4. Sound sleep by night; study and ease,
Together mixed; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please
With meditation.

5. Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,
Thus unlamented let me die,
Steal from the world, and not a stone

Tell where I lie.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744).

ODE TO THE CUCKOO.

1. Hail, beauteous stranger of the wood,
Attendant on the spring!

Now Heav'n repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.

2. Soon as the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear:
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year?

3. Delightful visitant! with thee

I hail the time of flowers,

When heaven is fill'd with music sweet
Of birds among the bowers.

4. The school-boy wand'ring in the wood
To pull the flowers so gay,
Starts, thy curious voice to hear,
And imitates thy lay.

5. Soon as the pea puts on the bloom,
Thou fly'st thy vocal vale,

An annual guest in other lands,
Another spring to hail.

6. Sweet bird! thy bow'r is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear;

Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No winter in thy year!

7. O could I fly, I'd fly with thee:
We'd make, with social wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the spring.

Michael Bruce (1746 — 1767). .

HUMAN LIFE.

1. The lark has sung his carol in the sky;
The bees have hummed their noontide lullaby;
Still in the vale the village-bells ring round,
Still in Llewellyn-hall the jests resound;
For now the caudle-cup is circling there,

Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer,
And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire

The babe, the sleeping image of his sire.

2. A few short years-and then these sounds shall hail
The day again, and gladness fill the vale;

So soon the child a youth, the youth a man,
Eager to run the race his fathers ran.

Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sirloin,
The ale, now brewed, in floods of amber shine.
And, basking in the chimney's ample blaze,
'Mid many a tale told of his boyish days,
The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguiled,
""Twas on these knees he sate so oft and smiled."
3. And soon again shall music swell the breeze;

Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees
Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns be sung,
And violets scattered round; and old and young,
In every cottage porch with garlands green,
Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the scene;
While, her dark eyes declining, by his side
Moves in her virgin veil the gentle bride.

4. And once, alas! nor in a distant hour,

Another voice shall come from yonder tower;
When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen,
And weeping's heard where only joy has been;
When by his children borne, and from his door
Slowly departing to return no more,

He rests in holy earth with them that went before.

5. And such is Human Life;—so gliding on,

It glimmers like a meteor, and is gone!
Yet is the tale, brief though it be, as strange,
As full methinks of wild and wondrous change,
As any that the wandering tribes require,
Stretched in the desert round their evening fire;
As any sung of old in hall or bower

To minstrel-harps at midnight's witching hour!
Samuel Rogers (1763 -- 1855).

PARENTAL ODE TO MY LITTLE SON.

1. Thou happy, happy elf!

(But stop-first let me kiss away that tear!)

Thou tiny image of myself!

(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!)
Thou merry, laughing sprite!

With spirits, feather light,
Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin
(Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!)

2. Thou little tricksy Puck!1

With antic toys so funnily bestuck,

Light as the singing bird that wings the air,

(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!)

Thou darling of thy sire!

(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!)

Thou imp of mirth and joy!

1 The name of that "merry wanderer of the night," styled also Robin Goodfellow, who takes so conspicuous a part in the Midsummer Night's Dream.

In love's dear chain so strong and bright a link,
Thou idol of thy parents (Drat the boy!
There goes my ink!)

3. Thou cherub-but of earth;

Fit playfellow for Fays by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth,

(That dog will bite him, if he pulls his tail!)
Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey
From every blossom in the world that blows,
Singing in youth's Elysium1 ever sunny,
(Another tumble-that's his precious nose!)
Thy father's pride and hope!

(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint, (Where did he learn that squint !)

4. Thou young domestic dove!

(He'll have that jug off with another shove!) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!

(Are those torn clothes his best?)

Little epitome of man!

(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life. (He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being!

No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,
Play on, play on,

My elfin John!

5. Toss the light ball—bestride the stick,

(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)
With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down,
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk
With many a lamb-like frisk,

(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)
Thou pretty opening rose!

(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose !)

1 See note on page 72.

Balmy, and breathing music like the south
(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)
Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star,
(I wish that window had an iron bar!)
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove,
(I'll tell you what, my love,

I cannot write, unless he's sent above).

Thomas Hood (1798 — 1845).

LYRIC POETRY. THE ELEGY.

ELEGY.

1. Soft slumbers now, with downy fingers, close
The o'erwearied eye of labour and of care;
Now nothing wakes to break night's deep repose,
But I who vainly strive to hush despair.

2. Slowly I wander through the sacred grounds,
The cold and lowly mansions of the dead;
Beneath my steps the hollow earth resounds,
And moaning spectres near me, beckoning, tread.

3. Awful, unearthly feelings sway the soul,

As midnight throws her blackest horrors round; I hear afar the airy death-bell toll,

And faint, low wailings rising from the ground.

4. Here in this spot obscure she sleeps, I cry,

She, in whom all a woman's virtues shone;
Unhonoured here her mouldering relics lie,
Marked by the moss-grown, rudely-sculptured stone.

5. O thou! who fondly o'er my cradle hung,
My little, tottering footsteps led with care,