PART THE THIRD.

Happy the man, whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air, In his own ground. Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, 5 Whose flocks supply him with attire; Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter fire. Blest, who can unconcern’dly find Hours, days, and years slide soft away, 10 In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day, Sound sleep by night; study and ease, Together mixed; sweet recreation, And innocence, which most does please 15 With meditation. Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; Thus unlamented let me die, Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie. 20 Alexander Pope.

All travellers at first incline Where’er they see the fairest sign; And, if they find the chambers neat, And like the liquor and the meat, Will call again, and recommend 5 The Angel-inn to every friend. What though the painting grows decayed, The house will never lose its trade: Nay, though the treacherous tapster Thomas Hangs a new Angel two doors from us, 10 As fine as daubers’ hands can make it, In hopes that strangers may mistake it, We think it both a shame and sin To quit the true old Angel-inn. Now this is Stella’s case in fact, 15 An angel’s face a little cracked: (Could poets or could painters fix How angels look at thirty-six:) This drew us in at first to find In such a form an angel’s mind; 20 And every virtue now supplies The fainting rays of Stella’s eyes. See at her levee crowding swains, Whom Stella freely entertains With breeding, humour, wit, and sense; 25 And puts them but to small expense; Their mind so plentifully fills, And makes such reasonable bills, So little gets for what she gives, We really wonder how she lives; 30 And, had her stock been less, no doubt She must have long ago run out. Then who can think we’ll quit the place, When Doll hangs out a newer face? Or stop and light at Chloe’s head, 35 With scraps and leavings to be fed? Then, Chloe, still go on to prate Of thirty-six and thirty-eight; Pursue your trade of scandal-picking, Your hints that Stella is no chicken; 40 Your inuendos, when you tell us That Stella loves to talk with fellows; And let me warn you to believe A truth, for which your soul should grieve; That, should you live to see the day 45 When Stella’s locks must all be grey, When age must print a furrowed trace On every feature of her face; Though you, and all your senseless tribe, Could art, or time, or nature bribe, 50 To make you look like Beauty’s Queen, And hold for ever at fifteen; No bloom of youth can ever blind The cracks and wrinkles of your mind: All men of sense will pass your door, 55 And crowd to Stella’s at fourscore. Jonathan Swift.

The Muse, disgusted at an age and clime Barren of every glorious theme, In distant lands now waits a better time, Producing subjects worthy fame. In happy climes, where from the genial sun 5 And virgin earth such scenes ensue, The force of art by nature seems outdone, And fancied beauties by the true. In happy climes, the seat of innocence, Where nature guides, and virtue rules, 10 Where men shall not impose for truth and sense The pedantry of courts and schools. There shall be sung another Golden Age, The rise of empire and of arts, The good and great inspiring epic rage, 15 The wisest heads and noblest hearts: Not such as Europe breeds in her decay; Such as she bred when fresh and young, When heavenly flame did animate her clay, By future poets shall be sung. 20 Westward the course of empire take its way; The four first acts already past, A fifth shall close the drama with the day; Time’s noblest offspring is the last. George Berkeley.

As, by some tyrant’s stem command, A wretch forsakes his native land, In foreign climes condemned to roam, An endless exile from his home; Pensive he treads the destined way; 5 And dreads to go; nor dares to stay; Till on some neighbouring mountain’s brow He stops, and turns his eyes below; There, melting at the well-known view, Drops a last tear, and bids adieu: 10 So I, thus doomed from thee to part, Gay Queen of fancy and of art, Reluctant move, with doubtful mind, Oft stop, and often look behind. Companion of my tender age, 15 Serenely gay, and sweetly sage, How blithsome were we wont to rove By verdant hill, or shady grove, Where fervent bees with humming voice Around the honied oak rejoice, 20 And agèd elms with awful bend In long cathedral walks extend! Lulled by the lapse of gliding floods, Cheered by the warbling of the woods, How blest my days, my thoughts how free, 25 In sweet society with thee! Then all was joyous, all was young, And years unheeded rolled along: But now the pleasing dream is o’er, These scenes must charm me now no more. 30 Lost to the fields, and torn from you,— Farewell! a long, a last adieu! Me wrangling courts, and stubborn law, To smoke, and crowds, and cities draw: There selfish faction rules the day, 35 And pride and avarice throng the way; Diseases taint the murky air, And midnight conflagrations glare; Loose revelry, and riot bold, In frighted streets their orgies hold; 40 Or, where in silence all is drowned, Fell murder walks his lonely round; No room for peace, no room for you; Adieu, celestial Nymph, adieu! Shakspeare no more, thy sylvan son, 45 Nor all the art of Addison, Pope’s heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller’s ease, Nor Milton’s mighty self, must please: Instead of these a formal band, In furs and coifs, around me stand; 50 With sounds uncouth and accents dry, That grate the soul of harmony, Each pedant sage unlocks his store Of mystic, dark, discordant lore; And points with tottering hand the ways 55 That lead me to the thorny maze. There, in a winding close retreat, Is Justice doomed to fix her seat; There fenced by bulwarks of the law, She keeps the wondering world in awe; 60 And there, from vulgar sight retired, Like eastern queens, is more admired. O let me pierce the secret shade Where dwells the venerable maid! There humbly mark, with reverend awe, 65 The guardian of Britannia’s law; Unfold with joy her sacred page, The united boast of many an age; Where mixed, yet uniform, appears The wisdom of a thousand years; 70 In that pure spring the bottom view, Clear, deep, and regularly true; And other doctrines thence imbibe Than lurk within the sordid scribe; Observe how parts with parts unite 75 In one harmonious rule of right; See countless wheels distinctly tend By various laws to one great end: While mighty Alfred’s piercing soul Pervades and regulates the whole. 80 Then welcome business, welcome strife, Welcome the cares, the thorns of life, The visage wan, the pore-blind sight, The toil by day, the lamp at night, The tedious forms, the solemn prate, 85 The pert dispute, the dull debate, The drowsy bench, the babbling hall, For thee, fair Justice, welcome all! Thus though my noon of life be passed, Yet let my setting sun, at last, 90 Find out the still, the rural cell, Where sage Retirement loves to dwell! There let me taste the homefelt bliss Of innocence, and inward peace; Untainted by the guilty bribe, 95 Uncursed amid the harpy tribe; No orphan’s cry to wound my ear; My honour and my conscience clear; Thus may I calmly meet my end, Thus to the grave in peace descend. 100 Sir William Blackstone.

A Juggler long through all the town Had rais’d his fortune and renown; You’d think (so far his art transcends) The devil at his fingers’ ends. Vice heard his fame, she read his bill; 5 Convinced of his inferior skill, She sought his booth, and from the crowd Defied the man of art aloud. ‘Is this then he so famed for sleight? Can this slow bungler cheat your sight? 10 Dares he with me dispute the prize? I leave it to impartial eyes.’ Provoked, the Juggler cried, ’Tis done; In science I submit to none.’ Thus said, the cups and balls he played; 15 By turns this here, that there, conveyed. The cards, obedient to his words, Are by a fillip turned to birds. His little boxes change the grain: Trick after trick deludes the train. 20 He shakes his bag, he shows all fair; His fingers spread, and nothing there; Then bids it rain with showers of gold; And now his ivory eggs are told; But, when from thence the hen he draws, 25 Amazed spectators hum applause. Vice now stept forth, and took the place, With all the forms of his grimace. ‘This magic looking-glass,’ she cries, ‘(There, hand it round) will charm your eyes.’ 30 Each eager eye the sight desired, And every man himself admired. Next, to a senator addressing, ‘See this bank-note; observe the blessing. Breathe on the bill. Heigh, pass! ’tis gone.’ 35 Upon his lips a padlock shown. A second puff the magic broke; The padlock vanished, and he spoke. Twelve bottles ranged upon the board, All full, with heady liquor stored, 40 By clean conveyance disappear, And now two bloody swords are there. A purse she to a thief exposed; At once his ready fingers closed. He opes his fist, the treasure’s fled: 45 He sees a halter in its stead. She bids Ambition hold a wand; He grasps a hatchet in his hand. A box of charity she shows. ‘Blow here;’ and a churchwarden blows. 50 ’Tis vanish’d with conveyance neat, And on the table smokes a treat. She shakes the dice, the board she knocks, And from all pockets fills her box. A counter, in a miser’s hand, 55 Grew twenty guineas at command. She bids his heir the sum retain, And ’tis a counter now again. A guinea with her touch you see Take every shape but Charity; 60 And not one thing you saw, or drew, But changed from what was first in view. The Juggler now, in grief of heart, With this submission owned her art: ‘Can I such matchless sleight withstand? 65 How practice hath improved your hand! But now and then I cheat the throng; You every day, and all day long.’ John Gay.

When Britain first at Heaven’s command Arose from out the azure main, This was the charter of her land, And guardian angels sung the strain: Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves! 5 Britons never shall be slaves. The nations not so blest as thee Must in their turn to tyrants fall, Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free, The dread and envy of them all. 10 Still more majestic shalt thou rise, More dreadful from each foreign stroke; As the loud blast that tears the skies Serves but to root thy native oak. Thee haughty tyrants ne’er shall tame; 15 All their attempts to bend thee down Will but arouse thy generous flame, And work their woe and thy renown. To thee belongs the rural reign; Thy cities shall with commerce shine; 20 All thine shall be the subject main, And every shore it circles thine! The Muses, still with Freedom found, Shall to thy happy coast repair; Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crowned, 25 And manly hearts to guard the fair:— Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves! Britons never shall be slaves! James Thomson.

As near Porto-Bello lying On the gently swelling flood, At midnight with streamers flying Our triumphant navy rode: There while Vernon sat all-glorious 5 From the Spaniards’ late defeat; And his crews, with shouts victorious, Drank success to England’s fleet; On a sudden, shrilly sounding, Hideous yells and shrieks were heard; 10 Then each heart with fear confounding, A sad troop of ghosts appeared, All in dreary hammocks shrouded, Which for winding-sheets they wore, And with looks by sorrow clouded, 15 Frowning on that hostile shore. On them gleamed the moon’s wan lustre, When the shade of Hosier brave His pale bands was seen to muster, Rising from their watery grave: 20 O’er the glimmering wave he hied him, Where the Burford reared her sail, With three thousand ghosts beside him, And in groans did Vernon hail: ‘Heed, O heed, our fatal story. 25 I am Hosier’s injured ghost, You, who now have purchased glory At this place where I was lost; Though in Porto-Bello’s ruin You now triumph free from fears, 30 When you think on our undoing, You will mix your joy with tears. ‘See these mournful spectres, sweeping Ghastly o’er this hated wave, Whose wan cheeks are stained with weeping; 35 These were English captains brave: Mark those numbers pale and horrid, Those were once my sailors bold, Lo! each hangs his drooping forehead, While his dismal tale is told. 40 ‘I, by twenty sail attended, Did this Spanish town affright: Nothing then its wealth defended But my orders not to fight: Oh! that in this rolling ocean 45 I had cast them with disdain, And obeyed my heart’s warm motion, To have quelled the pride of Spain. ‘For resistance I could fear none, But with twenty ships had done 50 What thou, brave and happy Vernon, Hast achieved with six alone. Then the Bastimentos never Had our foul dishonour seen, Nor the sea the sad receiver 55 Of this gallant train had been. ‘Thus, like thee, proud Spain dismaying, And her galleons leading home, Though condemned for disobeying, I had met a traitor’s doom; 60 To have fall’n, my country crying He has played an English part, Had been better far than dying Of a grieved and broken heart. ‘Unrepining at thy glory, 65 Thy successful arms we hail; But remember our sad story, And let Hosier’s wrongs prevail; Sent in this foul clime to languish, Think what thousands fell in vain, 70 Wasted with disease and anguish, Not in glorious battle slain. ‘Hence, with all my train attending From their oozy tombs below, Through the hoary foam ascending, 75 Here I feed my constant woe: Here the Bastimentos viewing, We recall our shameful doom, And our plaintive cries renewing, Wander through the midnight gloom. 80 ‘O’er these waves for ever mourning Shall we roam, deprived of rest, If to Britain’s shores returning, You neglect my just request. After this proud foe subduing, 85 When your patriot friends you see, Think on vengeance for my ruin, And for England shamed in me.’ Richard Glover.

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. 4 At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning, Lassies are lonely and dowie and wae; Nae daffin’, nae gabbin’, but sighing and sabbing, Ilk ane lifts her leglin, and hies her away. In har’st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray; 10 At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching— The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away. At e’en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming ’Bout stacks wi’ the lasses at bogle to play; But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie— 15 The Flowers of the Forest are weded 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, are cauld in the clay. 20 We’ll hear nae mair lilting at the 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. Jane Elliott.

A wee bird came to our ha’ door; He warbled sweet and clearly; And aye the o’ercome o’ his sang Was ‘Wae’s me for Prince Charlie!’ Oh! when I heard the bonny, bonny bird, 5 The tears came drapping rarely; I took my bonnet aff my head, For weel I lo’ed Prince Charlie. Quoth I; ‘My bird, my bonny, bonny bird, Is that a tale ye borrow? 10 Or is’t some words ye’ve learned by rote, Or a lilt o’ dool and sorrow?’ Oh no, no, no,’ the wee bird sang, ‘I’ve flown sin’ morning early; But sic a day o’ wind and rain— 15 Oh wae’s me for Prince Charlie! O’er hills that are by right his ain He roams a lonely stranger; On ilka hand he’s pressed by want, On ilka side by danger. 20 Yestreen I met him in the glen, My heart near bursted fairly: For sadly changed indeed was he— Oh! wae’s me for Prince Charlie! ‘Dark night came on; the tempest howled 25 Out owre the hills and valleys; And whare was’t that your Prince lay down, Whase hame should be a palace? He rowed him in a Highland plaid, Which covered him but sparely, 30 And slept beneath a bush o’ broom— Oh! wae’s me for Prince Charlie!’ But now the bird saw some red coats, And he shook his wings wi’ anger: ‘Oh, this is no a land for me— 35 I’ll tarry here nae langer.’ A while he hovered on the wing, Ere he departed fairly; But weel I mind the farewell strain— ’Twas ‘Wae’s me for Prince Charlie!’ 40 William Glen.

What constitutes a State? Not high-raised battlement or laboured mound, Thick wall or moated gate; Not cities proud with spires and turrets crowned; Not bays and broad-armed ports, 5 Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride; Not starred and spangled courts, Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride. No:—men, high-minded men, With powers as far above dull brutes endued 10 In forest, brake, or den, As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude; Men, who their duties know, But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain, Prevent the long-aimed blow, 15 And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain: These constitute a State, And sovereign Law, that State’s collected will, O’er thrones and globes elate, Sits Empress, crowning good, repressing ill. 20 Smit by her sacred frown, The fiend, Dissension, like a vapour sinks, And e’en the all-dazzling Crown Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks. Such was this heaven-loved isle, 25 Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore! No more shall Freedom smile? Shall Britons languish, and be men no more? Since all must life resign, Those sweet rewards, which decorate the brave, 30 ’Tis folly to decline, And steal inglorious to the silent grave. Sir William Jones.

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest, By all their country’s wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod 5 Than 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 gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay; 10 And Freedom shall awhile repair, To dwell a weeping hermit there! William Collins.

Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove! Thou messenger of spring! Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, And woods thy welcome sing. What time the daisy decks the green, 5 Thy certain voice we hear; Hast thou a star to guide thy path, Or mark the rolling year? Delightful visitant! with thee I hail the time of flowers, 10 And hear the sound of music sweet From birds among the bowers. The schoolboy, wandering through the wood To pull the primrose gay, Starts, the new voice of spring to hear, 15 And imitates thy lay. What time the pea puts on the bloom, Thou fliest thy vocal vale, An annual guest in other lands, Another spring to hail. 20 Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, No winter in thy year! Oh could I fly, I’d fly with thee! 25 We’d make, with joyful wing, Our annual visit o’er the globe, Companions of the spring. John Logan.

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-haired Sun 5 Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, With brede ethereal wove, O’erhang his wavy bed: Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat, With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing; 10 Or where the beetle winds His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises ’midst the twilight path, Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum; Now teach me, Maid composed, 15 To breathe some softened strain, Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit; As, musing slow, I hail Thy genial loved return! 20 For when thy folding-star arising shows His paly circlet, at his warning lamp The fragrant Hours, and Elves Who slept in buds the day, And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, 25 And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still, The pensive Pleasures sweet, Prepare thy shadowy car. Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene; Or find some ruin ’midst its dreary dells, 30 Whose walls more awful nod By thy religious gleams. Or, if chill blustering winds, or driving rain, Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut, That from the mountain’s side 35 Views wilds, and swelling floods, And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires; And hears their simple bell, and marks o’er all Thy dewy fingers draw The gradual dusky veil. 40 While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve! While Summer loves to sport Beneath thy lingering light; While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves; 45 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, smiling Peace, 50 Thy gentlest influence own, And love thy favourite name! William Collins.

Wee, modest, crimson-tippèd flower, Thou’s met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem: To spare thee now is past my power, 5 Thou bonnie gem. Alas! it’s no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet! Bending thee ’mang the dewy weet Wi’ speckled breast, 10 When upward-springing, blithe, to greet The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble birth; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 15 Amid the storm; Scarce reared above the parent-earth Thy tender form. The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, High sheltering woods and wa’s maun shield, 20 But thou, beneath the random bield O’ clod, or stane, Adorns the histie stubble-field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 25 Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies! 30 Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet floweret of the rural shade! By love’s simplicity betrayed, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid 35 Low i’ the dust. Such is the fate of simple bard, On life’s rough ocean luckless-starred! Unskilful he to note the card Of prudent lore, 40 Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o’er! Such fate to suffering worth is given, Who long with wants and woes has striven, By human pride or cunning driven 45 To misery’s brink, Till, wrenched of every stay but Heaven, He, ruined, sink! Even thou who mourn’st the Daisy’s fate, That fate is thine—no distant date; 50 Stern Ruin’s ploughshare drives, elate, Full on thy bloom, Till crushed beneath the furrow’s weight, Shall be thy doom. Robert Burns.

In vain to me the smiling mornings shine, And reddening Phœbus lifts his golden fire, The birds in vain their amorous descant join, Or cheerful fields resume their green attire. These ears, alas! for other notes repine, 5 A different object do these eyes require; My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine, And in my breast the imperfect joys expire; Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer, And new-born pleasure brings to happier men; 10 The fields to all their wonted tribute bear, To warm their little loves the birds complain; I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear, And weep the more, because I weep in vain. Thomas Gray.

Bloom of beauty, early flower Of the blissful bridal bower, Thou, thy parents’ pride and care, Fairest offspring of the fair, Lovely pledge of mutual love, 5 Angel seeming from above, Was it not thou day by day Dost thy very sex betray, Female more and more appear, Female, more than angel dear, 10 How to speak thy face and mien, (Soon too dangerous to be seen) How shall I, or shall the Muse, Language of resemblance choose, Language like thy mien and face, 15 Full of sweetness, full of grace? By the next returning spring, When again the linnets sing, When again the lambkins play, Pretty sportlings full of May, 20 When the meadows next are seen, Sweet enamel, white and green, And the year in fresh attire Welcomes every gay desire, Blooming on shalt thou appear 25 More inviting than the year, Fairer sight than orchard shows, Which beside a river blows: Yet another spring I see, And a brighter bloom in thee: 30 And another round of time, Circling, still improves thy prime: And beneath the vernal skies Yet a verdure more shall rise, Ere thy beauties, kindling slow, 35 In each finished feature glow, Ere in smiles and in disdain Thou exert thy maiden reign, Absolute to save or kill Fond beholders at thy will. 40 Happy thrice, and thrice again, Happiest he of happy men, Who, in courtship greatly sped, Wins the damsel to his bed, Bears the virgin prize away, 45 Counting life one nuptial day: For the dark-brown dusk of hair, Shadowing thick thy forehead fair, Down the veiny temples growing, O’er the sloping shoulders flowing, 50 And the smoothly penciled brow, Mild to him in every vow, And the fringèd lid below, Thin as thinnest blossoms blow, And the hazely-lucid eye, 55 Whence heart-winning glances fly, And that cheek of health, o’erspread With soft-blended white and red, And the witching smiles which break Round those lips, which sweetly speak, 60 And thy gentleness of mind, Gentle from a gentle kind, These endowments, heavenly dower! Brought him in the promised hour, Shall for ever bind him to thee, 65 Shall renew him still to woo thee. Ambrose Philips.

Little charm of placid mien, Miniature of Beauty’s Queen, Numbering years, a scanty nine, Stealing hearts without design, Young inveigler, fond in wiles, 5 Prone to mirth, profuse in smiles, Yet a novice in disdain, Pleasure giving without pain, Still caressing, still caressed, Thou and all thy lovers blessed, 10 Never teased, and never teasing, Oh for ever pleased and pleasing! Hither, British Muse of mine, Hither, all the Grecian Nine, With the lovely Graces Three, 15 And your promised nursling see: Figure on her waxen mind Images of life refined; Make it as a garden gay, Every bud of thought display, 20 Till, improving year by year, The whole culture shall appear, Voice, and speech, and action, rising, All to human sense surprising. Is the silken web so thin 25 As the texture of her skin? Can the lily and the rose Such unsullied hue disclose? Are the violets so blue As her veins exposed to view? Do the stars in wintry sky 30 Twinkle brighter than her eye? Has the morning lark a throat Sounding sweeter than her note? Who e’er knew the like before thee? 35 They who knew the nymph that bore thee. From thy pastime and thy toys, From thy harmless cares and joys, Give me now a moment’s time: When thou shalt attain thy prime, 40 And thy bosom feel desire, Love the likeness of thy sire, One ordained through life to prove Still thy glory, still thy love. Like thy sister, and like thee, 45 Let thy nurtured daughters be: Semblance of the fair who bore thee, Trace the pattern set before thee. Where the Liffy meets the main, Has thy sister heard my strain: 50 From the Liffy to the Thames, Minstrel echoes, sing their names, Wafting to the willing ear Many a cadence sweet to hear, Smooth as gently breathing gales 55 O’er the ocean and the vales, While the vessel calmly glides O’er the level glassy tides, While the summer flowers are springing, And the new-fledged birds are singing. 60 Ambrose Philips.

Dear Love, let me this evening die, Oh smile not to prevent it; Dead with my rivals let me lie, Or we shall both repent it. Frown quickly then, and break my heart, 5 That so my way of dying May, though my life was full of smart, Be worth the world’s envying. Some, striving knowledge to refine, Consume themselves with thinking; 10 And some, who friendship seal in wine, Are kindly killed with drinking. And some are wrecked on the Indian coast, Thither by gain invited; Some are in smoke of battle lost, 15 Whom drums, not lutes, delighted. Alas! how poorly these depart, Their graves still unattended! Who dies not of a broken heart Is not of Death commended. 20 His memory is only sweet, All praise and pity moving, Who kindly at his mistress’ feet Does die with over-loving. And now thou frown’st, and now I die, 25 My corpse by lovers followed; Which straight shall by dead lovers lie; That ground is only hallowed. If priests are grieved I have a grave, My death not well approving, 30 The poets my estate shall have, To teach them the Art of Loving. And now let lovers ring their bells For me, poor youth departed, Who kindly in his love excels, 35 By dying broken-hearted. My grave with flowers let lovers strow, Which, if thy tears fall near them, May so transcend in scent and show, As thou wilt shortly wear them. 40 Such flowers how much will florists prize, On lover’s grave that growing, Are watered by his mistress’ eyes, With pity ever-flowing. A grave so deckt will, though thou art 45 Yet fearful to come nigh me, Provoke thee straight to break thy heart, And lie down boldly by me. Then everywhere all bells shall ring, All light to darkness turning; 50 While every quire shall sadly sing, And nature’s self wear mourning. Yet we hereafter may be found, By destiny’s right placing, Making, like flowers, love underground, 55 Whose roots are still embracing. Sir William Davenant.

And are ye sure the news is true? And are ye sure he’s weel? Is this a time to think o’ wark? Ye jades, lay by your wheel; Is this the time to spin a thread, 5 When Colin’s at the door? Reach down my cloak, I’ll to the quay, And see him come ashore. For there’s nae luck about the house, There’s nae luck at a’; 10 There’s little pleasure in the house, When our gudeman’s awa’. And gie to me my bigonet, My bishop’s satin gown; For I maun tell the baillie’s wife 15 That Colin’s in the town. My Turkey slippers maun gae on, My stockins pearly blue; It’s a’ to pleasure our gudeman, For he’s baith leal and true. 20 Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside, Put on the muckle pot; Gie little Kate her button gown And Jock his Sunday coat; And mak their shoon as black as slaes, 25 Their hose as white as snaw; It’s a’ to please my ain gudeman, For he’s been long awa. There’s twa fat hens upo’ the coop Been fed this month and mair; 30 Mak haste and thraw their necks about, That Colin weel may fare; And spread the table neat and clean, Gar ilka thing look braw, For wha can tell how Colin fared 35 When he was far awa? Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, His breath like caller air; His very foot has music in’t As he comes up the stair— 40 And will I see his face again? And will I hear him speak? I’m downright dizzy wi’ the thought, In troth I’m like to greet! If Colin’s weel, and weel content, 45 I hae nae mair to crave: And gin I live to keep him sae, I’m blest aboon the lave: And will I see his face again, And will I hear him speak? 50 I’m downright dizzy wi’ the thought, In troth I’m like to greet. For there’s nae luck about the house, There’s nae luck at a’; There’s little pleasure in the house, 55 When our gudeman’s awa’. William Julius Mickle.

Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fair! How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae fu’ o’ care! Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonnie bird 5 That sings upon the bough; Thou minds me o’ the happy days When my fause Luve was true. Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonnie bird That sings beside thy mate; 10 For sae I sat, and sae I sang, And wist na o’ my fate. Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon To see the woodbine twine, And ilka bird sang o’ its love; 15 And sae did I o’ mine. Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose, Frae aff its thorny tree; And my fause luver staw the rose, But left the thorn wi’ me. 20 Robert Burns.

A. ‘Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride, And think nae mair of the braes of Yarrow.’ B. ‘Where gat ye that bonnie, bonnie bride, 5 Where gat ye that winsome marrow?’ A. ‘I gat her where I daurna weel be seen, Pu’ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.’ ‘Weep not, weep not, my bonnie, bonnie bride, Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow, 10 Nor let thy heart lament to leave Pu’ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.’ B. ‘Why does she weep, thy bonnie, bonnie bride? Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow? And why daur ye nae mair well be seen 15 Pu’ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow?’ A. ‘Lang maun she weep, lang lang maun she weep, Lang maun she weep wi’ dule and sorrow, And lang maun I nae mair weel be seen Pu’ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow. 20 ‘For she has tint her lover dear, Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow; And I ha’e slain the comeliest swain That ever pu’ed birks on the braes of Yarrow. ‘Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, reid? 25 Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow? And why yon melancholious weeds, Hung on the bonnie birks of Yarrow? ‘What’s yonder floats on the rueful flood? What’s yonder floats? Oh, dule and sorrow! 30 Oh! ’tis the comely swain I slew Upon the duleful banks of Yarrow! ‘Wash, oh, wash his wounds in tears, His wounds in tears of dule and sorrow, And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds, 35 And lay him on the banks of Yarrow! ‘Then build, then build, ye sisters sad, Ye sisters sad, his tomb wi’ sorrow, And weep around in waeful wise, His helpless fate on the braes of Yarrow. 40 ‘Curse ye, curse ye his useless shield, The arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, The fatal spear that pierced his breast, His comely breast, on the braes of Yarrow. ‘Did I not warn thee not to love, 45 And warn from fight? but, to my sorrow, Too rashly bold, a stronger arm Thou met’st, and fell on the braes of Yarrow, ‘Sweet smells the birk; green grows the grass, Yellow on Yarrow’s braes the gowan, 50 Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowin’. ‘Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet flows Tweed, As green its grass, its gowan as yellow, As sweet smells on its braes the birk, 55 The apple from its rocks as mellow. ‘Fair was thy love! fair, fair indeed thy love! In flowery bands thou didst him fetter; Though he was fair, and well-beloved again, Than me he never loved thee better. 60 ‘Busk ye, then, busk, my bonnie, bonnie bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, Busk ye, and lo’e me on the banks of Tweed, And think nae mair on the braes of Yarrow.’ C. ‘How can I busk, a bonnie, bonnie bride, 65 How can I busk, a winsome marrow? How lo’e him on the banks of Tweed, That slew my Love on the braes of Yarrow? ‘Oh, Yarrow fields! may never rain, Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, 70 For there was basely slain my Love, My Love, as he had not been a lover! ‘The boy put on his robes of green, His purple vest, ’twas my ain sewin’: Ah, wretched me! I little, little knew, 75 He was in these to meet his ruin. ‘The boy took out his milk-white steed, Unmindful of my dule and sorrow; But, ere the toofal of the night, He lay a corpse on the banks of Yarrow. 80 ‘Much I rejoiced that waeful day, I sang, my voice the woods returning; But lang ere night the spear was flown That slew my Love, and left me mourning. ‘What can my barbarous father do, 85 But with his cruel rage pursue me? My lover’s blood is on thy spear; How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me? ‘My happy sisters may be proud; With cruel and ungentle scoffing 90 May bid me seek on Yarrow’s braes My lover nailèd in his coffin. ‘My brother Douglas may upbraid, And strive with threatening words to move me; My lover’s blude is on thy spear, 95 How canst thou ever bid me love thee? ‘Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of love, With bridal-sheets my body cover; Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door, Let in the expected husband-lover! 100 ‘But who the expected husband is? His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter. Ah me! what ghastly spectre’s yon, Comes in his pale shroud bleeding after? ‘Pale as he is, here lay him down, 105 Oh, lay his cold head on my pillow! Take aff, take aff these bridal weeds, And crown my careful head with willow. ‘Pale though thou art, yet best beloved, Oh, could my warmth to life restore thee! 110 Yet lie all night between my breasts; No youth lay ever there before thee. ‘Pale, pale indeed, O lovely youth! Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter, And lie all night between my breasts; 115 No youth shall ever lie there after.’ A. Return, return, O mournful bride! Return, and dry thy useless sorrow: Thy lover heeds naught of thy sighs; He lies a corpse on the braes of Yarrow! 120 William Hamilton.

When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame, And a’ the warld to rest are gane, The waes o’ my heart fa’ in showers frae my e’e, While my gudeman lies sound by me. Young Jamie lo’ed me weel, and sought me for his bride; 5 But saving a croun he had naething else beside: To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea; And the croun and the pund were baith for me. He hadna been awa’ a week but only twa, When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown awa; 10 My mother she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea— And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin’ me. My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin; I toiled day and night, but their bread I couldna win; Auld Rob maintained them baith, and wi’ tears in his e’e 15 Said, Jennie, for their sakes, oh marry me! My heart it said nay; I looked for Jamie back; But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack; His ship it was a wrack—why didna Jamie dee? Or why do I live to cry, Wae’s me? 20 My father urgit sair: my mother didna speak; But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break: They gi’ed him my hand, but my heart was at the sea; Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me. I hadna been a wife a week but only four, 25 When mournfu’ as I sat on the stane at the door, I saw my Jamie’s wraith, for I couldna think it he— Till he said, I’m come hame to marry thee. O sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say; We took but ae kiss, and I bad him gang away: 30 I wish that I were dead, but I’m no like to dee; And why was I born to say, Wae’s me! I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin; I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin; But I’ll do my best a gude wife aye to be 35 For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me. Lady Anne Lindsay.

Awake, Æolian lyre, awake, And give to rapture all thy trembling strings. From Helicon’s harmonious springs A thousand rills their mazy progress take: The laughing flowers, that round them blow, 5 Drink life and fragrance as they flow, Now the rich stream of music winds along, Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong, Through verdant vales, and Ceres’ golden reign: Now rolling down the steep amain, 10 Headlong, impetuous, see it pour: The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar. O Sovereign of the willing soul, Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares 15 And frantic Passions hear thy soft control: On Thracia’s hills the Lord of War Has curbed the fury of his car, And dropped his thirsty lance at thy command. Perching on the sceptred hand 20 Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feathered king With ruffled plumes, and flagging wing: Quenched in dark clouds of slumber lie The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye. Thee the voice, the dance, obey, 25 Tempered to thy warbled lay; O’er Idalia’s velvet-green The rosy-crownèd Loves are seen On Cytherea’s day, With antic Sports, and blue-eyed Pleasures, 30 Frisking light in frolic measures; Now pursuing, now retreating, Now in circling troops they meet: To brisk notes in cadence beating Glance their many-twinkling feet. 35 Slow-melting strains their Queen’s approach declare: Where’er she turns, the Graces homage pay: With arms sublime that float upon the air, In gliding state she wins her easy way: O’er her warm cheek and rising bosom move 40 The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love. Man’s feeble race what ills await, Labour and penury, the racks of pain, Disease, and sorrow’s weeping train, And death, sad refuge from the storms of fate! 45 The fond complaint, my song, disprove, And justify the laws of Jove. Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse? Night, and all her sickly dews, Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry, 50 He gives to range the dreary sky; Till down the eastern cliffs afar Hyperion’s march they spy, and glittering shafts of war. In climes beyond the solar road, Where shaggy forms o’er ice-built mountains roam, 55 The Muse has broke the twilight gloom, To cheer the shivering native’s dull abode. And oft, beneath the odorous shade Of Chili’s boundless forests laid, She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat, 60 In loose numbers wildly sweet, Their feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky loves. Her track, where’er the Goddess roves, Glory pursue, and generous Shame, The unconquerable Mind, and Freedom’s holy flame. 65 Woods that wave o’er Delphi’s steep, Isles that crown the Ægean deep, Fields that cool Ilissus laves, Or where Mæander’s amber waves In lingering labyrinths creep, 70 How do your tuneful echoes languish, Mute, but to the voice of anguish? Where each old poetic mountain Inspiration breathed around; Every shade and hallowed fountain 75 Murmured deep a solemn sound: Till the sad Nine, in Greece’s evil hour, Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains. Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power, And coward Vice, that revels in her chains. 80 When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, They sought, O Albion, next thy sea-encircled coast. Far from the sun and summer-gale, In thy green lap was Nature’s darling laid, What time, where lucid Avon strayed, 85 To him the mighty Mother did unveil Her awful face: the dauntless Child Stretched forth his little arms, and smiled. ‘This pencil take (she said), whose colours clear Richly paint the vernal year: 90 Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal Boy! This can unlock the gates of joy; Of horror that, and thrilling fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.’ Nor second he, that rode sublime 95 Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy, The secrets of the abyss to spy. He passed the flaming bounds of place and time: The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze, Where angels tremble while they gaze, 100 He saw; but, blasted with excess of light, Closed his eyes in endless night. Behold, where Dryden’s less presumptuous car, Wide o’er the fields of glory bear Two coursers of ethereal race, 105 With necks in thunder clothed, and long resounding pace. Hark, his hands the lyre explore! Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o’er, Scatters from her pictured urn Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. 110 But ah! ’tis heard no more— O lyre divine, what daring spirit Wakes thee now? Though he inherit Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, That the Theban Eagle bear, 115 Sailing with supreme dominion Through the azure deep of air: Yet oft before his infant eyes would run Such forms as glitter in the Muse’s ray With orient hues, unborrowed of the sun: 120 Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far!—but far above the great. Thomas Gray.

When I behold thee, blameless Williamson, Wrecked like an infant on a savage shore, While others round on borrowed pinions soar, My busy fancy calls thy thread misspun; Till Faith instructs me the deceit to shun, 5 While thus she speaks,—‘Those wings that from the store Of virtue were not lent, howe’er they bore In this gross air, will melt when near the sun. The truly’ ambitious wait for nature’s time, Content by certain, though by slow, degrees 10 To mount above the reach of vulgar flight; Nor is that man confined to this low clime, Who but the extremest skirts of glory sees, And hears celestial echoes with delight.’ Benjamin Stillingfleet.

Ah! what a weary race my feet have run, Since first I trod thy banks with alders crowned, And thought my way was all through fairy ground, Beneath thy azure sky and golden sun; Where first my Muse to lisp her notes begun! 5 While pensive Memory traces back the round Which fills the varied interval between, Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene. Sweet native stream! those skies and suns so pure No more return, to cheer my evening road; 10 Yet still one joy remains—that not obscure, Nor useless, all my vacant days have flowed, From youth’s gay dawn to manhood’s prime mature, Nor with the Muse’s laurel unbestowed. Thomas Warton.

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

The twentieth year is well nigh past, Since first our sky was overcast; Ah would that this might be the last, My Mary! Thy spirits have a fainter flow, 5 I see thee daily weaker grow— ’Twas my distress that brought thee low, My Mary! Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore, 10 Now rust disused, and shine no more, My Mary! For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil The same kind office for me still, Thy sight now seconds not thy will, 15 My Mary! But well thou play’dst the housewife’s part, And all thy threads with magic art Have wound themselves about this heart, My Mary! 20 Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language uttered in a dream; Yet me they charm, whate’er the theme, My Mary! Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, 25 Are still more lovely in my sight Than golden beams of orient light, My Mary! For could I view nor them nor thee, What sight worth seeing could I see? 30 The sun would rise in vain for me, My Mary! Partakers of thy sad decline, Thy hands their little force resign; Yet gently pressed, press gently mine, 35 My Mary! Such feebleness of limbs thou prov’st That now at every step thou mov’st Upheld by two; yet still thou lov’st, My Mary! 40 And still to love, though pressed with ill, In wintry age to feel no chill, With me is to be lovely still, My Mary! But ah! by constant heed I know 45 How oft the sadness that I show Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, My Mary! And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, 50 Thy worn-out heart will break at last— My Mary! William Cowper.

If, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath stayed, And left her debt to Addison unpaid, Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoan, And judge, oh judge, my bosom by your own. What mourner ever felt poetic fires! 5 Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires: Grief unaffected suits but ill with art, Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart. Can I forget the dismal night that gave My soul’s best part for ever to the grave! 10 How silent did his old companions tread, By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead, Through breathing statues, then unheeded things, Through rows of warriors, and through walks of kings! What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire; 15 The pealing organ, and the pausing choir; The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid; And the last words that dust to dust conveyed! While speechless o’er thy closing grave we bend, Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend. 20 Oh, gone for ever! take this long adieu; And sleep in peace, next thy loved Montague. To strew fresh laurels let the task be mine, A frequent pilgrim at thy sacred shrine; Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan, 25 And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone. If e’er from me thy loved memorial part, May shame afflict this alienated heart; Of thee forgetful if I form a song, My lyre be broken, and untuned my tongue, 30 My grief be doubled, from thy image free, And mirth a torment, unchastised by thee. Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone, Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown, Along the walls where speaking marbles show 35 What worthies form the hallowed mould below; Proud names, who once the reins of empire held; In arms who triumphed; or in arts excelled; Chiefs, graced with scars, and prodigal of blood; Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood; 40 Just men, by whom impartial laws were given; And saints who taught, and led, the way to heaven. Ne’er to these chambers, where the mighty rest, Since their foundation, came a nobler guest; Nor e’er was to the bowers of bliss conveyed 45 A fairer spirit or more welcome shade. In what new region, to the just assigned, What new employments please the unbodied mind? A wingèd Virtue, through the ethereal sky, From world to world unwearied does he fly? 50 Or curious trace the long laborious maze Of Heaven’s decrees, where wondering angels gaze? Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell How Michael battled, and the dragon fell; Or, mixed with milder cherubim, to glow 55 In hymns of love, not ill essayed below? Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind, A task well suited to thy gentle mind? Oh! if sometimes thy spotless form descend, To me thy aid, thou guardian Genius, lend! 60 When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms, When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms, In silent whisperings purer thoughts impart, And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart; Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before, 65 Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more. That awful form, which, so the Heavens decree, Must still be loved and still deplored by me, In nightly visions seldom fails to rise, Or, roused by Fancy, meets my waking eyes. 70 If business calls, or crowded courts invite, The unblemished statesman seems to strike my sight; If in the stage I seek to soothe my care, I meet his soul which breathes in Cato there; If pensive to the rural shades I rove, 75 His shape o’ertakes me in the lonely grove; ’Twas there of just and good he reasoned strong, Cleared some great truth, or raised some serious song: There patient showed us the wise course to steer, A candid censor, and a friend severe; 80 There taught us how to live; and (oh! too high The price for knowledge) taught us how to die. Thou Hill, whose brow the antique structures grace, Reared by bold chiefs of Warwick’s noble race, Why, once so loved, whene’er thy bower appears, 85 O’er my dim eyeballs glance the sudden tears! How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair, Thy sloping walks, and unpolluted air! How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees, Thy noon-tide shadow, and thy evening breeze! 90 His image thy forsaken bowers restore; Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more; No more the summer in thy glooms allayed, Thy evening breezes, and thy noon-day shade. From other ills, however Fortune frowned; 95 Some refuge in the Muse’s art I found: Reluctant now I touch the trembling string, Bereft of him who taught me how to sing; And these sad accents, murmured o’er his urn, Betray that absence they attempt to mourn. 100 Oh must I then (now fresh my bosom bleeds, And Craggs in death to Addison succeeds) The verse, begun to one lost friend, prolong, And weep a second in the unfinished song! These works divine, which, on his death-bed laid, 105 To thee, O Craggs, the expiring sage conveyed, Great, but ill-omened, monument of fame, Nor he survived to give, nor thou to claim. Swift after him thy social spirit flies, And close to his, how soon! thy coffin lies. 110 Blest pair! whose union future bards shall tell In future tongues: each other’s boast! farewell, Farewell! whom joined in fame, in friendship tried, No chance could sever, nor the grave divide. Thomas Tickell.

What beckoning ghost, along the moonlight shade, Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade? ’Tis she!—but why that bleeding bosom gored, Why dimly gleams the visionary sword? Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell, 5 Is it, in heaven, a crime to love too well? To bear too tender, or too firm a heart, To act a lovers, or a Roman’s part? Is there no bright reversion in the sky, For those who greatly think, or bravely die? 10 Why bade ye else, ye Powers! her soul aspire Above the vulgar flight of low desire? Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes: The glorious fault of angels and of gods: Thence to their images on earth it flows, 15 And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows. Most souls, ’tis true, but peep out once an age, Dull sullen prisoners in the body’s cage: Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years, Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres; 20 Like eastern kings a lazy state they keep, And, close confined to their own palace, sleep. From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die) Fate snatched her early to the pitying sky. As into air the purer spirits flow, 25 And separate from their kindred dregs below; So flew the soul to its congenial place, Nor left one virtue to redeem her race. But thou, false guardian of a charge too good, Thou, mean deserter of thy brother’s blood! 30 See on these ruby lips the trembling breath, These cheeks now fading at the blast of death; Cold is that breast which warmed the world before, And those love-darting eyes must roll no more. Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball, 35 Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall; On all the line a sudden vengeance waits, And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates; There passengers shall stand, and pointing say, (While the long funerals blacken all the way) 40 Lo! these were they, whose souls the Furies steeled, And curst with hearts unknowing how to yield. Thus unlamented pass the proud away, The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day! So perish all, whose breast ne’er learned to glow 45 For others’ good, or melt at others’ woe. What can atone (O ever injured shade!) Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid? No friend’s complaint, no kind domestic tear, Pleased thy pale ghost, or graced thy mournful bier: 50 By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed, By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed, By foreign hands thy humble grave adorned, By strangers honoured, and by strangers mourned! What though no friends in sable weeds appear; 55 Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year, And bear about the mockery of woe To midnight dances, and the public show? What though no weeping Loves thy ashes grace, Nor polished marble emulate thy face? 60 What though no sacred earth allow thee room, Nor hallowed dirge be muttered o’er thy tomb? Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be drest, And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast: There shall the Morn her earliest tears bestow, 65 There the first roses of the year shall blow; While angels with their silver wings o’ershade The ground now sacred by thy relics made. So, peaceful rests, without a stone, a name, What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame. 70 How loved, how honoured once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot; A heap of dust alone remains of thee; ’Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be! Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung, 75 Deaf the praised ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. Even he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays, Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays; Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part, And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart, 80 Life’s idle business at one gasp be o’er, The Muse forgot, and thou beloved no more! Alexander Pope.

Condemned to Hope’s delusive mine, As on we toil from day to day, By sudden blasts, or slow decline, Our social comforts drop away. Well tried through many a varying year, 5 See Levet to the grave descend, Officious, innocent, sincere, Of every friendless name the friend. Yet still he fills affection’s eye, Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind; 10 Nor, lettered Arrogance, deny Thy praise to merit unrefined. When fainting nature called for aid, And hovering death prepared the blow, His vigorous remedy displayed 15 The power of art without the show. In Misery’s darkest cavern known, His useful care was ever nigh, Where hopeless Anguish poured his groan, And lonely Want retired to die. 20 No summons mocked by chill delay, No petty gain disdained by pride, The modest wants of every day The toil of every day supplied. His virtues walked their narrow round, 25 Nor made a pause, nor left a void; And sure the Eternal Master found The single talent well employed. The busy day—the peaceful night, Unfelt, uncounted, glided by; 30 His frame was firm, his powers were bright, Though now his eightieth year was nigh. Then with no fiery throbbing pain, No cold gradations of decay, Death broke at once the vital chain, 35 And freed his soul the nearest way. Samuel Johnson.

Ye banks and braes and streams around The castle o’ Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie! There simmer first unfauld her robes, 5 And there the langest tarry; For there I took the last fareweel O’ my sweet Highland Mary. How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, How rich the hawthorn’s blossom, 10 As underneath their fragrant shade I clasped her to my bosom! The golden hours on angel wings Flew o’er me and my dearie; For dear to me as light and life 15 Was my sweet Highland Mary. Wi’ mony a vow and locked embrace Our parting was fu’ tender; And pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder; 20 But, oh! fell Deaths untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early! Now green’s the sod, and cauld’s the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary! O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 25 I aft hae kissed sae fondly! And closed for aye the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly; And mouldering now in silent dust That heart that lo’ed me dearly! 30 But still within my bosom’s core Shall live my Highland Mary. Robert Burns

Obscurest night involved the sky; The Atlantic billows roared, When such a destined wretch as I, Washed headlong from on board, Of friends, of hope, of all bereft, 5 His floating home for ever left. No braver chief could Albion boast, Than he, with whom he went, Nor ever ship left Albion’s coast With warmer wishes sent. 10 He loved them both, but both in vain, Nor him beheld, nor her again. Not long beneath the whelming brine, Expert to swim, he lay: Nor soon he felt his strength decline, 15 Or courage die away; But waged with death a lasting strife, Supported by despair of life. He shouted; nor his friends had failed To check the vessel’s course, 20 But so the furious blast prevailed, That, pitiless perforce, They left their outcast mate behind, And scudded still before the wind. Some succour yet they could afford; 25 And, such as storms allow, The cask, the coop, the floated cord, Delayed not to bestow. But he, they knew, nor ship nor shore, Whate’er they gave, should visit more. 30 Nor, cruel as it seemed, could he Their haste himself condemn, Aware that flight, in such a sea, Alone could rescue them; Yet bitter felt it still to die 35 Deserted, and his friends so nigh. He long survives, who lives an hour In ocean, self-upheld: And so long he, with unspent power, His destiny repelled: 40 And ever as the minutes flew, Entreated help, or cried—‘Adieu!’ At length, his transient respite past, His comrades, who before Had heard his voice in every blast, 45 Could catch the sound no more. For then by toil subdued, he drank The stifling wave, and then he sank. No poet wept him; but the page Of narrative sincere, 50 That tells his name, his worth, his age, Is wet with Anson’s tear. And tears by bards or heroes shed Alike immortalize the dead. I therefore purpose not, or dream, 55 Descanting on his fate, To give the melancholy theme A more enduring date; But misery still delights to trace Its semblance in another’s case. 60 No voice divine the storm allayed, No light propitious shone, When snatched from all effectual aid We perished, each alone: But I beneath a rougher sea, 65 And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he. William Cowper.

I’m wearing awa’, John, Like snaw when its thaw, John, I’m wearing awa’ To the land o’ the leal. There’s nae sorrow there, John, 5 There’s neither cauld nor care, John, The day is aye fair In the land o’ the leal. Ye were aye leal and true, John, Your task’s ended noo, John, 10 And I’ll welcome you To the land o’ the leal. Our bonnie bairn’s there, John, She was baith guid and fair, John; Oh we grudged her right sair 15 To the land o’ the leal! Then dry that tearfu’ e’e, John, My soul langs to be free, John, And angels wait on me To the land o’ the leal. 20 Now fare ye weel, my ain John, This warld’s care is vain, John; We’ll meet and aye be fain In the land o’ the leal. Lady Nairn.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herds wind slowly o’er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 5 And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower The moping owl does to the moon complain 10 Of such, as wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 15 The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 20 For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their sire’s return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 25 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 30 Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour; 35 The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If memory o’er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 40 Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour’s voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 45 Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne’er unroll; 50 Chill penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 55 And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country’s blood. 60 The applause of listening senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation’s eyes, Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone 65 Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 70 Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride With incense kindled at the Muse’s flame. Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learned to stray; Along the cool sequestered vale of life 75 They kept the noiseless tenour of their way. Yet e’en these bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 80 Their names, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply; And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 85 This pleasing anxious being e’er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; 90 E’en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E’en in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of the unhonoured dead, Dost in these lines their artless tales relate; If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, 95 Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, ‘Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 100 ‘There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. ‘Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 105 Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. ‘One morn, I missed him on the customed hill, Along the heath, and near his favourite tree; 110 Another came, nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; ‘The next with dirges due in sad array, Slow through the churchway path we saw him borne: Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, 115 Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.’

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown: Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, And Melancholy marked him for her own. 120 Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to misery all he had, a tear; He gained from Heaven, ’twas all he wished, a friend. No farther seek his merits to disclose, 125 Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose;) The bosom of his Father and his God. Thomas Gray.

Come, O Thou traveller unknown, Whom still I hold, but cannot see, My company before is gone, And I am left alone with Thee; With Thee all night I mean to stay, 5 And wrestle till the break of day. I need not tell Thee who I am, My misery or sin declare; Thyself hast called me by my name; Look on thy hands, and read it there! 10 But who, I ask Thee, who art Thou? Tell me thy Name, and tell me now. In vain Thou strugglest to get free, I never will unloose my hold; Art Thou the Man that died for me? 15 The secret of thy love untold. Wrestling, I will not let Thee go, Till I thy Name, thy nature know. Wilt Thou not yet to me reveal Thy new, unutterable Name? 20 Tell me, I still beseech Thee, tell: To know it now, resolved I am: Wrestling, I will not let Thee go, Till I thy Name, thy nature know. ’Tis all in vain to hold thy tongue, 25 Or touch the hollow of my thigh; Though every sinew be unstrung, Out of my arms Thou shalt not fly: Wrestling, I will not let Thee go, Till I thy Name, thy nature know. 30 What though my shrinking flesh complain, And murmur to contend so long? I rise superior to my pain; When I am weak, then am I strong: And when my all of strength shall fail, 35 I shall with the God-Man prevail. My strength is gone; my nature dies; I sink beneath thy weighty hand; Faint to revive, and fall to rise; I fall, and yet by faith I stand: 40 I stand, and will not let Thee go, Till I thy Name, thy nature know. Yield to me now, for I am weak, But confident in self-despair; Speak to my heart, in blessings speak, 45 Be conquered by my instant prayer! Speak, or Thou never hence shall move, And tell me, if thy Name be Love? ’Tis Love! ’tis Love! Thou diedst for me! I hear thy whisper in my heart! 50 The morning breaks, the shadows flee; Pure universal Love Thou art! To me, to all, thy bowels move; Thy nature and thy Name is Love! My prayer hath power with God; the grace 55 Unspeakable I now receive; Through faith I see Thee face to face, I see Thee face to face, and live: In vain I have not wept and strove; Thy nature and thy Name is Love. 60 I know Thee, Saviour, who Thou art; Jesus, the feeble sinner’s Friend! Nor wilt Thou with the night depart, But stay, and love me to the end! Thy mercies never shall remove, 65 Thy nature and thy Name is Love! The Sun of Righteousness on me Hath rose, with healing in his wings; Withered my nature’s strength, from Thee My soul its life and succour brings; 70 My help is all laid up above; Thy nature and thy Name is Love. Contented now upon my thigh I halt, till life’s short journey end; All helplessness, all weakness, I 75 On Thee alone for strength depend; Nor have I power from Thee to move; Thy nature and thy Name is Love. Lame as I am, I take the prey, Hell, earth, and sin, with ease o’ercome; 80 I leap for joy, pursue my way, And, as a bounding hart, fly home; Through all eternity to prove, Thy nature and thy Name is Love! Charles Wesley.