to hund the tykes:The live-lang nicht he ne’er steeks his e’e—And werena my heart’s licht, I wad dee.Were I but young for thee, as I hae been,We should hae been gallopin’ doun in yon green,And linkin’ it owre the lily-white lea—And wow, gin I were but young for thee!

HIS titty she was baith wylie and slee:She spied me as I cam owre the lea;And then she ran in and made a loud din—Believe your ain e’en, an ye trow not me.

His bonnet stood ay fu’ round on his brow,His auld ane look’d ay as well as some’s new:But now he lets ’t wear ony gait it will hing,And casts himsel dowie upon the corn bing.

And now he gaes daund’ring about the dykes,And a’ he dow do is to hund the tykes:The live-lang nicht he ne’er steeks his e’e—And werena my heart’s licht, I wad dee.

Were I but young for thee, as I hae been,We should hae been gallopin’ doun in yon green,And linkin’ it owre the lily-white lea—And wow, gin I were but young for thee!

430.hing] hang. dowie] dejectedly. hund the tykes] direct the dogs. steeks] closes. linkin’] tripping.

1670-1729.

431.

FALSE though she be to me and love,I’ll ne’er pursue revenge;For still the charmer I approve,Though I deplore her change.In hours of bliss we oft have met:They could not always last;And though the present I regret,I’m grateful for the past.

FALSE though she be to me and love,I’ll ne’er pursue revenge;For still the charmer I approve,Though I deplore her change.

In hours of bliss we oft have met:They could not always last;And though the present I regret,I’m grateful for the past.

432.

FAIR Amoret is gone astray—Pursue and seek her, ev’ry lover;I’ll tell the signs by which you mayThe wand’ring Shepherdess discover.Coquette and coy at once her air,Both studied, tho’ both seem neglected;Careless she is, with artful care,Affecting to seem unaffected.With skill her eyes dart ev’ry glance,Yet change so soon you’d ne’er suspect them,For she’d persuade they wound by chance,Tho’ certain aim and art direct them.She likes herself, yet others hatesFor that which in herself she prizes;And, while she laughs at them, forgetsShe is the thing that she despises.

FAIR Amoret is gone astray—Pursue and seek her, ev’ry lover;I’ll tell the signs by which you mayThe wand’ring Shepherdess discover.

Coquette and coy at once her air,Both studied, tho’ both seem neglected;Careless she is, with artful care,Affecting to seem unaffected.

With skill her eyes dart ev’ry glance,Yet change so soon you’d ne’er suspect them,For she’d persuade they wound by chance,Tho’ certain aim and art direct them.

She likes herself, yet others hatesFor that which in herself she prizes;And, while she laughs at them, forgetsShe is the thing that she despises.

1672-1719

433.

THE spacious firmament on high,With all the blue ethereal sky,And spangled heavens, a shining frame,Their great Original proclaim.Th’ unwearied Sun from day to dayDoes his Creator’s power display;And publishes to every landThe work of an Almighty hand.Soon as the evening shades prevail,The Moon takes up the wondrous tale;And nightly to the listening EarthRepeats the story of her birth:Whilst all the stars that round her burn,And all the planets in their turn,Confirm the tidings as they roll,And spread the truth from pole to pole.What though in solemn silence allMove round the dark terrestrial ball;What though nor real voice nor soundAmidst their radiant orbs be found?In Reason’s ear they all rejoice,And utter forth a glorious voice;For ever singing as they shine,‘The Hand that made us is divine.’

Soon as the evening shades prevail,The Moon takes up the wondrous tale;And nightly to the listening EarthRepeats the story of her birth:Whilst all the stars that round her burn,And all the planets in their turn,Confirm the tidings as they roll,And spread the truth from pole to pole.

What though in solemn silence allMove round the dark terrestrial ball;What though nor real voice nor soundAmidst their radiant orbs be found?In Reason’s ear they all rejoice,And utter forth a glorious voice;For ever singing as they shine,‘The Hand that made us is divine.’

1674-1748

434.

WHEN the fierce North-wind with his airy forcesRears up the Baltic to a foaming fury;And the red lightning with a storm of hail comesRushing amain down;How the poor sailors stand amazed and tremble,While the hoarse thunder, like a bloody trumpet,Roars a loud onset to the gaping watersQuick to devour them.Such shall the noise be, and the wild disorder(If things eternal may be like these earthly),Such the dire terror when the great ArchangelShakes the creation;Tears the strong pillars of the vault of Heaven,Breaks up old marble, the repose of princes,Sees the graves open, and the bones arising,Flames all around them.Hark, the shrill outcries of the guilty wretches!Lively bright horror and amazing anguishStare thro’ their eyelids, while the living worm liesGnawing within them.Thoughts, like old vultures, prey upon their heart-strings,And the smart twinges, when the eye beholds theLofty Judge frowning, and a flood of vengeanceRolling afore him.Hopeless immortals! how they scream and shiver,While devils push them to the pit wide-yawningHideous and gloomy, to receive them headlongDown to the centre!Stop here, my fancy: (all away, ye horridDoleful ideas!) come, arise to Jesus,How He sits God-like! and the saints around HimThroned, yet adoring!O may I sit there when He comes triumphant,Dooming the nations! then ascend to glory,While our Hosannas all along the passageShout the Redeemer.

WHEN the fierce North-wind with his airy forcesRears up the Baltic to a foaming fury;And the red lightning with a storm of hail comesRushing amain down;

How the poor sailors stand amazed and tremble,While the hoarse thunder, like a bloody trumpet,Roars a loud onset to the gaping watersQuick to devour them.

Such shall the noise be, and the wild disorder(If things eternal may be like these earthly),Such the dire terror when the great ArchangelShakes the creation;

Tears the strong pillars of the vault of Heaven,Breaks up old marble, the repose of princes,Sees the graves open, and the bones arising,Flames all around them.

Hark, the shrill outcries of the guilty wretches!Lively bright horror and amazing anguishStare thro’ their eyelids, while the living worm liesGnawing within them.

Thoughts, like old vultures, prey upon their heart-strings,And the smart twinges, when the eye beholds theLofty Judge frowning, and a flood of vengeanceRolling afore him.

Hopeless immortals! how they scream and shiver,While devils push them to the pit wide-yawningHideous and gloomy, to receive them headlongDown to the centre!

Stop here, my fancy: (all away, ye horridDoleful ideas!) come, arise to Jesus,How He sits God-like! and the saints around HimThroned, yet adoring!

O may I sit there when He comes triumphant,Dooming the nations! then ascend to glory,While our Hosannas all along the passageShout the Redeemer.

435.

HUSH! my dear, lie still and slumber,Holy angels guard thy bed!Heavenly blessings without numberGently falling on thy head.Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment,House and home, thy friends provide;All without thy care or payment:All thy wants are well supplied.How much better thou’rt attendedThan the Son of God could be,When from heaven He descendedAnd became a child like thee!Soft and easy is thy cradle:Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay,When His birthplace was a stableAnd His softest bed was hay.Blessèd babe! what glorious features—Spotless fair, divinely bright!Must He dwell with brutal creatures?How could angels bear the sight?Was there nothing but a mangerCursèd sinners could affordTo receive the heavenly stranger?Did they thus affront their Lord?Soft, my child: I did not chide thee,Though my song might sound too hard;’Tis thy mother sits beside thee,And her arms shall be thy guard.Yet to read the shameful storyHow the Jews abused their King,How they served the Lord of Glory,Makes me angry while I sing.See the kinder shepherds round Him,Telling wonders from the sky!Where they sought Him, there they found Him,With His Virgin mother by.See the lovely babe a-dressing;Lovely infant, how He smiled!When He wept, the mother’s blessingSoothed and hush’d the holy child.Lo, He slumbers in His manger,Where the hornèd oxen fed:Peace, my darling; here’s no danger,Here’s no ox anear thy bed.’Twas to save thee, child, from dying,Save my dear from burning flame,Bitter groans and endless crying,That thy blest Redeemer came.May’st thou live to know and fear Him,Trust and love Him all thy days;Then go dwell for ever near Him,See His face, and sing His praise!

HUSH! my dear, lie still and slumber,Holy angels guard thy bed!Heavenly blessings without numberGently falling on thy head.

Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment,House and home, thy friends provide;All without thy care or payment:All thy wants are well supplied.

How much better thou’rt attendedThan the Son of God could be,When from heaven He descendedAnd became a child like thee!

Soft and easy is thy cradle:Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay,When His birthplace was a stableAnd His softest bed was hay.

Blessèd babe! what glorious features—Spotless fair, divinely bright!Must He dwell with brutal creatures?How could angels bear the sight?

Was there nothing but a mangerCursèd sinners could affordTo receive the heavenly stranger?Did they thus affront their Lord?

Soft, my child: I did not chide thee,Though my song might sound too hard;’Tis thy mother sits beside thee,And her arms shall be thy guard.

Yet to read the shameful storyHow the Jews abused their King,How they served the Lord of Glory,Makes me angry while I sing.

See the kinder shepherds round Him,Telling wonders from the sky!Where they sought Him, there they found Him,With His Virgin mother by.

See the lovely babe a-dressing;Lovely infant, how He smiled!When He wept, the mother’s blessingSoothed and hush’d the holy child.

Lo, He slumbers in His manger,Where the hornèd oxen fed:Peace, my darling; here’s no danger,Here’s no ox anear thy bed.

’Twas to save thee, child, from dying,Save my dear from burning flame,Bitter groans and endless crying,That thy blest Redeemer came.

May’st thou live to know and fear Him,Trust and love Him all thy days;Then go dwell for ever near Him,See His face, and sing His praise!

1679-1718

436.

WHEN thy beauty appearsIn its graces and airsAll bright as an angel new dropp’d from the sky,At distance I gaze and am awed by my fears:So strangely you dazzle my eye!But when without artYour kind thoughts you impart,When your love runs in blushes through every vein;When it darts from your eyes, when it pants in your heart,Then I know you’re a woman again.There’s a passion and prideIn our sex (she replied),And thus, might I gratify both, I would do:Still an angel appear to each lover beside,But still be a woman to you.

WHEN thy beauty appearsIn its graces and airsAll bright as an angel new dropp’d from the sky,At distance I gaze and am awed by my fears:So strangely you dazzle my eye!

But when without artYour kind thoughts you impart,When your love runs in blushes through every vein;When it darts from your eyes, when it pants in your heart,Then I know you’re a woman again.

There’s a passion and prideIn our sex (she replied),And thus, might I gratify both, I would do:Still an angel appear to each lover beside,But still be a woman to you.

1686-1758

437.

MY Peggy is a young thing,Just enter’d in her teens,Fair as the day, and sweet as May,Fair as the day, and always gay;My Peggy is a young thing,And I’m not very auld,Yet well I like to meet her atThe wawking of the fauld.My Peggy speaks sae sweetlyWhene’er we meet alane,I wish nae mair to lay my care,I wish nae mair of a’ that’s rare;My Peggy speaks sae sweetly,To a’ the lave I’m cauld,But she gars a’ my spirits glowAt wawking of the fauld.My Peggy smiles sae kindlyWhene’er I whisper love,That I look down on a’ the town,That I look down upon a crown;My Peggy smiles sae kindly,It makes me blyth and bauld,And naething gi’es me sic delightAs wawking of the fauld.My Peggy sings sae saftlyWhen on my pipe I play,By a’ the rest it is confest,By a’ the rest, that she sings best;My Peggy sings sae saftly,And in her sangs are tauldWith innocence the wale of sense,At wawking of the fauld.

My Peggy speaks sae sweetlyWhene’er we meet alane,I wish nae mair to lay my care,I wish nae mair of a’ that’s rare;My Peggy speaks sae sweetly,To a’ the lave I’m cauld,But she gars a’ my spirits glowAt wawking of the fauld.

My Peggy smiles sae kindlyWhene’er I whisper love,That I look down on a’ the town,That I look down upon a crown;My Peggy smiles sae kindly,It makes me blyth and bauld,And naething gi’es me sic delightAs wawking of the fauld.

My Peggy sings sae saftlyWhen on my pipe I play,By a’ the rest it is confest,By a’ the rest, that she sings best;My Peggy sings sae saftly,And in her sangs are tauldWith innocence the wale of sense,At wawking of the fauld.

wawking] watching. lave] rest. wale] choice, best.

1687-1761

438.

BUSY, curious, thirsty fly!Drink with me and drink as I:Freely welcome to my cup,Couldst thou sip and sip it up:Make the most of life you may,Life is short and wears away.Both alike are mine and thineHastening quick to their decline:Thine’s a summer, mine’s no more,Though repeated to threescore.Threescore summers, when they’re gone,Will appear as short as one!

BUSY, curious, thirsty fly!Drink with me and drink as I:Freely welcome to my cup,Couldst thou sip and sip it up:Make the most of life you may,Life is short and wears away.

Both alike are mine and thineHastening quick to their decline:Thine’s a summer, mine’s no more,Though repeated to threescore.Threescore summers, when they’re gone,Will appear as short as one!

1688-1732

439.

ORUDDIER than the cherry!O sweeter than the berry!O nymph more brightThan moonshine night,Like kidlings blithe and merry!Ripe as the melting cluster!No lily has such lustre;Yet hard to tameAs raging flame,And fierce as storms that bluster!

1688-1744

440.

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