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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,
Mere glimmerings and decays.

O holy hope! and high humility—
High as the heavens above!

These are your walks, and you have showed them me

To kindle my cold love.

Dear, beauteous death-the jewel of the just-
Shining nowhere but in the dark!
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,
Could man outlook that mark!

He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know,

At first sight, if the bird be flown,
But what fair dell or grove he sings in now,
That is to him unknown.

And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams
Call to the soul when man doth sleep,

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
Created glories under Thee!

Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall

Into true liberty.

Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill
My perspective still as they pass;

Or else remove me hence unto that hill
Where I shall need no glass.

HENRY VAUGHAN (1621–1695).

SONG.

LOVE still has something of the sea,
From whence his mother rose;
No time his slaves from doubt can free,
Nor give their thoughts repose.

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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;
No faithless husband then me grieved,
No chilling fears did me appall.

"I rose up with the cheerful morn,
No lark more blithe, no flower more gay;
And like the bird that haunts the thorn,
So merrily sung the livelong day.

"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,
The rose is pale, the lily's dead;
But he that once their charms so prized,
Is sure the cause those charms are fled.

"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,
Where every lady 's passing rare,
That Eastern flowers, that shame the sun,
Are not so glowing, not so fair.

"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),
Or 't is not beauty lures thy vows;
Rather ambition's glided crown
Makes thee forget thy humble spouse.

"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,
And, oh! then leave them to decay?
Why didst thou win me to thy arms,
Then leave to mourn the livelong day?

"The village maidens of the plain
Salute me lowly as they go;
Envious they mark my silken train,
Nor think a Countess can have woe.

"The simple nymphs! they little know
How far more happy's their estate;
To smile for joy than sigh for woe-
To be content-than to be great.

"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.

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"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,
Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall,
Nor ever lead the merry dance

Among the groves of Cumnor Hall.

Full many a traveller oft hath sighed,
And pensive wept the Countess' fall,
As wandering onward they've espied
The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall.
WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE (1734-1788).

THE TOPER'S APOLOGY.

I'm often asked by plodding souls
And men of sober tongue,
What joy I take in draining bowls

And tippling all night long.

But though these cautious knaves I scorn,
For once I'll not disdain

To tell them why I sit till morn
And fill my glass again.

'T is by the glow my bumper gives,
Life's picture 's mellow made;
The fading light then brightly lives,
And softly sinks the shade.
Some happier tint still rises there,
With every drop I drain;
And that I think 's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.

My Muse, too, when her wings are dry,
No frolic flights will take,

But round the bowl she 'll dip and fly,
Like swallows round a lake.
Then, if each nymph will have her share,
Before she 'll bless her swain,
Why, that I think 's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.

In life I've rung all changes through,
Run every pleasure down,

'Mid each extreme of folly too,

And lived with half the town;

For me there's nothing new nor rare,
Till wine deceives my brain;
And that I think 's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.

I find, too, when I stint my glass,
And sit with sober air,

I'm prosed by some dull reasoning ass,
Who treads the path of care;
Or, harder still, am doomed to bear

Some coxcomb's fribbling strain;
And that I'm sure 's a reason fair

To fill my glass again.

There's many a lad I knew is dead,
And many a lass grown old,
And as the lesson strikes my head,
My weary heart grows cold;
But wine awhile drives off despair-
Nay, bids a hope remain ;
Why, that I think 's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.

CHARLES MORRIS (1739-1838).

TO THE CUCKOO.
HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove!
Thou messenger of Spring!
Now heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.

Soon as the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear.

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
From birds among the bowers.

The schoolboy, wandering through the wood
To pull the primrose gay,

Starts, thy most curious voice to hear,
And imitates thy lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom,
Thou fliest thy vocal vale,

An annual guest in other lands,
Another spring to hail.

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear;

Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No winter in thy year!

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There's gravel walks there for speculation,
And conversation in sweet solitude;
'Tis there the lover may hear the dove, or
The gentle plover, in the afternoon.
And if a young lady should be so engaging
As to walk alone in those shady bowers,
'Tis there her courtier, he may transport her
In some dark port, or under ground.

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.

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