Or those faint beams in which this hill is dressed After the sun's remove. I see them walking in an air of glory, Whose light doth trample on my days My days which are at best but dull and hoary, O holy hope! and high humility— These are your walks, and you have showed them me To kindle my cold love. Dear, beauteous death-the jewel of the just- He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know, At first sight, if the bird be flown, And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, And into glory peep. If a star were confined into a tomb, Her captive flames must needs burn there; But when the hand that locked her up gives room, She'll shine through all the sphere. O Father of eternal life, and all Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall Into true liberty. Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill Or else remove me hence unto that hill HENRY VAUGHAN (1621–1695). SONG. LOVE still has something of the sea, CUMNOR HALL. "Leicester," she cried, "is this thy love That thou so oft hast sworn to me, To leave me in this lonely grove, Immured in shameful privity? "No more thou com'st with lover's speed, Thy once beloved bride to see; But be she alive, or be she dead, I fear, stern Earl, 's the same to thee. "Not so the usage I received When happy in my father's hall; "I rose up with the cheerful morn, "If that my beauty is but small, Among court ladies all despised, Why didst thou rend it from that hall, Where, scornful Earl, it well was prized? "And when you first to me made suit, How fair I was, you oft would say! And proud of conquest, plucked the fruit, Then left the blossom to decay. "Yes! now neglected and despised, "For know, when sick'ning grief doth prey, And tender love's repaid with scorn, The sweetest beauty will decay, What floweret can endure the storm? "At court, I'm told, is beauty's throne, "Then, Earl, why didst thou leave the beds Where roses and where lilies vie, To seek a primrose, whose pale shades Must sicken when those gauds are by? "Mong rural beauties I was one, Among the fields wild flowers are fair; Some country swain might me have won, And thought my beauty passing rare. "But, Leicester (or I much am wrong), "Then, Leicester, why, again I plead, (The injured surely may repine)Why didst thou wed a country maid, When some fair princess might be thine? "Why didst thou praise my humble charms, "The village maidens of the plain "The simple nymphs! they little know "How far less blest am I than them? Daily to pine and waste with care? Like the poor plant, that, from its stem Divided, feels the chilling air. "Nor, cruel Earl! can I enjoy The humble charms of solitude; Your minions proud my peace destroy, By sullen frowns or pratings rude. "Last night, as sad I chanced to stray, The village death-bell smote my ear! They winked aside, and seemed to say, 'Countess, prepare, thy end is near." "And now, while happy peasants sleep, Here I sit lonely and forlorn; No one to soothe me as I weep, Save Philomel on yonder thorn. 749 "My spirits flag-my hopes decayStill that dread death-bell smites my ear! And many a boding seems to say, 'Countess, prepare, thy end is near!"" Thus sore and sad that lady grieved, In Cumnor Hall so lone and drear; And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved, And let fall many a bitter tear. And ere the dawn of day appeared, In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear, Full many a piercing scream was heard, And many a cry of mortal fear. The death-bell thrice was heard to ring, An aërial voice was heard to call, And thrice the raven flapped its wing Around the towers of Cumnor Hall. The mastiff howled at village door, The oaks were shattered on the green; Woe was the hour-for never more That hapless Countess e'er was seen! And in that Manor now no more Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball; For ever since that dreary hour Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall. The village maids, with fearful glance, Among the groves of Cumnor Hall. Full many a traveller oft hath sighed, THE TOPER'S APOLOGY. I'm often asked by plodding souls And tippling all night long. But though these cautious knaves I scorn, To tell them why I sit till morn 'T is by the glow my bumper gives, My Muse, too, when her wings are dry, But round the bowl she 'll dip and fly, In life I've rung all changes through, 'Mid each extreme of folly too, And lived with half the town; For me there's nothing new nor rare, I find, too, when I stint my glass, I'm prosed by some dull reasoning ass, Some coxcomb's fribbling strain; To fill my glass again. There's many a lad I knew is dead, CHARLES MORRIS (1739-1838). TO THE CUCKOO. Soon as the daisy decks the green, Hast thou a star to guide thy path, Or mark the rolling year? Delightful visitant! with thee I hail the time of flowers, And hear the sound of music sweet The schoolboy, wandering through the wood Starts, thy most curious voice to hear, What time the pea puts on the bloom, An annual guest in other lands, Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, There's gravel walks there for speculation, For 't is there's the cave where no daylight enters, But bats and badgers are forever bred; Being mossed by natur' which makes it sweeter Than a coach and six, or a feather bed. 'Tis there the lake that is stored with perches, And comely eels in the verdant mud; Besides the leeches, and the groves of beeches, All standing in order for to guard the flood. |