XXI.

Then pointing with my sceptre to the sky, With vehemence that might not be restrain'd, I gave the awful curse of destiny! I was asleep, but sore with passion pain'd. It was a dreadful curse; and to this day, Even from my waking dreams it is not worn away.

THE CURSE.

May heaven and earth, And hell underneath, Unite to ensting thee In horrible wrath. May scorning surround thee, And conscience astound thee, High genius o'erpower, And the devil confound thee. The curse be upon thee In pen and in pocket, Thy ink turn to puddle, And gorge in the socket; Thy study let rats destroy, Vermin and cats annoy, Thy base lucubrations To tear and to gnaw, Thy false calculations In Empire and Law. The printers shall harass, The devils shall dun thee, The trade shall despise thee, And C--t--e shun thee. The judge shall not hear thee, But frown and pass by thee, And clients shall fear thee, And know thee, and fly thee! I'll hunt thee, I'll chase thee, To scorn and deride thee, The cloud shall not cover, The cave shall not hide thee; The scorching of wrath And of shame shall abide thee, Till the herbs of the desert Shall wither beside thee. Thou shalt thirst for revenge And misrule, as for wine, But genius shall flourish! And royalty shine! And thou shalt remain While the Laureate doth reign, With a fire in thy heart, And a fire in thy brain, And Fame shall disown thee And visit thee never, And the curse shall be on thee For ever and ever!

THE GUDE GREYE KATT.

(JAMES HOGG)

There wase ane katt, and ane gude greye katt, That duallit in the touir oi Blain, And mony haif hearit of that gude katt, That neuir shall heare agayn.

Scho had ane brynd upon her backe. And ane brent abone hir bree; Hir culoris war the merilit heuis That dappil the krene-berrye.

But scho had that withyn her ee That man may neuir declaire, For scho had that withyn hir ee Quhich mortyl dochtna beare.

Sumtymis ane ladye sochte the touir, Of rych and fayre beautye: Sumtymis are maukyn cam therin, Hytchyng rycht wistfullye.

But quhan they serchit the touir of Blain, And socht it sayre and lang, They fande nocht but the gude greye katt Sittyng thrummyng at hir sang;

And up scho rase and pacit hir wayis Full stetlye oure the stene, And streikit out hir braw hint-leg, As nocht at all had bene.

Weil mocht the wyfis in that kintrye Rayse up ane grefous stir, For neuir ane katt in all the lande Durst moop or melle wyth hir.

Quhaneuir theye lukit in hir fece Their fearis greue se ryfe, Theye snirtit and theye yollit throu frychte, And rann for dethe and lyfe.

The lairde of Blain he had ane spouis, Beth cumlye, gude, and kynde; But scho had gane to the landis of pece, And left him sadd behynde;

He had seuin dochteris all se fayre, Of mayre than yerdlye grece, Seuin bonnyer babis neuir braithit ayre, Or smylit in parentis fece.

Ane daye quhan theye war all alane, He sayde with hevye mene; 'Quhat will cum of ye, my deire babis, Now quhan your moderis gene?

'O quha will leide your tendyr myndis, The pethe of ladyhoode, To thynke as ladye ocht to thynke, And feele as mayden sholde?

'Weil mot it kythe in maydenis mynde, And maydenis modestye, The want of hir that weil wase fit For taske unmeite for me!'

But up then spak the gude greye katt, That satt on the herthe stene, 'O hald yer tung, my deire maister, Nor mak se sayre ane mene;

'For I will breide your seuin dochteris, To winsum ladyhoode, To thynk as ladyis ocht to thynke, And feile as maydenis sholde.

'I'll breide them fayre, I'll breide them free From every seye of syn, Fayre as the blumyng roz withoute, And pure in herte withyn.'

Rychte sayre astoundit wase the lairde, Ane frychtenit man wase he; But the sueite babyis war full faine, And chicklit joyfullye.

May Ella tooke the gude greye katt Rychte fondlye on hir knee, 'And hethe my pussye lernit to speike? I troue scho lernit of me.'

The katt, scho thrummyt at hir sang, And turnit hir haffet sleike, And drewe hir bonnye bassenyt side, Againste the babyis cheike.

But the lairde he was ane cunnyng lairde, And he saide with speechis fayre, 'I haif a feste in hall to nychte, Sweite pussye, be you there.'

The katt scho set ane luke on him, That turnit his herte til stene; 'If you haif feste in hall to nychte, I shall be there for ane.'

The feste wase laide, the tabil spread With rych and nobil store, And there wase set the Byschope of Blain, With all his holy kore;

He wase ane wyce and wylie wychte Of wytch and warlockrye, And mony ane wyfe had byrnit to coome, Or hangit on ane tre.

He kenit their merkis and molis of hell, And made them joifully Ryde on the reid-het gad of ern, Ane pleasaunt sycht to se.

The Byschope said ane holye grace, Unpatiente to begyn, But nathyng of the gude greye katt Wase funde the touir withyn;

But in there cam ane fayre ladye, Cledd in the silken sheene, Ane winsumer and bonnyer may On yerde was neuir seene;

Scho tuke her sete at tabil heide, With courtlye modestye, Quhill ilken bosome byrnit with lufe And waulit ilken ee.

Sueite wase hir voyce to all the ryng, Unlesse the Lairde of Blain, For he had hearit that very voyce, From off his own herthe stene.

He barrit the doris and windois fast, He barrit them to the jynne; 'Now in the grece of heuin,' said he, 'Your excercyse begyn;

'There is no grece nor happynesse For my poor babyis soulis Until you trye that weirdlye wytch, And roste hir on the colis.

'If this be scho,' the Byschope saide, 'This beauteous cumlye may, It is meite I try hir all alone To heire quhat scho will saye.'

'No,' quod the Lairde, 'I suthelye sweire None shall from this proceide, Until I see that wycked wytch Byrnt til ane izel reide.'

The Byschope knelit doune and prayit, Quhill all their hayris did creipe; And aye he hoonit and he prayit, Quhill all war faste asleipe;

He prayit gain syn and Sauten bothe, And deidis of shyft and schame; But all the tyme his faithful handis Pressit the cumlye dame.

Weil saw the Lairde, but nething saide, He kenit, in holye zele, He grepit for the merkis of hell, Whilk he did ken ful weile.

And aye he pressit hir lillye hande, And kyssit it ferventlye, And prayit betweine, for och ane kynde And lufyng preste was he!

The Byschope stappit and sterted sore, Wyde gaipen with affrychte, For och that fayre and lillye hande Had turned ane paw outrychte!

Ane paw with long and crukit clawis! That breste of heuinlye charme Had turnit til brusket of ane katt, Ful hayrie and ful warme!

And there scho satt on lang-settil, With een of glentyng flame, And theye war on the Byschope sett Lyke poynter on his game.

The Byschope turnit him runde aboute To se quhat he mocht se, Scho strak ane clawe in ilken lug, And throu the rofe did flee.

The katt went throu withouten stop Lyke schado throu the daye, But the great Byschopis fleschlye forme Made all the rofe gif waye;

The silyng faldit lyke ane buke, The serker crashit amayne, And shredis and flenis of brokyn stenis Fell to the grunde lyke rayne.

The braide ful mone wase up the lyft, The nychte wase lyke ane daye, As the greate Byschope tuke his jante Up throu the milkye-waye;

He cryit se loude and lustilye The hillis and skyis war riuen; Och sicken cryis war neuir hearit Atwene the yerde and heuin!

They sawe him spurryng in the ayre, And flynging horredlye, And than he prayit and sang ane saum, For ane fearit wycht was he;

But ay his waylingis fainter greue As the braide lyft he crossit, Quhill sum saide that theye hearit them still, And sum saide all wase loste.

There was ane herd on Dollar-Lawe, Turnyng his flockis by nychte, Or stealyng in ane gude haggyse Before the mornyng lychte.

He hearit the cryis cum yont the heuin, And sawe them bethe passe bye; The katt scho skreuit up hir taile As sayrlye pinchit to flye.

But aye scho thrummyt at hir sang, Though he wase sore in thrall, Like katt that hethe are jollye mouse Gaun murryng thro' the hall.

That greye kattis sang it wase se sweete, As on the nychte it fell, The Murecokis dancit ane seuinsum ryng Arunde the hether bell;

The Foumartis jyggit by the brukis, The Maukinis by the kaile, And the Otar dancit ane minowaye As he gaed ouir the daile;

The Hurchanis helde ane kintrye dance Alang the brumye knowe, And the gude Toop-hogg rase fra his layre And ualtzit with the youe.

THE GREYE KATTIS SANG.

Murr, my Lorde Byschope, I syng to you; Murr, my Lorde Byschope, Bawlillilu! Murr, my Lorde Byschope, &c.

That nycht ane hynde on Border syde Chancit at his dore to be; He spyit ane greate clypse of the mone, And ben the house ran he;

He laide ane wisp upon the colis, And bleue full lang and sayre, And rede the Belfaste Almanake, But the clypse it wase not there.

Och but that hynde wase sor aghaste, And haf to madnesse driuen, For he thochte he hearit ane drounyng man Syching alangis the heuin.

That nychte ane greate Filossofere Had watchit on Etnyis height, To merk the rysing of the sonne, And the blythsum mornyng lychte;

And all the lychtlye lynis of goude, As on the se they fell, And watch the fyir and the smoke, Cum rummilyng up fra hell.

He luket este, the daye cam on, Upon his gladsum pethe, And the braid mone hang in the west, Her paleness wase lyke dethe;

And by her sat are littil stern, Quhan all the laife war gane, It was lyke ane wee fadyng geme In the wyde worild its lane.

Then the Filossofere was sadde, And he turnit his ee awaye, For they mindit him of the yerdlye greate, In dethe or in decaye.

He turnit his face unto the north, The fallyng teare to drie, And he spyit ane thyng of wonderous maike, Atwene the yerde and skie;

It wase lyke ane burd withoutten wyng, Rychte wonderous to beholde, And it bure are forked thyng alang, With swiftnesse manyfolde:

But ay it greue as neare it dreue-- His herte bete wondir sayre! The sonne, the mone, and sternis war gaine, He thocht of them ne mayre, Quhan he behelde ane jollye preste Cumyng swyggyng throu the ayre.

The katt scho helde him by the luggis Atour the ausum hole, And och the drede that he wase in Wase mayre than man colde thole;

He cryit, 'O Pussye, hald your gryp, O hald and dinna spaire; O drap me in the yerde or se, But dinna drap me there.'

But scho wase ane doure and deidlye katt, And scho saide with lychtsum ayre, 'You kno heuin is ane blissit plece, And all the prestis gang there.'

'Och sweete, sweete Pussye, hald your gryp, Spaire nouther cleke nor clawe; Is euir that lyke heuin abone, In quhich am lyke to fa'?

And aye scho hang him by the luggis Abone the ausum den, Till he fande the gryp rive slowlye out, Sore was he quakyng then!

Doune went the Byschope, doune lyke leide Into the hollowe nychte, His goune wase flapyng in the ayre, Quhan he wase out of sychte.

They hearit him honyng down the deep, Till the croone it dyit awaye, It wase lyke the stoune of ane greate bom-be Gaun soundyng throu the daye.

All wase in sloomeryng quietnesse, Quhan he went doune to hell, But seckn an houre wase neuir seine, Quhan the gude lorde Byschope fell.

Then cam the smouder and the smoke Up roschyng vilentlye, And it tourackit awaye til heuin Ane gloryous sychte to se;

For ay it rowed its fleecye curlis Out to the rysing sonne, And the estern syde was gildit goude, And all the westlin dunne.

Then the Filossofere wase muvit, And he wist not quhat til say, For he saw nochte of the gude greye katt; But he saw ane ladye gay.

Hir goune wase of the gress-greene sylk, And hir ee wase lyke the deue, And hir hayre wase lyke the threidis of goude That runde her shoulderis fleue.

Hir gairtenis war the raynbowis heme, That scho tyit anethe hir knee, And ay scho kemit hir yellow hayre, And sang full pleasauntlye.

'I am the Queene of the Fairy Land, I'll do ne harme to thee, For I am the gardian of the gude, Let the wycked be ware of me.

'There ar seuin pearlis in yonder touir, Their number sune shall wane; There are seuin flouris in fayre Scotland, I'll pu them ane by ane;

'And the weeist burd in all the bouir Shall be the last that is taene; The Lairde of Blain hethe seuin dochteris, But sune he shall haif nane.

'I'll bathe them all in the krystal streime Throu the Fairy Land that flouis, I'll seike the bouris of paradyce For the bonnyest flouir that blouis.

'And I'll distil it in the deue That fallis on the hillis of heuin, And the hues that luvelye angelis weire Shall to these maidis be giuen.

'And I'll trie how luvelye and how fayre Their formis may be to see, And I'll trie how pure the maydenis mynde In this ill worild may be.'

The Lairde of Blain he walkis the wode, But he walkis it all alane; The Lairde of Blain had seuin dochteris, But now he hethe not ane.

They neuir war on dethbed layde, But they elyit all awaye; He lost his babyis ane by ane Atween the nychte and day.

He kend not quhat to thynk or saye, Or quhat did him beseime, But he walkit throu this weirye worild Lyke ane that is in a dreime.

Quhan seuin lang yearis, and seuin lang daies, Had slowlye cumit and gane, He walkit throu the gude grene wode, And he walkit all alane;

He turnit his fece unto the skie, And the teire stude in his ee, For he thocht of the ladye of his lufe, And his lost familye:

But aye his fayth was firm and sure, And his trust in Heuin still, For he hopet to meite them all agayne Beyond the reiche of ill:

And ay the teiris fell on the grene, As he knelit downe to praye, But he wase se muvit with tendirnesse That ane worde he colde not saye.

He lukit oure his left shouldir To se quhat he mocht se: There he behelde seuin bonnye maydis Cumyng tryppyng oure the le!

Sic beautye ee had neuir seine, Nor euir agayne shall se, Sic luvelye formis of flesche and blude, On yerde can neuir be;

The joie that bemit in ilken ee Wase lyke the risyng sonne, The fayriste blumis in all the wode Besyde their formis war dunne;

There wase ane wrethe on ilken heide, On ilken bosome thre, And the brychtest flouris the worild e'er saw War noddyng oure the bre.

But cese yer strayne, my gude auld herpe, O cese and syng ne mayre! Gin ye wolde of that meityng teil, O I mocht reue it sayre!

There wolde ne ee in faire Scotland, Nor luvelye cheike be drie; The laveroke wolde forget hir sang, And drap deide fra the skie;

And the desye wolde ne mayre be quhyte, And the lillye wolde chainge hir heue, For the blude-drapis wolde fal fra the mone, And reiden the mornyng deue.

But quhan I tell ye oute my tale, Ful playnlye ye will se, That quhare there is ne syn nor schame Ne sorroue there can be.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

SONNETS ATTEMPTED IN THE MANNER OF CONTEMPORARY WRITERS.

(COLERIDGE, LAMB, AND CHARLES LLOYD)