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245

If a star were confin'd into a tomb,

her captive flames must needs burn there; but when the hand that lockt her up gives room, she'll shine through all the sphere.

O Father of eternal life, and all

created glories under thee,

resume thy spirit from this world of thrall
into true liberty!

Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill
my perspective still as they pass;

or else remove me hence unto that hill
where I shall need no glass.

H. VAUGHAN

INSENSIBILITY TO GOD'S MERCIES

HUES of the rich unfolding porno

that, ere the glorious sun be born, by some soft touch invisible

around his path are taught to swell;—

thou rustling breeze so fresh and gay,
that dancest forth at opening day,
and brushing by with joyous wing,
wakenest each little leaf to sing;-

ye fragrant clouds of dewy steam,
by which deep grove and tangled stream
pay, for soft rains in season given,
their tribute to the genial Heaven:—

why waste your treasures of delight
upon our thankless, joyless sight;
who day by day to sin awake,
seldom of Heaven and you partake?

THE SEAMEN'S SONG

'ER the rolling waves we go,
where the stormy winds do blow,

to quell with fire and sword the foe,
that dares give us vexation.

J. KEBLE

246

Sailing to each foreign shore,
despising hardships we endure,
wealth we often do bring o'er
that does enrich the nation.

Noble-hearted seamen are
those that do no labour spare,
nor no danger shun or fear,
to do their country pleasure.

In loyalty they do abound,
nothing base in them is found,
but they bravely stand their ground
in calm and stormy weather.

THE LIVING AUTHOR'S EPITAPH

FROM life's superfluous cares enlarg'd,

his debt of human toil discharg'd,
here Cowley lies, beneath this shed,
to every worldly interest dead:
with decent poverty content;
his hours of ease not idly spent;
to fortune's goods a foe profess'd,
and hating wealth, by all caress'd.
'Tis sure, he's dead; for lo! how small
a spot of earth is now his all!
O! wish that earth may lightly lay,
and every care be far away!

bring flowers, the short-liv'd roses bring,
to life deceas'd fit offering!

and sweets around the poet strow,
whilst yet with life his ashes glow.

J. ADDISON

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L'

HYMN OF PAN

IQUID Peneus was flowing,
and all dark Tempe lay

in Pelion's shadow, outgrowing

the light of the dying day,

speeded with my sweet pipings.

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249

I sang of the dancing stars,

I sang of the dædal Earth,
and of Heaven-and the giant wars,
and Love, and Death, and Birth,—

and then I changed my pipings,—
singing how down the vale of Menalus

I pursued a maiden and clasped a reed:
gods and men, we are all deluded thus!

it breaks in our bosom and then we bleed:
all wept, as I think both ye now would,
if envy or age had not frozen your blood,
at the sorrow of my sweet pipings.

JUNO'S OFFER TO PARIS

ET ambition fire thy mind,

P. B. SHELLEY

LET anu went born o'er men to reign;

not to follow flocks design'd,

scorn thy crook and leave the plain.
Crowns I'll throw beneath thy feet;
thou on necks of kings shalt tread;
joys in circles joys shall meet,
which way e'er thy fancy's led.

Let not toils of empire fright,
toils of empire pleasures are;
thou shalt only know delight,
all the joy but not the care.

Shepherd, if thou'lt yield the prize,
for the blessings I bestow,
joyful I'll ascend the skies,
happy thou shalt reign below.

BUT

THE WINTER OF LIFE

W. CONGREVE

OUT lately seen in gladsome green
the woods rejoice the day,

through gentle showers the laughing flowers

in double pride were gay:

but now our joys are fled,

on winter blasts awa'!

yet maiden May, in rich array,
again shall bring them a'.

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But my white pow, nae kindly thowe
shall melt the snaws of age;

my trunk of eild, but buss or bield,
sinks in time's wintry rage.

Oh, age has weary days

and nights o' sleepless pain!
Thou golden time o' youthful prime,
why com'st thou not again!

HUSH, SWEET LUTE

R. BURNS

HUSH, Sweet Lute, thy songs remind me

of past joys, now turn'd to pain;

of ties that long have ceas'd to bind me,
but whose burning marks remain.
In each tone, some echo falleth
on my ears of joys gone by:
every note some dream recalleth

of bright hopes but born to die.

Yet, sweet Lute, though pain it bring me,
once more let thy numbers thrill;
though death were in the strain they sing me,
I must woo its anguish still.

Since no time can e'er recover

love's sweet light when once 'tis set,—

better to weep such pleasures over,
than smile o'er any left us yet.

INDIFFERENCE TO FAME

T. MOORE

H! who can tell how hard it is to climb

AH

the steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar ;

ah! who can tell how many a soul sublime

has felt the influence of malignant star,

and wag'd with fortune an eternal war;

checked by the scoff of Pride, by Envy's frown,
and Poverty's unconquerable bar,

in life's low vale remote has pined alone,

then dropt into the grave, unpitied and unknown! And yet the languor of inglorious days

not equally oppressive is to all:

him, who ne'er listen'd to the voice of praise,
the silence of neglect can ne'er appal.

There are, who, deaf to mad Ambition's call,
would shrink to hear th' obstreperous trump of Fame;
supremely blest, if to their portion fall

health, competence and peace.

J. BEATTIE

HERE be none of Beauty's daughters

252 THERE

with a magic like thee;

and like music on the waters

is thy sweet voice to me:
when, as if its sound were causing
the charmed ocean's pausing,
the waves lie still and gleaming,
and the lulled winds seem dreaming:
and the midnight moon is weaving
her bright chain o'er the deep,
whose breast is gently heaving
as an infant's asleep:

so the spirit bows before thee
to listen and adore thee,
with a full but soft emotion,

like the swell of Summer's ocean.

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LORD BYRON

THE POET'S RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD

HUS, while I ape the measure wild

THU

of tales that charmed me yet a child,
rude though they be, still with the chime
return the thoughts of early time;
and feelings, roused in life's first day,
glow in the line, and prompt the lay.

Then rise those crags, that mountain tower,
which charmed my fancy's wakening hour:
though no broad river swept along,
to claim, perchance, heroic song;
though sighed no groves in summer gale,
to prompt of love a softer tale;
though scarce a puny streamlet's speed
claimed homage from a shepherd's reed;
yet was poetic impulse given

by the green hill and clear blue heaven.

SIR W. SCOTT