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Whose winter laughs; for whom the liberal
gales Stretch the big sheet, and toiling commerce
sails; When yielding crowds attend, and pleasure
serves ; While youth, and health, and vigour string
his nerves. Er'n not all these, in one rich lot combined, Can make the Happy Man, without the
mind; Where Judgment sits clear-sighted, and
surveys The chain of Reason with unerring gaze; Where Fancy lives, and to the brightening
eyes, His fairer scenes and bolder figures rise ; Where social Love exerts her soft command, And plays the passions with a tender hand, Whence every virtue flows, in rival strife, And all the moral harmony of life.
James Thomson.—Born 1700, Died 1748.
879.—RULE BRITANNIA. When Britain first, at Heaven's command,
Arose from out the azure main, This was the charter of the land,
And guardian angels sung the strain : Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves !
Britons never shall be slaves.
About his chequer'd sides I wind,
Now, I gain the mountain's brow,
Old castles on the cliffs arise,
Below me trees unnumber'd rise,
And beyond the purple grove, | Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love!
The nations not so blest as thee,
Must in their turn to tyrants fall, Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free, The dread and envy of them all.
Rule Britannia, &c.
Still more majestic shalt thon rise,
More dreadful from each foreign stroke; As the loud blast that tears the skies, Serves but to root thy native oak.
Rule Britannia, &c.
Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame;
All their attempts to bend thee down Will but arouse thy generous flame, And work their woe and thy renown.
Rule Britannia, &c.
To thee belongs the rural reign ;
Thy cities shall with commerce shine;
Rule Britannia, &c.
Shall to thy happy coast repair ;
Rule Britannia, &c. James Thomson.-Born 1700, Died 1748.
Content me with an humble shade,
Now, ev'n now, my joys run high,
Be full, ye courts ; be great who will; Search for Peace with all your skill : Open wide the lofty door, Seek her on the marble floor. In vain you search, she is not there ; In vain ye search the domes of Care ! Grass and flowers Quiet treads, On the meads, and mountain-heads, Along with Pleasure, close allied, Ever by each other's side : And often, by the murmuring rill, Hears the thrush, while all is still, Within the groves of Grongar Hill.
John Dyer.—Born 1700, Died 1758.
Gaudy as the opening dawn,
And see the rivers how they run,
Ever charming, ever new,
See on the mountain's southern side,
O may I with myself agree,
881.—THE BRAES OF YARROW. A. Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow! Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, And think nae mair on the Braes of
B. Where gat ye that bonny bonny bride ?
Where gat ye that winsome marrow ?
Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride,
Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow ! Nor let thy heart lament to leave
Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. B. Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride?
Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow ? And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen,
Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow ? A. Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun
she weep, Lang mann she weep with dule and sorrow, And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen,
Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. For she has tint her lover lover dear,
Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow, And I hae slain the comeliest swain That e'er poued birks on the Braes of
Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow,
red ? Why on thy braes heard the voice of
sorrow? And why yon melancholious weeds
Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow ? What's yonder floats on the rueful rueful
flude ? What's yonder floats ? O dule and sor
row! 'Tis he, the comely swain I slew
Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow. Wash, oh wash his wounds his wounds in
tears, His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow, And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds,
And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow. Then build, then build, ye sisters sisters sad,
Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow, And weep around in waeful wise,
His helpless fate on the Braes of Yarrow. Curse ye, curse ye, his useless useless shield,
My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, The fatal spear that pierced his breast,
His comely breast, on the Braes of Yarrow. Did I not warn thee not to lue,
And warn from fight, but to my sorrow; O'er rashly bauld a stronger arm Thou met’st, and fell on the Braes of
Yarrow. Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green
grows the grass, Yellow on Yarrow bank the gowan, Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan. Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet
flows Tweed, As green its grass, its gowan as yellow, As sweet smells on its braes the birk,
The apple frae the rock as mellow. Fair was thy love, fair fair indeed thy love,
In flowery bands thou him didst fetter; Though he was fair and weil beloved again,
Than me he never lued thee better.
Busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, Busk ye, and lue me on the banks of Tweed, And think nae mair on the Braes of
How can I busk a winsome marrow,
That slew my love on the Braes of Yarrow.
Pale pale, indeed, O lovely lovely youth,
Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter, And lie all night between my breasts,
No youth shall ever lie there after.
O Yarrow fields! may never never rain,
Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, For there was basely slain my love,
My love, as he had not been a lover.
Return, return, O mournful mournful bride,
Return and dry thy useless sorrow : Thy lover heeds nought of thy sighs,
He lies a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow. William Hamilton.-Born 1704, Died 1754. 882.-SONG. Ye shepherds of this pleasant vale,
Where Yarrow streams along, Forsake your rural toils, and join
In my triumphant song.
She grants, she yields ; one heavenly smile
Atones her long delays,
Of many suffering days.
• 883.-SONG. Ah, the poor shepherd's mournful fate, When doom'd to love and doom'd to lan
guish, To bear the scornful fair one's hate,
Nor dare disclose his anguish! Yet eager looks and dying sighs
My secret soul discover,
Reveals how much I love her.
O'erspread with rising blushes,
A thousand various wishes.
Raise, raise the victor notes of joy,
These suffering days are o'er; Love satiates now his boundless wish
From beauty's boundless store :
No doubtful hopes, no anxious fears,
This rising calm destroy ; Now every prospect smiles around,
All op'ning into joy.
The sun with double lustre shone
That dear consenting hour, Brighten'd each hill, and o'er each vale
New colour'd every flower :
For, oh! that form so heavenly fair,
Those languid eyes so sweetly smiling,
So fatally beguiling;
So charm, whene'er I view thee,
Still will my hopes pursue thee.
Be this last blessing given,
And die in sight of heaven.
The gales their gentle sighs withheld,
No leaf was seen to move, The hovering songsters round were mute,
And wonder hush'd the grove.
The hills and dales no more resound
The lambkin's tender cry; Without one murmur Yarrow stole
In dimpling silence by :
All nature seem'd in still repose
Her voice alone to hear, That gently roll'd the tuneful wave,
She spoke and bless'd my ear.
Take, take whate'er of bliss or joy
You fondly fancy mine; Whate'er of joy or bliss I boast,
Love renders wholly thine :
The woods struck up to the soft gale,
The leaves were seen to move, The feather'd choir resumed their voice,
And wonder fill'd the grove ;
884.—LONDON. Though grief and fondness in my breast
rebel, When injured Thales bids the town farewell ; Yet still my calmer thoughts his choice
commend, I praise the hermit, but regret the friend, Who now resolves, from vice and London
far, To breathe in distant fields a purer air; And fix'd on Cambria's solitary shore, Give to St. David one true Briton more. For who would leave, un bribed, Hibernia's
land, Or change the rocks of Scotland for the
Strand ? There none are swept by sudden fate away, But all, whom hunger spares, with age
decay: Here malice, rapine, accident conspire, And now a rabble rages, now a fire ; Their ambush here relentless ruffians lay, And here the fell attorney prowls for prey ; Here falling houses thunder on your head, And here a female atheist talks you dead. While Thales waits the wherry that con
tains Of dissipated wealth the small remains,
The hills and dales again resound
The lambkins' tender cry, With all his murmurs Yarrow trill'd
The song of triumph by ;
Above, beneath, around, all on
Was verdure, beauty, song ;
All nature joy'd along.
On Thames's banks, in silent thought we
stood, Where Greenwich smiles upon the silver
flood: Struck with the seat that gave Eliza birth, We kneel, and kiss the consecrated earth ; In pleasing dreams the blissful age renew, And call Britannia's glories back to view; Behold her cross triumphant on the main, The guard of commerce, and the dread of
Spain, Ere masquerades debauch’d, excise oppress'd, Or English honour grew a standing jest.
A transient calm the happy scenes bestow, And for a moment lull the sense of woe. At length awaking, with contemptuous frown, Indignant Thales eyes the neighbouring town: “Since worth,” he cries, " in these degenerate
days, Wants e'en the cheap reward of empty praise ; In those cursed walls, devote to vice and
gain, Since unrewarded science toils in vain ; Since hope but soothes to double my distress, And every moment leaves my little less; . While yet my steady steps no staff sustains, And life still vigorous revels in my veins ; Grant me, kind Heaven, to find some happier
place, Where honesty and sense are no disgrace; Some pleasing bank where verdant osiers
play, Some peaceful vale with Nature's painting
gay; Where once the harass'd Briton found repose, And safe in poverty defied his foes ; Some secret cell, ye powers indulgent, give, Let- live here, for- has learn'd to live. Here let those reign whom pensions can
incite To vote a patriot black, a courtier white; Explain their country's dear-bought rights
away, And plead for pirates in the face of day; With slavish tenets taint our poison'd youth, And lend a lie the confidence of truth. Let such raise palaces, and manors buy, Collect a tax, or farm a lottery; With warbling eunuchs fill a licensed stage, And lull to servitude a thoughtless age. "Heroes, proceed! what bounds your pride
shall hold ? What check restrain your thirst of power and
gold ? Behold rebellious Virtue quite o'erthrown, Behold our fame, our wealth, our lives your
own. To such a groaning nation's spoils are given, When public crimes inflame the wrath of
Heaven : But that, my friend, what hope remains for
me, Who start at theft, and blush at perjury ? Who scarce forbear, though Britain's court he
sing, To pluck a titled poet's borrow'd wing ;
A statesman's logic unconvinced can hear,
art, Can sap the principles, or taint the heart; With more address a lover's note convey, Or bribe a virgin's innocence away. Well may they rise, while I, whose rustic
tongue Ne'er knew to puzzle right, or varnish wrong, Spurn'd as a beggar, dreaded as a spy, Live unregarded, unlamented die. “For what but social guilt the friend
endears? Who shares Orgilio's crimes, his fortunes
shares. But thou, should tempting villany present All Marlborough hoarded, or all Villiers
spent, Turn from the glittering bribe thy scornful
eye, Nor sell for gold what gold could never buy, The peaceful slumber, self-approving day, Unsullied fame, and conscience ever gay. “The cheated nation's happy favourites,
see! Mark whom the great caress, who frown on
me ! London! the needy villain's general home, The common sewer of Paris and of Rome, With eager thirst, by folly or by fate, Sucks in the dregs of each corrupted state. Forgive my transports on a theme lile this, I cannot bear a French metropolis. “ Illustrious Edward! from the realms of
day, The land of heroes and of saints survey! Nor hope the British lineaments to trace, The rustic grandeur, or the surly grace ; But, lost in thoughtless ease and empty
show, Behold the warrior dwindled to a beau ; Sense, freedom, piety, refined away, Of France the mimic, and of Spain the prey. “All that at home no more can beg or
steal, Or like a gibbet better than a wheel ; Hiss'd from the stage, or hooted from the
court, Their air, their dress, their politics import; Obsequious, artful, voluble, and gay, On Britain's fond credulity they prey. No gainful trade their industry can 'scape, They sing, they dance, clean shoes, or cure a
clap: All sciences a fasting Monsieur knows, And bid him go to hell, to hell he goes.
"Ah! what avails it that, from slavery far, I drew the breath of life in English air ; Was early taught a Briton's right to prize, And lisp the tale of Henry's victories ; If the gull’d conqueror receives the chain, And flattery subdues when arms are vain ?