Imatges de pÓgina
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" I've heard strange things from one of you,

Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor! Pray tell me if you think 'tis true;

Here, as I crav'd a morscl of their bread, Explain it if you can.

pamper'd menial drove me from the door

To seek a fhelter in an humbler shed. “ Such incense has perfum'd my throne ! 6. Such cloquence iny heart has won !

Oh take me to your hospitable dome! “ I think I guess the hand :

Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold ! “ I know her wit and beauty 100,

Short is my passage to the friendly tomb, “ Put why she sends a pray'r fu nei

For I ain poor, and miserably old. I cannot understand.

Should I reveal the fources of my grief, “ To light some flames, and some revive,

If sofi humanity e'er touch'd your breast, To kecp some others just alive,

Your hands would not withhold the kind relief, " Full oft I am imp!or'd;

And tears of pity would not be repress'd. “ But, with peculiar pow'r to please,

Heaven sends misfortunes ; why should we re“ To fupplicate for nought but cale!

pine ? “ 'Tis odd, upon my word!

'Tis Heaven has brought me to the state you see; “ Tell her, with fruitless care I 've fought;

And your condition may be foon like mine, “ And tho' my realms, with wonders fraught, The Child of Sorrow and of Milery. “ In remedies abound,

A little farm was my paternal lot;: “No grain of cold Indifference

Then like the lark I sprightly haild the morn : “ Was ever yet allied to tense

But, ah! oppreflion forc'd me from my cot ; “ In all my fairy round.

My caitle died, and blighted was my corn. “ The regions of the sky I'd trace,

My daughter, once the comfort of my age, “I'd ransack every earthly place,

Lur'd by a villain from her native home, “ Each icaf, each herb, each Aow'r,

Is cast abandon'd on the world's wide ftage, “ To mitigate the pangs of fear,

And doom'd in scanty poverty to roam. Dispel the clouds of black despair, " Or lull the restless hour.

My tender wife, sweet foother of my care!

Struck with fad anguith at the tern decree, “I would be generous as I'm just;

Fell, ling'rieg fell, a victim to despair, “ But I obey, as others must,

And left the world to wretchedness and me. " Those laws which fate has made.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man, My tiny kingdom how defend,

[door, " And what might be the horrid end,

Whole trembling limbs have borne him to your " Should man my state invade ?

Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span;

Oh give relief, and Heaven will blets your store ! “ 'Twould put your mind into a rage, " And such unequal war to wage “ Suits not my regal duty!

$ 86. Pollio. An Elogiac Oile; written in the “ I dare not change a firft decree :

Wood near R- Caile, 1762. MICKLE. " She's doom'd to pleale, nor can be free;

Hacc Jovein featire, peorque cunctos,
“Such is the lot of Beauty!"
This said, he darted o'er the plain,
And after follow'd all his train;

THE peaceful evening breathes her balmy

fiore, No glimpse of him I find : But füre I am, the little sprite

The playful school-boys wanton o'er the green: These words, before he took his flight,

Where spreading poplars fhade the cottage-door, Imprinted on my mind.

The villagers in rustic joy convene.

Amid the ecrct windings of the wood, $ 85. The Beggar's Petition. Anon.

With fo!emn Meditation let me stray;

This is the hour when to the wise and good PITY the sorrows of a poor old man, The heavenly maid repays the toils of day. Whofc trembling limbs have borne him to

The river murmurs, and the breathing gale Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span; Whispers the gently-waving boughs amo:g: Oh give relief, and Heaven will bless your store ! The star of evening glimmers o'er the dale,

And leads the filent host of heaven along. These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespak, These hoary locks proclain my lengtuen'd years; How bright, emerging o'er yon broom-clad And many a furrow in my grief-worn check

hcight, Has been the channel to a flood of tears.

The filser empress of the night appears ! Yon house created on the rising ground,

Yon limpid pool reflects a stream of light,

And faintly in its breast the woodland bears. With tempting aspect drew me from my road; For Plenty there a residence has found, The waters tumbling o'er their rocky bed, And Grandeur a magnificent abode.

Solomon and constant, from yon deil relound ;

Spem bonam certamque domum reporto.

HOR.

your door,

The lonely hearths blaze o'er the distant glade; The fainted well, where yon bleak hill declines, Thcbat, low-wheeling, ikims the dusky Has oft been conscious of those happy houra; ground.

But now the hill, the river crowo'd with pines, August and hoary, o'er the Noping dale,

And fainted well have lost their chetrez The Gothic abbey rears its Iculptur'd tow'rs;

pow'rs; Dull through the roofs resounds the whistling gale, For thou art gene. My guide, my friend's Dark solitude among the pillars low'rs.

where, Where yon old trees bend o'er a place of graves, My tend 'rest with, my heart to thee was frare ;

Where haft thou fled, and left me here behind! And lulemn shade a chapel's sad remains, Where

Oh now cut off cach passage to my mind! yon scath'd poplar through the window waves, How drcary is the gulph! how dark, how void

, And, twining round, the hoary arch fuftains; The tracklofs fhores that never were repaisd! Theic oft, at datin, as one forgot behind, Dread (qaration ! on the depth untried, Who longs to follow, yet unknowing where,

Hope faiters, and the soul recoiis aghait! Some huary shepherd, o'tr his ftaff reclin'd, Wide round the spacious heavens I cast my eyes:

Porcs on the graves, and fighs a broken pray'r. And shall these stars glow with immortal tired Higho'er the pines, that with their dark 'ning shade Still thine the life lefs glories of the skies?

Surround you craggy bank, the castle rears And cculd thy bright, thy living foul capire: Iis crumbling turrets; ftill its tow'ry head

Far be the thought! The pleasures inoft fubiime, A warlike mien, a fullen grandeur wtars.

The glow of friendfiip, and the virtuous tess, So, 'midst the fnow of age, a boafiful air The tow'ring with that scores the bounds or

Still on the war-worn veteran's brow attends; time, Still his big bones his youthful primc dcclare, Chill'd in this vale of death, but languish here.

Tho' trembling o'er ihc feeble crutch he bends. So plant tlie vine on Norway's wint’ry land, Wild round the gates the dusky wall-flow’rs creep, The languid ifranger feebly buds, and dies: Where oft the knights the bcauteous dames Yet there's a clime where Virtue thall expand havc led,

With godlike strength beneath her marie Gone is the bow'r, the grot a ruin'd heap,

Ikics! Where bays and ivy o'er the fragments spread. The lonely shepherd on the mountain's fide 'Twas here our fires, cxulting from the figlit, With patience waits the rosy-opening day;

Grear in their bloody arms, inarch'd o'er the Ica, The mariner at midnight's darksome tide Eyeing thcir rescued fields with: proud delight! With cheerful hope expeéts the morning raj: Now loft to them! and, ah! how chang'd

Thus I, on life's storm-beaten ocean tofs'd, to me!

In mental vifion view the happy thore, This bank, the river, and the fanning brocze, Where Pollio beckons to the peaceful ccaft, The dear idea of my Pollio bring ;

Where fate and death divide the friends to So donc the moon thio' these foti-nodding trees, more!

When here we wander'd in the eves of Spring on that some kind, fome pitying kindred thače, When April's (miles the flow'ry lawn adorn, Who now perhaps frequents this folemo giusto

And modeít cowflips deck the fireamlet's fide; Would sell the awful fecrets of the dead, When fragrant orchards to the roscate niorn And from my cycs the inoi tal film remore! Unfold their bloom, in heaven's own colours Vain is the wish-yet furcly not in rain dyed :

Man's bofom glow's with that celestial fire So fair a bleffo:n gentle Pollio wore,

Which scorns earth's luxuries, which smiles a These werethe emblems of his licaithful mind;

pain, To hin the letter'd page di'play'd its lore, And wings his fpirit with sublime defire!

To him bright Fancy all her wealth resign d; To fan this spark of heaven, this ray divine, Him with her purest Mames the Mule enclow'd,

Stiil, o iny 1oul' tuill be thy dcar employ; Flames never to th’illiberal thought allied :

Still thus to jvander thro' the shades he thing, The sacred fitters led where Virtue glow'd

And livell thy breast with visionary joy! In all her charms; he saw, he felt, aud dicd.

So to the dark-brow'd wood, or sacred moudt, O partner of my infant griefs and jovs ! · Big with the scenes now past, my heart o'er flows; And, icd in vision, drank at Siloë's fount,

In ancient days, the holy seers retir'd; Lids cach endcarment, fair as once, to rile,

While rifing ecstaties their boloms fir d. And dwells luxurious on her melting wocs. Oft with the rising fun, when life was now,

Restor'd creation bright before them role,

The burning deserts smil'd as Eden's plains' Along the woodland have I roam'd with thee; Oft hy the moon have brilh'd the evening dew, One friendly made the wolf and lainbkió come; Wlica all was fearless innocence and glee.

The fiow'ry mountain fung, · Meliai reigning

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Tho' fainter raptures my cold breast inspirc, And, stretch'd beneath th' inclement skies,

Yet let me oft frequent this solemn scene; Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies.
Oft to the ab!vey's Thatter'd walls retire,
Whattiine the moonthine dimlygkamsbetween.

Whilst the warm blood bedews iny veins,

And unimpair'd remembrance reigns ; There, whore the cross in hoary ruin nods,

Relentment of my country's fate
And weeping yews o'e: Made the letter i tiones, within my filial breast shall beat ;
While midnight silence wraps these drear abodes, And, spite of her intulting foe,
And foonis me wandering o'er my kindred My fynı pat izing verte Mail dow:
bones;

Mourn, hapleis Caledonia, mourn
Let kindled Fancy view the glorious morn, Thy banilhid peacc, thy lauiits torn!"

When fromthe bursting graves: he just thall rise,
All Nature smiling; and, by angels borne,
Melliah's cross far blazing o'er the skies !

$ 88. Ode to Mirtb. SVOLLET. $ 87. The Tears of Scotland. SMOLLET.

PARE
RENT of joy ! heart-easing Mirth!

Whether of Venus or Aurora born, MOURN, hapless Caledonia, mourn

Yet Goddeis fure of heavenly birth, Thy banillı'd peace, thy laurels torn!

Visit benign a son of Grief forlorn : Thy fons, for valour long renown'd,

Thy glitt ring colours gay Lie llaughter'd on their native ground;

Around him, Mirth, ditplay; Thy hospitable roofs no more

And o'er his raptur'd sense Invite the stranger to the door;

Diffure thy living influence : In smoky ruins funk they lie,

So thail each hill, in purer green array'd, The monuments of cruelty.

And nower-adorn'dio new-born beauty glow; The wretched owner lees, afar,

The grove mall sinooth the horrors of the

shade, His all be ome the prey of war: Belinka lim of his babes and wife ;

And streams in murmurs shall forget to flow. Then imites his trcast, and curles life.

Shine, Goddess shine with unremitted ray, [day. Thv fwains are famith'd on the rocks,

And gild (a second tun) with brighter beam our Where once they fed their wanton fiocks :

Labour with thee forgets his pain, Thy ravish'd virgins Thrick in vain;

And aged Poverty can imile with thee; Thy infants perish on the plain.

If thou be nich, Grief's hate is vain, What boots it, then, in ev'ry clime,

And weak ch'vplifted arm of tyranny. Thro' the wide-Spreading waste of time,

The morning opes on high

His universal ere;
Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise,
Stili shone with indiminish'd blaze ?

And on the world doth pour
Thy tow'ring spirit now is broke,

His glories in a golden show'r. Thy neck is bended to the yoke :

Lo! Darknels trembling 'fore the hostileray, What foreign arms could never quell,

Shrinks to the cavern deep and wood forlorn : By civil rage and rancour fell.

The brood obicene, that own her gloomy The rural pipe, and merry lay,

sway, No more shall cheer the happy day :

Troop in her rear, and fly th' approach of morn. No social scene of gay delight

Palc thiv'ring ghosts, thac dread th' all-checring light,

night. Beguile the dreary winter night : No strains but dose of forrow flow,

Quick as the lightning's fiafh glide to fepulchral And nought be heard but sounds of woe ;

But whence the gladd'ning beam While the pale phantoms of the sain

That pours his purple str.am Glide nightly o'er the filent plain.

O'er the long prospect wide ? Oh bancful cause, on fatal morn,

'Tis Mirth. I see her fit Accurs'd to ages yet unkorn!

In majesty of light, The fons against their fathers stood;

With Laughter at her fide. The parent Med his children's blood.

Bright-eyed Fancy hovering ngar Yet, when the rage of battle ceas'd,

Wide waves her glancing wing in air ; The victor's soul was not appeas'd :

And young Wit Alings his pointed dart, The naked and forlorn must feel

That guiltless strikes the willing hcart. Devouring flames, and murd'ring steel !

Fear not now Affliction's pow'r,

Fear not now wild Paffion's rage;
The pious mother doom'd to death,
Forlaken, wanders o'er the heath;

Nor fear ye aught, in evil hour,
The bleak wind whistles round her head,

Save the tardy hand of Age. Her helples, orphans cry for bread;

Now Mirth hath heard the suppliant Poet's pray'ı ; Bereft of thelter, food, and friend,

No cloud that rides the blast shall yex the troubled

air, She views the fhades of night descend ;

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§ 89.

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$89. Ode to Leven later. SMOLLET.

And neighe to be amenged the poynéiedd species

Orr ynne blacke armoure staulke arouide

Embattel'd Brystowe, once thie grounde,
ON Leven's banks, while free to rove,
And tune the rural pipe to love,

And glowe ardurous onn the Cafle ficeres; I envied got the happiest Twain

Or fierye round the mynsterr glare; That ever trou th' Arcadian plain.

Let Brystowe stylle be inade thie care ; Pure freain! in whole transparent wave Guarde yit fromme foemenne & confumyr ge fors Ny youthful limbs I wont to lave;

Lyché Avones streme enly rke ytte rounde, No torrents fain thy limpid fource,

Nć lette a fame enharme the grounde, Nn rocks impede thy dimpling course,

Tylie ynne one fame all the whole worlde er That sweetly warbles o'er its bedl, With white, round, polish'd pebbles spread; Wbile, lightly pois'd, the scaly brood

91. Brijlowe Tragedip; 07, Tbe Deibe o In myriads cleave thy cryftal flood:

Charles Barctin.
The fpringing trout, in speckled pride;
The salmon, monarch of the ride;

CHATTERTON, under tbe name of RowLET. The ruthles pike, intent on war;

The featherd fongster chaunticleer The filver eel and mottled par.

Had wounde hys buglc horne, Devolving from thy parent lake,

And told the carlie villager
A charming maze thy waters make,

The commynge of the morne ;
By bow'rs of birch, and groves of pine,
And hedges flower'd with cylautine.

Kynge Edwarde faire the rudie streakes
Still on thy banks, !o gaily green,

Of lyghte eclyple the greie;

And herde the raven's crokynge throte
May nuin ious herds and Hocks be seen;
And laffes, chanting o'cr the pail;

Proclayme the futed daie.
And shepherds, piping in the diale;

“ Thou’rt ryglit,'quod hee,“for, by the Gck And ancient faith, that krovs no guile;

" That fyttes enthron'd on hyghe, And industry, embłown’d with toil;

Charles Bawdin, and his fellowes twaine, And hearts relolvid, and hands prepard,

- To-daie shall surelie die." The blettings they cnjoy to guard.

Then wythe a jugge of nappy ale

His Knyghtes dydd onne hymm waite;

“ Goe tell the traytour thart to-daie $ 90. Songe to Allı, Lorde of the Cofiel of Bry

“ Hee leaves thys mortall state.” jlowe ynne duies of yore. From CHATTERTON, under the name of ROWLEY.

Syr Canterlone thenne bendedd lowe,

Wythe hart brymm-fulle of woe; OH thou, orr what remaynes of thee, Hee journey'd to the castle-gate, Ælla, the darlynge of futurity,

And to Syr Charles dydd goe. Lett thys mnie songe bolde as thic courage be,

But whenne hee came, his children twaine, As everlastynge to posteritye.

And cke hys lovynge wyfe, Whanne Dacya’s sonnes, whose hayres of bloude-Wythe brinie tears dydd wett the floore, redde hue

[ing due, For goode Syr Charleses lyfe. Lyche kyoge-cuppes brastynge wytle the morn- “ ) goode Syr Charles !” sayd Canterlone, Arraung'd ynne dreare arraie,

“ Badde tydyrgs I doe brynge." Upponne the lethale daie,

Speke boldlie, manne," fayd brave Syr Charles, Spredde farre and wyde onne Watchers fhore;

“Whatte says thic traytour kynge?" Than dyddft thou furiouse stande, And bie thic valyante hande

“I grecve to telle: Before yonne sonne Beesprengedd all the mees wythe gore.

“ Does fromme the welkinne fire,

“ Hec hath uponne hys honour sworne Drawne bie thyne anlace felle,

" Thatt thou thalt surelie dic." Downe to the depthe of helle

.Wee all must die," quod brave Syr Charles; Thousandes of Dacyanns went;

« Of thatre I'm not affearde : Brystowannes, menne of myghte,

" What bootes to lyve a little space ? Ydar'd the bloudie fyghte, And actedd deeds full quent.

“ Thanke Jetu, l’m prepar'd.

“ Butt te!le thye kvnge, for myne hee 's not, Oh thou, whereer (thie bones att reste)

I'de sooner die to-daie Thye Spryte to haunte delyghteth beste,

" Thanne lyve hys tave, as manic are, Whetherr:pronne the bloude-embrewedd pleynu,

“ Thu' l should lyre for aie.”
Or whare thou kennst from farre
The dylmali crve of warre,

Thenne Canterlone hee dydd goe out,
Or fecft rómme mountavne made of corse of Neyne; To telle the maior traite
Orr feest the hatchedd ftede,

To geit a!!:hynyes ynne reddyness
Y praunccynge o'er the mode,

For goode Syr Charleses fate. 3

Tbenes

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Thenne Maisterr Canynge saugthe the kynge, “We all must die,” quod brave Syr Charles; And felle down onne hys knee;

“ Whatte bootes ytte howe or whenne? " I'm comc,'' quod hee, “ unto your grace

“ Dethe ys the fure, the certaine fate “ To move your clemencye.”

• Of all wee mortall inenne. Thenne quod the kynge, “ Your tale spoke out, “Saye why, my friend, thie honest foul “ You have been much oure friende;

*. Ruons overr att thyne eye ; " Whatever youre request may bee,

“ Is ytte for my moft welcome doome “ We wyile to ytte attende.”

- Thatt thou doit child-lyke crye:” “ My nobile liege ! all my request

Quod grdlie Canynge, “I do weepe, “ Ys for a nobile knygnte,

Thart thou joe toone mult dye, 6. Who, tho' may hap he has donne wronge, “ And leave thy fonnes and helpless wyfc; “ He thozhte ytte ftylle was ryghte:

'Tys thys thatt weites myne eye. “ Hee has a spouse and children twaine, “ Thenne drie the teares thatt out thyne eye “ Alle reivynd are for aie;

“From godlie fountaines fprynge ; “ Y ff chatt you are refolv'd to lett

“ Dethe I defpife, and alle rhe pow'r “ Charles Bawdin die to daie."

“Of Edwarde, traytour kynge. " Speke nott of such a traytour vile,”

"Whan throgh the tyrant's welcom means The kynge ynne fury fayde ;

“ I snall retigne my lyfe, 6. Before the ev’ning ftarre doth sheene, “ The Godde i serve wylle foon provyde “ Bawdin thall loose hys hedde :

“ For bothe mye fonnes and wyfe. «« Justice deus loudlie for hym calle,

- Before I sawe the lyghisome funsc, “ And hee hall have hys meede :

“ Thys was appointed mee; “ Speke, Maister Canynge! whatte thynge else " Shall inortall manne repyne or grudge " Att present doc you neede :”

" Whart Godde ardeynes to bee? • My nobile liege !" goode Canynge fayde, “ Howe oft ynne battaile have I ftoode, “ Leave justice to our Godde,

“ Whan thousands dy'd arounde; « And lave tie yronne rule alide;

“Whan (mokynge streems of crimfon bloode “ Be thyne the olyve rodde.

" Librew'd the fatten'd grounde! 66 Was Godde to ferche our hertes and reines, “How dydd I knowe that ev'ry darte, “ The best were fynners grete ;

That curte the airie waic, “ Christ's vycarr only knowes ne fynne,

Myghte nott finde passage toe my karte, “ Ynne alle thy's mortall date.

“ And close myne cyes for aie ? “ Lett mercie rule thyne infante reigne,

“ And shall I now, for fcere of dethe, 'Twylle faste thye crowne fulle ture;

Louke waune and bee dyfinavde ? “ From race to race thy familie

" Nel fromm my herte tlie childythe feere, Alle tovoreigns fail endure :

“ Be alle the inanne display'd. “ But yff wythe bloode ann flaughter thou “ Ah, goddelyke Henrie! Godde forefende, “ Beginne thy infante reigne,

“ And guarde thee and rhye fonne, “ Thy crowne uponne thy childrennes brows “ Yff’tis hys wylle; but yil 'tis nort, “ Wylle never lonng reinayne."

Why thenne hys wylle be donne. • Canynge, awaie ! thys traytour vile

My honefte friende, my faulte has beenc • Has (corn'd my power and mee;

" To serve Godde and mye prynce; 6 Howe canst thou thenne for luch a manne " And thatt I no tyme-server am, “ Intreate my clemencyc?”

My dothe wylle tuone convynce. “ My nobilc licge! the truly brave

“ Ynne Londonne citye was I bome, 6. Wylle val 'rous actions prize,

• Of parents of grete note; Respect a brave and nobile mynde,

My fadre dydd a nobile arins “ Altho' ynne enemies."

" Emblazon onne hys cote : “ Canyóge, awaie! By Godde ynne heav'n

" I make ne doubte butt hec ys gone “ 'That dydd mee beinge gyve,

" Where soone I hope to goe; 66 I wylle pott taste a bitt of breade

- Where wee for ever shall bee bleft, “ Whilst thys Syr Charles dothe lyve.

“ From oute the reech of woe : 66 By Marie, and all Seinetes ynn heav'n

Hee taught mee justice and the laws Thys sunne shall be hys laste.”

“ Wyth pitie to unite; Thenne Canynge dropt a brinie tcare,

"" And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe And from the prefence paste.

“ The wronge cause froinm the ryghte: With herte brymm-fullc of

gnawynge grief,

Hee taughte mce wythe a prudent hande Hee to Syr Charles dydd goe,

" To fcede the hungrie poore, And satt hymm downe uponne a stoole, “ Ne lette mye servants drive awaie And teares beganne to flowe.

" The hungric fromme my doore:

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