1746 | WILLIAM COLLINS Ode, Written in the Beginning of the Year 1746 |
How sleep the Brave, who sink to Rest, | |
By all their Country’s Wishes blest! | |
When Spring, with dewy Fingers cold, | |
Returns to deck their hallow’d Mold, | |
She there shall dress a sweeter Sod, | |
Than Fancy’s Feet have ever trod. | |
By Fairy Hands their Knell is rung, | |
By Forms unseen their Dirge is sung; | |
There Honour comes, a Pilgrim grey, | |
To bless the Turf that wraps their Clay, | |
And Freedom shall a-while repair, | |
To dwell a weeping Hermit there! | |
WILLIAM COLLINS Ode to Evening | |
If ought of Oaten Stop, or Pastoral Song, | |
May hope, chaste Eve, to sooth thy modest Ear, | |
Like thy own solemn Springs, | |
Thy Springs, and dying Gales, | |
O Nymph reserv’d, while now the bright-hair’d Sun | |
Sits in yon western Tent, whose cloudy Skirts, | |
With Brede ethereal wove, | |
O’erhang his wavy Bed: | |
Now Air is hush’d, save where the weak-ey’d Bat, | |
With short shrill Shriek flits by on leathern Wing, | |
Or where the Beetle winds | |
His small but sullen Horn, | |
As oft he rises ’midst the twilight Path, | |
Against the Pilgrim born in heedless Hum: | |
Now teach me, Maid compos’d, | |
To breathe some soften’d Strain, | |
Whose Numbers stealing thro’ thy darkning Vale, | |
May not unseemly with its Stillness suit, | |
As musing slow, I hail | |
Thy genial lov’d Return! | |
For when thy folding Star arising shews | |
His paly Circlet, at his warning Lamp | |
The fragrant Hours, and Elves | |
Who slept in Flow’rs the Day, | |
And many a Nymph who wreaths her Brows with Sedge, | |
And sheds the fresh’ning Dew, and lovelier still, | |
The Pensive Pleasures sweet | |
Prepare thy shadowy Car. | |
Then lead, calm Vot’ress, where some sheety Lake | |
Cheers the lone Heath, or some time-hallow’d Pile, | |
Or up-land Fallows grey | |
Reflect it’s last cool Gleam. | |
But when chill blustring Winds, or driving Rain, | |
Forbid my willing Feet, be mine the Hut, | |
That from the Mountain’s Side, | |
Views Wilds, and swelling Floods, | |
And Hamlets brown, and dim-discover’d Spires, | |
And hears their simple Bell, and marks o’er all | |
Thy Dewy Fingers draw | |
The gradual dusky Veil. | |
While Spring shall pour his Show’rs, as oft he wont, | |
And bathe thy breathing Tresses, meekest Eve! | |
While Summer loves to sport, | |
Beneath thy ling’ring Light: | |
While sallow Autumn fills thy Lap with Leaves, | |
Or Winter yelling thro’ the troublous Air, | |
Affrights thy shrinking Train, | |
And rudely rends thy Robes. | |
So long, sure-found beneath the Sylvan Shed, | |
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lip’d Health, | |
Thy gentlest Influence own, | |
And hymn thy fav’rite Name! | |
1747 | WILLIAM SHENSTONE Lines Written on a Window at the Leasowes at a Time of Very Deep Snow |
In this small fort, besieged with snow, | |
When every studious pulse beats low, | |
What does my wish require? | |
Some sprightly girls beneath my roof, | |
Some friends sincere and winter-proof, | |
A bottle and a fire. | |
Prolong, O snow, prolong thy siege! | |
With these, thou wilt but more oblige, | |
And bless me with thy stay; | |
Extend, extend thy frigid reign, | |
My few sincerer friends detain, | |
And keep false friends away. | |
LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU A Receipt to Cure the Vapours 1748 | |
Why will Delia thus retire | |
And languish Life away? | |
While the sighing Crowds admire | |
’Tis too soon for Hartshorn Tea. | |
All these dismal looks and fretting | |
Cannot Damon’s life restore, | |
Long ago the Worms have eat him, | |
You can never see him more. | |
Once again consult your Toilet, | |
In the Glass your Face review, | |
So much weeping soon will spoil it | |
And no Spring your Charms renew. | |
I like you was born a Woman – | |
Well I know what Vapours mean, | |
The Disease alas! is common, | |
Single we have all the Spleen. | |
All the Morals that they tell us | |
Never cur’d Sorrow yet, | |
Chuse among the pretty Fellows | |
One of humour, Youth, and Wit. | |
Prithee hear him ev’ry Morning | |
At least an hour or two, | |
Once again at Nights returning, | |
I beleive the Dose will do. | |
MARY LEAPOR Mira’s Will | |
Imprimis – My departed Shade I trust | |
To Heav’n – My Body to the silent Dust; | |
My Name to publick Censure I submit, | |
To be dispos’d of as the World thinks fit; | |
My Vice and Folly let Oblivion close, | |
The World already is o’erstock’d with those; | |
My Wit I give, as Misers give their Store, | |
To those who think they had enough before. | |
Bestow my Patience to compose the Lives | |
Of slighted Virgins and neglected Wives; | |
To modish Lovers I resign my Truth, | |
My cool Reflexion to unthinking Youth; | |
And some Good-nature give (’tis my Desire) | |
To surly Husbands, as their Needs require; | |
And first discharge my Funeral – and then | |
To the small Poets I bequeath my Pen. | |
Let a small Sprig (true Emblem of my Rhyme) | |
Of blasted Laurel on my Hearse recline; | |
Let some grave Wight, that struggles for Renown, | |
By chanting Dirges through a Market-Town, | |
With gentle Step precede the solemn Train; | |
A broken Flute upon his Arm shall lean. | |
Six comick Poets may the Corse surround, | |
And All Free-holders, if they can be found: | |
Then follow next the melancholy Throng, | |
As shrewd Instructors, who themselves are wrong. | |
The Virtuoso, rich in Sun-dry’d Weeds, | |
The Politician, whom no Mortal heeds, | |
The silent Lawyer, chamber’d all the Day, | |
And the stern Soldier that receives no Pay. | |
But stay – the Mourners shou’d be first our Care, | |
Let the freed Prentice lead the Miser’s Heir; | |
Let the young Relict wipe her mournful Eye, | |
And widow’d Husbands o’er their Garlick cry. | |
All this let my Executors fulfil, | |
And rest assured that this is Mira’s Will, | |
Who was, when she these Legacies design’d, | |
In Body healthy, and compos’d in Mind. | |
CHRISTOPHER SMART A Morning Piece, Or, An Hymn for the Hay-Makers | |
Quinetiam Gallum noctem explaudentibus alis Auroram clara consuetum voce vocare. LUCRET. | |
Brisk chaunticleer his mattins had begun, | |
And broke the silence of the night, | |
And thrice he call’d aloud the tardy sun, | |
And thrice he hail’d the dawn’s ambiguous light; | |
Back to their graves the fear-begotten phantoms run. | |
Strong Labour got up. – With his pipe to his mouth, | |
He stoutly strode over the dale, | |
He lent new perfumes to the breath of the south, | |
On his back hung his wallet and flail. | |
Behind him came Health from her cottage of thatch, | |
Where never physician had lifted the latch. | |
First of the village Colin was awake, | |
And thus he sung, reclining on his rake. | |
Now the rural graces three | |
Dance beneath yon maple tree; | |
First the vestal Virtue, known | |
By her adamantine zone; | |
Next to her in rosy pride, | |
Sweet Society, the bride; | |
Last Honesty, full seemly drest | |
In her cleanly home-spun vest. | |
The abby bells in wak’ning rounds | |
The warning peal have giv’n; | |
And pious Gratitude resounds | |
Her morning hymn to heav’n. | |
All nature wakes – the birds unlock their throats, | |
And mock the shepherd’s rustic notes. | |
All alive o’er the lawn, | |
Full glad of the dawn, | |
The little lambkins play, | |
Sylvia and Sol arise, – and all is day – | |
Come, my mates, let us work, | |
And all hands to the fork, | |
While the Sun shines, our Hay-cocks to make, | |
So fine is the Day, | |
And so fragrant the Hay, | |
That the Meadow’s as blithe as the Wake. | |
Our voices let’s raise | |
In Phœbus’s praise, | |
Inspir’d by so glorious a theme, | |
Our musical words | |
Shall be join’d by the birds, | |
And we’ll dance to the tune of the stream. | |
1749 | SAMUEL JOHNSON from The Vanity of Human Wishes, The Tenth Satire of Juvenal |
When first the College Rolls receive his Name, | |
The young Enthusiast quits his Ease for Fame; | |
Through all his Veins the fever of Renown | |
Burns from the strong Contagion of the Gown; | |
O’er Bodley’s Dome his future Labours spread, | |
And Bacon’s Mansion trembles o’er his Head; | |
Are these thy Views? proceed, illustrious Youth, | |
And Virtue guard thee to the Throne of Truth, | |
Yet should thy Soul indulge the gen’rous Heat, | |
Till captive Science yields her last Retreat; | |
Should Reason guide thee with her brightest Ray, | |
And pour on misty Doubt resistless Day; | |
Should no false Kindness lure to loose Delight, | |
Nor Praise relax, nor Difficulty fright; | |
Should tempting Novelty thy Cell refrain, | |
And Sloth effuse her opiate Fumes in vain; | |
Should Beauty blunt on Fops her fatal Dart, | |
Nor claim the triumph of a letter’d Heart; | |
Should no Disease thy torpid Veins invade, | |
Nor Melancholy’s Phantoms haunt thy Shade; | |
Yet hope not Life from Grief or Danger free, | |
Nor think the Doom of Man revers’d for thee: | |
Deign on the passing World to turn thine Eyes, | |
And pause awhile from Letters to be wise; | |
There mark what Ills the Scholar’s Life assail, | |
Toil, Envy, Want, the Patron, and the Jail. | |
(… ) | |
The festal Blazes, the triumphal Show, | |
The ravish’d Standard, and the captive Foe, | |
The Senate’s Thanks, the Gazette’s pompous Tale, | |
With Force resistless o’er the Brave prevail. | |
Such Bribes the rapid Greek o’er Asia whirl’d, | |
For such the steady Romans shook the World; | |
For such in distant Lands the Britons shine, | |
And stain with Blood the Danube or the Rhine; | |
This Pow’r has Praise, that Virtue scarce can warm, | |
Till Fame supplies the universal Charm. | |
Yet Reason frowns on War’s unequal Game, | |
Where wasted Nations raise a single Name, | |
And mortgag’d States their Grandsires Wreaths regret | |
From Age to Age in everlasting Debt; | |
Wreaths which at last the dear-bought Right convey | |
To rust on Medals, or on Stones decay. | |
On what Foundation stands the Warrior’s Pride? | |
How just his Hopes let Swedish Charles decide; | |
A Frame of Adamant, a Soul of Fire, | |
No Dangers fright him, and no Labours tire; | |
O’er Love, o’er Fear, extends his wide Domain, | |
Unconquer’d Lord of Pleasure and of Pain; | |
No Joys to him pacific Scepters yield, | |
War sounds the Trump, he rushes to the Field; | |
Behold surrounding Kings their Pow’r combine, | |
And One capitulate, and One resign; | |
Peace courts his Hand, but spreads her Charms in vain; | |
‘Think Nothing gain’d, he cries, till nought remain, | |
‘On Moscow’s Walls till Gothic Standards fly, | |
‘And all be Mine beneath the Polar Sky.’ | |
The March begins in Military State, | |
And Nations on his Eye suspended wait; | |
Stern Famine guards the solitary Coast, | |
And Winter barricades the Realms of Frost; | |
He comes, not Want and Cold his Course delay; – | |
Hide, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa’s Day: | |
The vanquish’d Hero leaves his broken Bands, | |
And shews his Miseries in distant Lands; | |
Condemn’d a needy Supplicant to wait, | |
While Ladies interpose, and Slaves debate. | |
But did not Chance at length her Error mend? | |
Did no subverted Empire mark his End? | |
Did rival Monarchs give the fatal Wound? | |
Or hostile Millions press him to the Ground? | |
His Fall was destin’d to a barren Strand, | |
A petty Fortress, and a dubious Hand; | |
He left the Name, at which the World grew pale, | |
To point a Moral, or adorn a Tale. | |
1751 | THOMAS GRAY Elegy Written in a Country Church Yard |
The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, | |
The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea, | |
The plowman homeward plods his weary way, | |
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. | |
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, | |
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, | |
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, | |
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; | |
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow’r | |
The mopeing owl does to the moon complain | |
Of such, as wand’ring near her secret bow’r, | |
Molest her ancient solitary reign. | |
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade, | |
Where heaves the turf in many a mould’ring heap, | |
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, | |
The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep. | |
The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, | |
The swallow twitt’ring from the straw-built shed, | |
The cock’s shrill clarion, or the ecchoing horn, | |
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. | |
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, | |
Or busy houswife ply her evening care: | |
No children run to lisp their sire’s return, | |
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. | |
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, | |
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; | |
How jocund did they drive their team afield! | |
How bow’d the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! | |
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, | |
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; | |
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, | |
The short and simple annals of the poor. | |
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r, | |
And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave, | |
Awaits alike th’ inevitable hour. | |
The paths of glory lead but to the grave. | |
Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault, | |
If Mem’ry o’er their Tomb no Trophies raise, | |
Where thro’ the long-drawn isle and fretted vault | |
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. | |
Can storied urn or animated bust | |
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? | |
Can Honour’s voice provoke the silent dust, | |
Or Flatt’ry sooth the dull cold ear of Death? | |
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid | |
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire, | |
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway’d, | |
Or wak’d to extasy the living lyre. | |
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page | |
Rich with the spoils of time did ne’er unroll; | |
Chill Penury repress’d their noble rage, | |
And froze the genial current of the soul. | |
Full many a gem of purest ray serene, | |
The dark unfathom’d caves of ocean bear: | |
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, | |
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. | |
Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast | |
The little Tyrant of his fields withstood; | |
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, | |
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country’s blood. | |
Th’ applause of list’ning senates to command, | |
The threats of pain and ruin to despise, | |
To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land, | |
And read their hist’ry in a nation’s eyes | |
Their lot forbad: nor circumscrib’d alone | |
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin’d; | |
Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne, | |
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, | |
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, | |
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, | |
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride | |
With incense kindled at the Muse’s flame. | |
Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife, | |
Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray; | |
Along the cool sequester’d vale of life | |
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. | |
Yet ev’n these bones from insult to protect | |
Some frail memorial still erected nigh, | |
With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck’d, | |
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. | |
Their name, their years, spelt by th’ unletter’d muse, | |
The place of fame and elegy supply: | |
And many a holy text around she strews, | |
That teach the rustic moralist to die. | |
For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, | |
This pleasing anxious being e’er resign’d, | |
Left the warm precincts of the chearful day, | |
Nor cast one longing ling’ring look behind? | |
On some fond breast the parting soul relies, | |
Some pious drops the closing eye requires; | |
Ev’n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, | |
Ev’n in our Ashes live their wonted Fires. | |
For thee, who mindful of th’ unhonour’d Dead | |
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; | |
If chance, by lonely contemplation led, | |
Some kindred Spirit shall inquire thy fate, | |
Haply some hoary-headed Swain may say, | |
‘Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn | |
‘Brushing with hasty steps the dews away | |
‘To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. | |
‘There at the foot of yonder nodding beech | |
‘That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, | |
‘His listless length at noontide wou’d he stretch, | |
‘And pore upon the brook that babbles by. | |
‘Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, | |
‘Mutt’ring his wayward fancies he wou’d rove, | |
‘Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, | |
‘Or craz’d with care, or cross’d in hopeless love. | |
‘One morn I miss’d him on the custom’d hill, | |
‘Along the heath and near his fav’rite tree; | |
‘Another came; nor yet beside the rill, | |
‘Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he, | |
‘The next with dirges due in sad array | |
‘Slow thro’ the church-way path we saw him born[e]. | |
‘Approach and read (for thou can’st read) the lay, | |
‘Grav’d on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.’ | |
The Epitaph | |
Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth | |
A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown, | |
Fair Science frown’d not on his humble birth, | |
And Melancholy mark’d him for her own. | |
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, | |
Heav’n did a recompence as largely send: | |
He gave to Mis’ry all he had, a tear, | |
He gain’d from Heav’n (’twas all he wish’d) a friend. | |
No farther seek his merits to disclose, | |
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, | |
(There they alike in trembling hope repose) | |
The bosom of his Father and his God. | |
1755 | ANONYMOUS This is the House That Jack Built |
This is the farmer sowing his corn, | |
That kept the cock that crowed in the morn, | |
That waked the priest all shaven and shorn, | |
That married the man all tattered and torn, | |
That kissed the maiden all forlorn, | |
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn, | |
That tossed the dog, | |
That worried the cat, | |
That killed the rat, | |
That ate the malt | |
That lay in the house that Jack built. | |
1761 | CHRISTOPHER SMART from Jubilate Agno |
For the doubling of flowers is the improvement of the gardners talent. | |
For the flowers are great blessings. | |
For the Lord made a Nosegay in the meadow with his disciples and preached upon the lily. | |
For the angels of God took it out of his hand and carried it to the Height. | |
For a man cannot have publick spirit, who is void of private benevolence. | |
For there is no Height in which there are not flowers. | |
For flowers have great virtues for all the senses. | |
For the flower glorifies God and the root parries the adversary. | |
For the flowers have their angels even the words of God’s Creation. | |
For the warp and woof of flowers are worked by perpetual moving spirits. | |
For flowers are good both for the living and the dead. | |
For there is a language of flowers. | |
For there is a sound reasoning upon all flowers. | |
For elegant phrases are nothing but flowers. | |
For flowers are peculiarly the poetry of Christ. | |
For flowers are medicinal. | |
For flowers are musical in ocular harmony. | |
For the right names of flowers are yet in heaven. God make gard’ners better nomenclators. | |
For the Poorman’s nosegay is an introduction to a Prince. | |
(… ) | |
For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry. | |
For he is the servant of the Living God duly and daily serving him. | |
For at the first glance of the glory of God in the East he worships in his way. | |
For is this done by wreathing his body seven times round with elegant quickness. | |
For then he leaps up to catch the musk, which is the blessing of God upon his prayer. | |
For he rolls upon prank to work it in. | |
For having done duty and received blessing he begins to consider himself. | |
For this he performs in ten degrees. | |
For first he looks upon his fore-paws to see if they are clean. | |
For secondly he kicks up behind to clear away there. | |
For thirdly he works it upon stretch with the fore paws extended. | |
For fourthly he sharpens his paws by wood. | |
For fifthly he washes himself. | |
For Sixthly he rolls upon wash. | |
For Seventhly he fleas himself, that he may not be interrupted upon the beat. | |
For Eighthly he rubs himself against a post. | |
For Ninthly he looks up for his instructions. | |
For Tenthly he goes in quest of food. | |
For having consider’d God and himself he will consider his neighbour. | |
For if he meets another cat he will kiss her in kindness. | |
For when he takes his prey he plays with it to give it chance. | |
For one mouse in seven escapes by his dallying. | |
For when his day’s work is done his business more properly begins. | |
For he keeps the Lord’s watch in the night against the adversary. | |
For he counteracts the powers of darkness by his electrical skin and glaring eyes. | |
For he counteracts the Devil, who is death, by brisking about the life | |
For in his morning orisons he loves the sun and the sun loves him. | |
For he is of the tribe of Tiger. | |
For the Cherub Cat is a term of the Angel Tiger. | |
For he has the subtlety and hissing of a serpent, which in goodness he suppresses. | |
For he will not do destruction, if he is well-fed, neither will he spit without provocation. | |
For he purrs in thankfulness, when God tells him he’s a good Cat. | |
For he is an instrument for the children to learn benevolence upon. | |
For every house is incompleat without him and a blessing is lacking in the spirit. | |
For the Lord commanded Moses concerning the cats at the departure of the Children of Israel from Egypt. | |
For every family had one cat at least in the bag. | |
For the English Cats are the best in Europe. | |
For he is the cleanest in the use of his fore-paws of any quadrupede. | |
For the dexterity of his defence is an instance of the love of God to him exceedingly. | |
For he is the quickest to his mark of any creature. | |
For he is tenacious of his point. | |
For he is a mixture of gravity and waggery. | |
For he knows that God is his Saviour. | |
For there is nothing sweeter than his peace when at rest. | |
For there is nothing brisker than his life when in motion. | |
For he is of the Lord’s poor and so indeed is he called by benevolence-perpetuall – Poor Jeoffry! poor Jeoffry! the rat has bit thy throat. | |
For I bless the name of the Lord Jesus that Jeoffry is better. | |
For the divine spirit comes about his body to sustain it in compleat cat. | |
For his tongue is exceeding pure so that it has in purity what it wants in musick. | |
For he is docile and can learn certain things. | |
For he can set up with gravity which is patience upon approbation. | |
For he can fetch and carry, which is patience in employment. | |
For he can jump over a stick which is patience upon proof positive. | |
For he can spraggle upon waggle at the word of command. | |
For he can jump from an eminence into his master’s bosom. | |
For he can catch the cork and toss it again. | |
For he is hated by the hypocrite and miser. | |
For the former is affraid of detection. | |
For the latter refuses the charge. | |
For he camels his back to bear the first notion of business. | |
For he is good to think on, if a man would express himself neatly. | |
For he made a great figure in Egypt for his signal services. | |
For he killed the Ichneumon-rat very pernicious by land. | |
For his ears are so acute that they sting again. | |
For from this proceeds the passing quickness of his attention. | |
For by stroaking of him I have found out electricity. | |
For I perceived God’s light about him both wax and fire. | |
For the Electrical fire is the spiritual substance, which God sends from heaven to sustain the bodies both of man and beast. | |
For God has blessed him in the variety of his movements. | |
For, tho he cannot fly, he is an excellent clamberer. | |
For his motions upon the face of the earth are more than any other quadrupede. | |
For he can tread to all the measures upon the musick. | |
For he can swim for life. | |
For he can creep. | |
(1939) | |
1763 | CHRISTOPHER SMART from A Song to David |
O DAVID, highest in the list | |
Of worthies, on God’s ways insist, | |
The genuine word repeat: | |
Vain are the documents of men, | |
And vain the flourish of the pen | |
That keeps the fool’s conceit. | |
PRAISE above all – for praise prevails; | |
Heap up the measure, load the scales, | |
And good to goodness add: | |
The gen’rous soul her Saviour aids, | |
But peevish obloquy degrades; | |
The Lord is great and glad. | |
For ADORATION all the ranks | |
Of angels yield eternal thanks, | |
And DAVID in the midst; | |
With God’s good poor, which, last and least | |
In man’s esteem, thou to thy feast, | |
O blessed bride-groom, bidst. | |
For ADORATION seasons change, | |
And order, truth, and beauty range, | |
Adjust, attract, and fill: | |
The grass the polyanthus cheques; | |
And polish’d porphyry reflects, | |
By the descending rill. | |
Rich almonds colour to the prime | |
For ADORATION; tendrils climb, | |
And fruit-trees pledge their gems; | |
And Ivis with her gorgeous vest | |
Builds for her eggs her cunning nest, | |
And bell-flowers bow their stems. | |
With vinous syrup cedars spout; | |
From rocks pure honey gushing out, | |
For ADORATION springs: | |
All scenes of painting croud the map | |
Of nature; to the mermaid’s pap | |
The scaled infant clings. | |
The spotted ounce and playsome cubs | |
Run rustling ’mongst the flow’ring shrubs, | |
And lizards feed the moss; | |
For ADORATION beasts embark, | |
While waves upholding halcyon’s ark | |
No longer roar and toss. | |
While Israel sits beneath his fig, | |
With coral root and amber sprig | |
The wean’d advent’rer sports; | |
Where to the palm the jasmin cleaves, | |
For ADORATION ’mongst the leaves | |
The gale his peace reports. | |
Increasing days their reign exalt, | |
Nor in the pink and mottled vault | |
Th’ opposing spirits tilt; | |
And, by the coasting reader spied, | |
The silverlings and crusions glide | |
For ADORATION gilt. | |
For ADORATION rip’ning canes | |
And cocoa’s purest milk detains | |
The western pilgrim’s staff; | |
Where rain in clasping boughs inclos’d, | |
And vines with oranges dispos’d, | |
Embow’r the social laugh. | |
Now labour his reward receives, | |
For ADORATION counts his sheaves | |
To peace, her bounteous prince; | |
The nectarine his strong tint imbibes, | |
And apples of ten thousand tribes, | |
And quick peculiar quince. | |
The wealthy crops of whit’ning rice, | |
‘Mongst thyine woods and groves of spice, | |
For ADORATION grow; | |
And, marshall’d in the fenced land, | |
The peaches and pomegranates stand, | |
Where wild carnations blow. | |
The laurels with the winter strive; | |
The crocus burnishes alive | |
Upon the snow-clad earth: | |
For ADORATION myrtles stay | |
To keep the garden from dismay, | |
And bless the sight from dearth. | |
The pheasant shows his pompous neck; | |
And ermine, jealous of a speck, | |
With fear eludes offence: | |
The sable, with his glossy pride, | |
For ADORATION is descried, | |
Where frosts the wave condense. | |
The chearful holly, pensive yew, | |
And holy thorn, their trim renew; | |
The squirrel hoards his nuts: | |
All creatures batten o’er their stores, | |
And careful nature all her doors | |
For ADORATION shuts. | |
For ADORATION, DAVID’s psalms | |
Lift up the heart to deeds of alms; | |
And he, who kneels and chants, | |
Prevails his passions to controul, | |
Finds meat and med’cine to the soul, | |
Which for translation pants. | |
1764 | OLIVER GOLDSMITH from The Traveller, Or a Prospect of Society |
[Britain] | |
Creation’s mildest charms are there combin’d, | |
Extremes are only in the master’s mind; | |
Stern o’er each bosom reason holds her state. | |
With daring aims, irregularly great, | |
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, | |
I see the lords of human kind pass by | |
Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band, | |
By forms unfashion’d, fresh from Nature’s hand; | |
Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, | |
True to imagin’d right above controul, | |
While even the peasant boasts these rights to scan, | |
And learns to venerate himself as man. | |
Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictur’d here, | |
Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear; | |
Too blest indeed, were such without alloy, | |
But foster’d even by Freedom ills annoy: | |
That independence Britons prize too high, | |
Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie; | |
The self dependent lordlings stand alone, | |
All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown; | |
Here by the bonds of nature feebly held, | |
Minds combat minds, repelling and repell’d; | |
Ferments arise, imprison’d factions roar, | |
Represt ambition struggles round her shore, | |
Till over-wrought, the general system feels | |
Its motions stopt, or phrenzy fire the wheels. | |
Nor this the worst. As nature’s ties decay, | |
As duty, love, and honour fail to sway, | |
Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, | |
Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe. | |
Hence all obedience bows to these alone, | |
And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown; | |
Till Time may come, when, stript of all her charms, | |
The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms; | |
Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame, | |
Where kings have toil’d, and poets wrote for fame; | |
One sink of level avarice shall lie, | |
And scholars, soldiers, kings unhonor’d die. | |
SAMUEL JOHNSON [Lines contributed to Goldsmith’s ‘The Traveller’] | |
How small, of all that human hearts endure, | |
That part which laws or kings can cause or cure. | |
| |
ANONYMOUS High Diddle Diddle | |
High diddle diddle, | |
The cat and the fiddle, | |
The cow jump’d over the moon; | |
The little dog laugh’d | |
To see such craft, | |
And the dish ran away with the spoon. | |
| |
ANONYMOUS Sir Patrick Spence | |
The king sits in Dumferling toune, | |
Drinking the blude-reid wine: | |
O quhar will I get guid sailor, | |
To sail this schip of mine? | |
Up and spak an eldern knicht, | |
Sat at the kings richt kne: | |
Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor, | |
That sails upon the se. | |
The king has written a braid letter, | |
10 | And sign’d it wi’ his hand; |
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence, | |
Was walking on the sand. | |
The first line that Sir Patrick red, | |
A loud lauch lauched he: | |
15 | The next line that Sir Patrick red, |
The teir blinded his e’e. | |
O quha is this has don this deid, | |
This ill deid don to me; | |
To send me out this time o’ the yeir, | |
20 | To sail upon the se? |
Mak haste, mak haste, my mirry men all, | |
Our guid schip sails the morne. | |
O say na sae, my master deir, | |
For I feir a deadlie storme. | |
25 | Late, late yestreen I saw the new moone |
Wi’ the auld moone in hir arme; | |
And I feir, I feir, my deir master, | |
That we will com to harme. | |
O our Scots nobles wer richt laith | |
30 | To weet their cork-heil’d schoone; |
Bot lang owre a’ the play wer play’d, | |
Thair hats they swam aboone. | |
O lang, lang may thair ladies sit | |
Wi’ thair fans into their hand, | |
35 | Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spence |
Cum sailing to the land. | |
O lang, lang may the ladies stand | |
Wi’ thair gold kems in their hair, | |
Waiting for thair ain deir lords, | |
40 | For they’ll se thame na mair. |
Haf owre, haf owre to Aberdour, | |
It’s fiftie fadom deip: | |
And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence, | |
Wi’ the Scots lords at his feit. | |
ANONYMOUS Edward, Edward | |
Quhy dois your brand sae drop wi’ bluid, | |
Edward, Edward? | |
Quhy dois your brand sae drop wi’ bluid? | |
And quhy sae sad gang yee, O? | |
5 | O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid, |
Mither, mither: | |
O, I hae killed my hauke sae guid: | |
And I had nae mair bot hee, O. | |
Your haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, | |
10 | Edward, Edward. |
Your haukis bluid was nevir sae reid, | |
My deir son I tell thee, O. | |
O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid, | |
Mither, mither: | |
15 | O, I hae killed my reid-roan steid, |
That erst was sae fair and free, O. | |
Your steid was auld, and ye hae gat mair, | |
Edward, Edward: | |
Your steid was auld, and ye hae gat mair, | |
20 | Sum other dule ye drie, O. |
O, I hae killed my fadir deir, | |
Mither, mither: | |
O, I hae killed my fadir deir, | |
Alas! and wae is me, O! | |
And quhatten penance wul ye drie for that, | |
Edward, Edward? | |
And quhatten penance will ye drie for that? | |
My deir son, now tell me, O. | |
Ile set my feit in yonder boat, | |
30 | Mither, mither: |
lie set my feit in yonder boat, | |
And Ile fare ovir the sea, O. | |
And quhat wul ye doe wi’ your towirs and your ha’, | |
Edward, Edward? | |
35 | And quhat wul ye doe wi’ your towirs and your ha’, |
That were sae fair to see, O? | |
Ile let them stand til they doun fa’, | |
Mither, mither: | |
Ile let them stand til they doun fa’, | |
40 | For here nevir mair maun I bee, O. |
And quhat wul ye leive to your bairns and your wife, | |
Edward, Edward? | |
And quhat wul ye leive to your bairns and your wife, | |
Quhan ye gang ovir the sea, O? | |
45 | The warldis room, let thame beg thrae life, |
Mither, mither: | |
The warldis room, let thame beg thrae life, | |
For thame nevir mair wul I see, O. | |
And quhat wul ye leive to your ain mither deir, | |
50 | Edward, Edward? |
And quhat wul ye leive to your ain mither deir? | |
My deir son, now tell me, O. | |
The curse of hell frae me sail ye beir, | |
Mither, mither: | |
55 | The curse of hell frae me sail ye beir, |
Sic counseils ye gave to me, O. |