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 cruelTom, norSusanheard.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.
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 cruelTom, norSusanheard.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.
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 cruelTom, norSusanheard.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.
1721-1759
457.
OTHOU, 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.
OTHOU, 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.
OTHOU, 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.
458.
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!
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!
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!
459.
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!
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!
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!
460.
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 thy 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.
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 thy 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.
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 thy 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.
1721-1770
461.
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.
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.
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.
462.
AWAY! away!Tempt me no more, insidious Love:Thy soothing swayLong did my youthful bosom prove:At length thy treason is discerned,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?
AWAY! away!Tempt me no more, insidious Love:Thy soothing swayLong did my youthful bosom prove:At length thy treason is discerned,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?
AWAY! away!Tempt me no more, insidious Love:Thy soothing swayLong did my youthful bosom prove:At length thy treason is discerned,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?
463.
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.
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.
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.
1721-1771
464.
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.
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.
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.
1722-1770
465.
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 accomplished 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 blessèd 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 assigned,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 stretch’d-out arm;Glorious th’ enraptured main:
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 accomplished 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 blessèd 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 assigned,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 stretch’d-out arm;Glorious th’ enraptured main:
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 accomplished 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 blessèd 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 assigned,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 stretch’d-out arm;Glorious th’ enraptured main:
glede] kite. Xiphias] sword-fish.
glede] kite. Xiphias] sword-fish.
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!
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!
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!
1727-1805
466.
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.
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.
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.
466.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.
466.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.
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.
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.
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.
466.swankies] lusty lads. bogle] bogy, hide-and-seek. dool] mourning.
466.swankies] lusty lads. bogle] bogy, hide-and-seek. dool] mourning.
1728-1774
467.
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.
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.
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.
468.
OMEMORY, 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.
OMEMORY, 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.
OMEMORY, 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.
1735-1797
469.
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.
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.
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.
1731-1800
470.
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.
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.
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.
471.
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!
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!
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!
1735-1803
472.
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.
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.
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.
1740-1821
473.
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.’
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.’
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.’
473.yowes] ewes. knowes] knolls, little hills. rows] rolls. row’d] rolled, wrapped.
473.yowes] ewes. knowes] knolls, little hills. rows] rolls. row’d] rolled, wrapped.
‘IWAS 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 sail blin’ my e’e,Ye aye sall be my dearie!’
‘IWAS 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 sail blin’ my e’e,Ye aye sall be my dearie!’
‘IWAS 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 sail blin’ my e’e,Ye aye sall be my dearie!’
473.dool] dule, sorrow. lift] sky.
473.dool] dule, sorrow. lift] sky.
1743-1825
474.