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.

image from Mother Goose’s Melody, or Sonnets for the Cradle 1765

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.

image

image from THOMAS PERCY’s Reliques of Ancient English Poetry

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.