46.

The Old Familiar Faces.

WHERE are they gone, the old familiar faces?
I had a mother, but she died, and left me,
Died prematurely in a day of horrors—
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have had playmates, I have had companions,
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school days-
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies— All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I lov'd a love once, fairest among women;
Clos'd are her doors on me, I must not see her-
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man.
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

Ghost-like, I pac'd round the haunts of my
hood.

Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse,
Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

child

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother!
Why were not thou born in
my father's dwelling?
So might we talk of the old familiar faces.

For some they have died, and some they have

left me,

And some are taken from me; all are departed;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

1798 Edition.

47.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

The Maid's Lament.

I LOVED him not; and yet now he is gone
I feel I am alone.

I check'd him while he spoke; yet could he speak,
Alas! I would not check.

For reasons not to love him once I sought,
And wearied all my thought

To vex myself and him: I now would give
My love, could he but live

Who lately lived for me, and when he found
"Twas vain, in holy ground

He hid his face amid the shades of death.
I waste for him my breath

Who wasted his for me: but mine returns,
And this lorn bosom burns

With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep,

And waking me to weep

Tears that had melted his soft heart for years
Wept he as bitter tears.

Merciful God! such was his latest prayer,

These may she never share!

Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold,
Than daisies in the mould,

Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate,
His name and life's brief date.

Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be,
And oh! pray too for me!

48.

1868 Edition.

RICHARD LOVELACE.

To Lucasta. Going to the Wars.

TELL me not, (sweet,) I am unkind,
That from the nunnery

Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind
To war and arms I fly.

True: a new Mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;

And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such,
As you too shall adore;

I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Lov'd I not Honour more.

Carew Hazlitt's Text.

49. On the Morning of Christ's Nativity.

I.

THIS is the month, and this the happy morn, Wherein the Son of Heaven's eternal King, Of wedded Maid and Virgin-Mother born, Our great redemption from above did bring; For so the holy sages once did sing, That he our deadly forfeit should release, And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.

II.

That glorious form, that light unsufferable,
And that far-beaming blaze of majesty,
Wherewith he wont at Heaven's high council-
table

To sit the midst of Trinal Unity,

He laid aside; and, here with us to be, Forsook the courts of everlasting day,

And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.

III.

Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein Afford a present to the Infant God?

Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain, To welcome him to this his new abode,

Now, while the heaven, by the Sun's team untrod,

Hath took no print of the approaching light, And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons

bright?

IV.

See how from far upon the eastern road

The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet! Oh! run, prevent them with thy humble ode, And lay it lowly at his blessed feet;

Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet, And join thy voice unto the angel quire, From out his secret altar touched with hallowed fire.

THE HYMN.

I.

IT was the winter wild,

While the heaven-born child
All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies;
Nature in awe to him

Had doffed her gaudy trim,

With her great Master so to sympathize.
It was no season then for her

To wanton with the Sun her lusty paramour.

II.

Only with speeches fair

She woos the gentle air

To hide her guilty front with innocent snow,
And on her naked shame,
Pollute with sinful blame,

The saintly veil of maiden-white to throw,
Confounded, that her Maker's eyes

Should look so near upon her foul deformities.