Part 11

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._

CXLIX

_ON THE DEATH OF RICHARD WEST._

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._

CL

_TO THE HONOURABLE MISS CARTERET._

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._

CLI

_TO MISS GEORGIANA CARTERET._

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._

CLII

_THE DYING LOVER._

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._

CLIII

_THE SAILOR’S RETURN._

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._

CLIV

_THE BANKS OF DOON._

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._

CLV

_THE BRAES OF YARROW._

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._

CLVI

_AULD ROBIN GRAY._

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._

CLVII

_THE PROGRESS OF POESY._

A PINDARIC ODE.

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._

CLVIII

_SONNET._

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._

CLIX

_TO THE RIVER LODON._