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Sir William Jones.

The son of an eminent London mathematician, Jones (1746-1794) studied at Harrow, and then at Oxford, where he devoted much time to the Oriental languages. In 1772 he published a volume of poems, mostly translations. In 1774 he was called to the Bar. Though opposed to the American war and the slave-trade, he was knighted in 1783, and appointed a judge of the Supreme Court at Fort William, in Bengal. He married the daughter of Dr. Shipley, bishop of St. Asaph; and in his thirtyseventh year embarked for India, never to return. He performed his judicial functions with the utmost fidelity, but he overstrained his brain by intense study; and in 1784 his health began to fail. His attainments in the languages were various and profound. He might have won a conspicuous place among the poets, had he not been absorbed in philological pursuits. "The activity of my mind is too strong for my constitution," he writes. He died at the age of forty-eight, beloved as few have been, and leaving a character for unalloyed goodness, such as few have left. A collected edition of his writings was published in 1799, and again in 1807, with a "Life" of the author by Lord Teignmouth.

But ah! sweet maid, my counsel hear
(Youth should attend when those advise
Whom long experience renders sage):
While music charms the ravished ear,
While sparkling cups delight our eyes,
Be gay, and scorn the frowns of age.

What cruel answer have I heard?
And yet, by Heaven, I love thee still:
Can aught be cruel from thy lip?
Yet say, how fell that bitter word
From lips which streams of sweetness fill,
Which naught but drops of honey sip?

Go boldly forth, my simple lay,
Whose accents flow with artless ease,
Like orient pearls at random strung!
Thy notes are sweet, the damsels say;
But oh, far sweeter, if they please
The nymph for whom these notes are sung.

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TETRASTICH.

FROM THE PERSIAN.

On parent knees, a naked new-born child,
Weeping thou sat'st, while all around thee smiled:
So live that, sinking in thy last long sleep,
Calm thou mayst smile while all around thee weep.

AN ODE IN IMITATION OF ALCÆUS.
What constitutes a state?

Not high-raised battlement or labored mound,
Thick wall or moated gate;

Not cities proud, with spires and turrets crowned;
Not bays and broad-armed ports,

Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride;
Not starred and spangled courts,
Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride.
No:-Men, high-minded men,

With powers as far above dull brutes endued
In forest, brake, or den,

As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude;
Men, who their duties know,

But know their rights, and knowing, dare maintain,
Prevent the long-aimed blow,

And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain:
These constitute a state;

And sovereign Law, that state's collected will,
O'er thrones and globes elate

Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill:

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I am a friar of orders gray,
And down the valleys I take my way;
I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip-
Good store of venison fills my scrip;
My long bead-roll I merrily chant;
Where'er I walk no money I want;
And why I'm so plump the reason I tell-
Who leads a good life is sure to live well.
What baron or squire,

Or knight of the shire,
Lives half so well as a holy friar?

After supper, of heaven I dream,
But that is pullet and clouted cream;
Myself, by denial, I mortify-
With a dainty bit of a warden-pie;
I'm clothed in sackcloth for my sin-
With old sack wine I'm lined within;
A chirping cup is my matin song,

And the vesper's bell is my bowl, ding-dong.
What baron or squire,
Or knight of the shire,

Lives half so well as a holy friar?

Susanna Blamire.

A native of Cumberland, England, Miss Blamire (1747– 1794) resided some years with a married sister in Perthshire, Scotland, and wrote Scottish songs like a native. Her poetical works were published, with a biography by Patrick Maxwell, in 1842.

THE SILLER CROUN.

"And ye shall walk in silk attire,
And siller hae to spare,
Gin ye'll consent to be his bride,
Nor think o' Donald mair."
"Oh, wha wad buy a silken goun
Wi' a puir broken heart?
Or what's to me a siller croun,
Gin frae my love I part?

"The mind whose every wish is pure, Far dearer is to me:

And ere I'm forced to break my faith,
I'll lay me doun an' dee.
For I hae pledged my virgin troth

Brave Donald's fate to share;
And he has gi'en to me his heart,
Wi' a' its virtues rare.

"His gentle manners wan my heart,
He gratefu' took the gift;
Could I but think to seek it back,
It wad be waur than theft.
The langest life can ne'er repay

The love he bears to me;

And ere I'm forced to break my troth, I'll lay me doun an' dee."

John Logan.

Logan (1748-1788) was the son of a Scottish farmer in Mid-Lothian. He became a minister-alienated his parishioners by writing plays and committing some unclerical irregularities-went to London, and wrote for the English Review. He published a volume of sermons, characterized by Chambers as "full of piety and fervor." His little poem of "The Cuckoo" is the slender thread by which he is still connected with the recognized poets of Britain. Burke admired it so much that, on visiting Edinburgh, he sought out Logan to compliment him. For a while Logan was thought to have pilfered "The Cuckoo" from Michael Bruce; but this charge, as we learn from Chambers, was disproved in 1873 by David Laing in a tract on the authorship, and Logan's claim was made good. The internal evidence is in his favor.

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MRS. CHARLOTTE (TURNER) SMITH.-ROBERT GRAHAM.

wrote for bread, parted from her husband, worked for her family, and saw all her children die as they came to maturity. Her poetry is of the sentimental type. Of her sonnets Coleridge had a grateful recollection. Her prose won praises from Hayley, Cowper, and Sir Walter Scott.

TO FORTITUDE.

Nymph of the rock! whose dauntless spirit braves The beating storm, and bitter winds that howl Round thy cold breast, and hear'st the bursting

waves

And the deep thunder with unshaken soul!

Oh come, and show how vain the cares that press
On my weak bosom, and how little worth
Is the false, fleeting meteor, Happiness,
That still misleads the wanderers of the earth!
Strengthened by thee, this heart shall cease to melt
O'er ills that poor Humanity must bear;
Nor friends estranged or ties dissolved be felt
To leave regret and fruitless anguish there :
And when at length it heaves its latest sigh,
Thon and mild Hope shall teach me how to die!

TO A YOUNG MAN ENTERING THE WORLD.
Go now, ingenuons youth!—The trying hour
Is come the world demands that thou shouldst go
To active life. There titles, wealth, and power
May all be purchased; yet I joy to know

Thou wilt not pay their price. The base control
Of petty despots in their pedant reign
Already hast thou felt; and high disdain
Of tyrants is imprinted on thy soul.
Not where mistaken Glory in the field
Rears her red banner be thou ever found;
But against proud Oppression raise the shield
Of patriot daring. So shalt thou renowned
For the best virtues live; or, that denied,
Mayst die, as Hampden or as Sidney died!

THE CRICKET.

Little inmate, full of mirth,
Chirping on my humble hearth,—
Wheresoe'er be thine abode,
Always harbinger of good,—
Pay me for thy warm retreat
With a song most soft and sweet:
In return thou shalt receive
Such a song as I can give.

Though in voice and shape they be
Formed as if akin to thee,

Thou surpassest, happier far,
Happiest grasshoppers that are:
Theirs is but a summer-song;
Thine endures the winter long,
Unimpaired, and shrill, and clear,
Melody throughout the year.

Neither night nor dawn of day
Puts a period to thy lay:
Then, insect, let thy simple song
Cheer the winter evening long;
While, secure from every storm,
In my cottage stout and warm,
Thou shalt my merry minstrel be,
And I delight to shelter thee.

Robert Graham.

235

Graham of Gartmore, Scotland, was born 1750; died 1797. The song we quote was first published in the "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border" (1801). At one time Scott attributed it to James Graham, Marquis of Montrose. It was evidently suggested by the poem of his given on page 103 in this collection.

OH, TELL ME HOW TO WOO THEE.

If doughty deeds my lady please,
Right soon I'll mount my steed;
And strong his arm, and fast his seat,
That bears frae me the meed.
I'll wear thy colors in my cap,

Thy picture in my heart;

And he that bends not to thine eye
Shall rue it to his smart.

Then tell me how to woo thee, love;
Oh, tell me how to woo thee!
For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take,
Though ne'er another trow me.

If gay attire delight thine eye,
I'll dight me in array;

I'll tend thy chamber-door all night,
And squire thee all the day.
If sweetest sounds can win thine ear,
These sounds I'll strive to catch;
Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysel'—
That voice that none can match.

Then tell me how to woo thee, love, etc.

But if fond love thy heart can gain,

I never broke a vow;

Nae maiden lays her skaith to me;
I never loved but you.

For you alone I ride the ring,
For you I wear the blue;
For you alone I strive to sing-

Oh, tell me how to woo!

Then tell me how to woo thee, love, etc.

Lady Anne (Lindsay) Barnard.

Lady Anne Barnard, daughter of James Lindsay, Earl of Balcarres, was born 1750, married Andrew Barnard in 1793, and died without issue in 1825. She wrote the famous and pathetic ballad of "Auld Robin Gray" about the year 1771, but kept the authorship a secret till 1823, when, in her seventy-third year, she acknowledged it in a letter to Sir Walter Scott, in which she writes that she does not comprehend how he guessed the authorship, "as there was no person alive to whom she had told it." At the request of her mother, who often asked "how that unlucky business of Jeanic and Jamie ended," she wrote a continuation; but, like most continuations, though ingeniously done, it is a mere excrescence upon the original. Frequent alterations in the text seem to have been made, either by the author or by unauthorized hands.

AULD ROBIN GRAY.

When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye's come hame,

And a' the weary warld to rest are gane,
The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my c'e,
Unkent by my gude-man, wha sleeps sound by me.

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride;

But, saving ae crown, he had naething else beside: To make the crown a pound my Jamie gaed to sea, And the crown and the pound they were baith for me.

He hadna been gane a twelvemonth and a day, When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown away;

My mither she fell sick-my Jamie was at seaAnd auld Robin Gray came a-courting me.

My father couldna work, my mither couldna spin; I toiled day and night, but their bread I couldna win;

Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his e'e,

Said, "Jeanie, for their sakes, will ye no marry me?"

My heart it said nay, and I looked for Jamie back; But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack:

His ship was a wrack-why didna Jamie dee?
Or why am I spared to cry, Wae is me?

My father urged me sair: my mither didna speak; But she looked in my face till my heart was like

to break.

They gied him my hand, but my heart was in the

sea;

And so Robin Gray he was gude-man to me.

I hadna been his wife a week but only four, When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my door, I saw my Jamie's ghaist, for I couldna think it he, Till he said, "I'm come hame, love, to marry thee!"

Oh, sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say of a';
I gied him ae kiss, and I bade him gang awa’;—
I wish that I were dead, but I'm nae like to dee;
For, though my heart is broken, I'm but young, wae
is me!

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to spin;
I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin;
But I'll do my best a gude wife aye to be,
For oh! Robin Gray, he is kind to me.

John Trumbull.

AMERICAN.

Trumbull (1750-1831), author of "M'Fingal," a burlesque poem in the style of Butler's "Hudibras," was a native of Watertown, Conn. He entered Yale College at the age of thirteen, and afterward read law in the of fice of John Adams, in Boston. In 1774 he began the composition of "M'Fingal," a poem quite popular in its day, but now little read, though manifesting considerable ability. M'Fingal is a type of the American Tories who held out for a monarchy. Honorius is the Whig champion of freedom. When the last battle of the Revolution has been fought, and Toryism is humbled, M'Fingal escapes out of a window en route to Boston, and the poem is closed. Trumbull wrote "The Progress of Dulness," a satirical poem, also "An Elegy on the Times." In 1825 he moved to Detroit, where he died. An edition of his works was published in Hartford in 1820. The latest edition of "M'Fingal," with notes by J. B. Lossing, was published by G. P. Putnam, New York, 1857.

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