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329

Yea, man himself, unto whose will

all things are bounden to obey, for all his wit and worthy skill,

doth fade at length and fall away.
There is no thing but time doth waste;
the heavens, the earth, consume at last.
But virtue sits, triumphing still,

upon the throne of glorious Fame:
though spiteful death man's body kill,
yet hurts he not his virtuous name,
By life or death what so betides,
the state of virtue never slides.

THOU

LAPLAND LOVE-SONG

HOU rising sun, whose gladsome ray
invites my fair to rural play,

dispel the mist, and clear the skies,
and bring my Orra to my eyes.

O were I sure my dear to view,
I'd climb that pine-tree's topmost bough,
fast by the roots enraged I'd tear
the trees that hide my promised fair.

Oh! could I ride the clouds and skies,

or on the raven's pinions rise;
ye storks, ye swans, a moment stay,
and waft a lover on his way.

My bliss too long my bride denies,
apace the wasting summer flies:
nor yet the wintry blasts I fear,

not storms or night shall keep me here.

What may for strength with steel compare?
O love has fetters stronger far:

by bolts of steel are limbs confined,

but cruel love enchains the mind.

No longer then perplex thy breast;

when thoughts torment, the first are best:
'tis mad to go, 'tis death to stay:
away to Orra, haste away.

A. PHILIPS

330

331

LOVE-SONG

MY

Y dear and only love, I pray
that little world of thee
be governed by no other sway
but purest monarchy.

And in the empire of thy heart,
where I should solely be,
let none beside pretend a part,
or dare to share with me.

As Alexander I will reign,
and I will reign alone;

my thoughts did evermore disdain
a rival on my throne.

He either fears his fate too much,
or his deserts are small,

who dares not put it to the touch
to gain or lose it all.

But if no faithless action stain
thy love and constant word,
I'll make thee famous by my pen
and glorious by my sword;
I'll serve thee in such noble ways
as ne'er was known before;

I'll deck and crown thy head with bays
and love thee evermore.

MARQUIS OF MONTROSE

NEW SELF

HY sittest thou on that sea-girt rock

WHY

with downward look and sadly-dreaming eye:

playest thou beneath with Proteus' flock,

or with the far-bound sea-bird wouldst thou fly?

OLD SELF

I sit upon this sea-girt rock

with downward look and dreaming eye;

But neither do I sport with Proteus' flock, nor with the far-bound sea-bird would I fly.

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I list the splash so clear and chill
yon old fisher's solitary oar:

I watch the waves that rippling still
chase one another o'er the marble shore.

NEW SELF

Yet from the splash of yonder oar
no dreamy sound of sadness comes to me:
and yon fresh waves that beat the shore,
how merrily they splash, how merrily!

OLD SELF

I mourn for the delicious days,

when those calm sounds fell on my childish ear,
a stranger yet to the wild ways
of triumph and remorse, of hope and fear.

NEW SELF

Mournest thou, poor soul! and thou wouldst yet call back the things which shall not, cannot be? Heaven must be won, not dreamed: thy task is set, peace was not made for earth, nor rest for thee.

LYRA APOSTOLICA

332

ON THE DEATH OF COLONEL CHARLES ROSS IN
THE ACTION AT FONTENOY

BLEST youth, regardful of thy doom
build thy tomb,

with shadowy trophies crowned:

whilst Honour bathed in tears shall rove
to sigh thy name through every grove,
and call his heroes round.

By rapid Schelde's descending wave
his country's vows shall bless the grave,
where'er the youth is laid:

that sacred spot the village hind
with every sweetest turf shall bind,
and Peace protect the shade.

The warlike dead of every age,
who fill the fair recording page,

333

shall leave their sainted rest;
and, half reclining on his spear,
each wondering chief by turns appear,
to hail the blooming guest.

But lo, where sunk in deep despair,
her garments torn, her bosom bare,
impatient Freedom lies!

her matted tresses madly spread,
to every sod, which wraps the dead,
she turns her joyless eyes.

THE PROGRESS OF POESY

WAKE, Aeolian lyre, awake,

AWAKE,

W. COLLINS

and give to rapture all thy trembling strings. From Helicon's harmonious springs

a thousand rills their mazy progress take:

the laughing flowers that round them blow
drink life and fragrance as they flow.

Now the rich stream of Music winds along
deep, majestic, smooth, and strong,

through verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign;
now rolling down the steep amain
headlong, impetuous, see it pour:

the rocks and nodding groves re-bellow to the roar

O Sovereign of the willing soul,

parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs,
enchanting shell! the sullen Cares

and frantic Passions hear thy soft control.
On Thracia's hills the Lord of War

has curb'd the fury of his car

and dropt his thirsty lance at thy command.
Perching on the sceptred hand

of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king
with ruffled plumes, and flagging wing:

quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie

the terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye.

334 Thee the voice, the dance, obey,

temper'd to thy warbled lay.

O'er Idalia's velvet-green

the rosy-crowned Loves are seen
on Cytherea's day,

with antic Sport, and blue-eyed Pleasures,
frisking light in frolic measures;
now pursuing, now retreating,

now in circling troops they meet:
to brisk notes in cadence beating

glance their many-twinkling feet.

Slow melting strains their Queen's approach declare:
where'er she turns the Graces homage pay:

with arms sublime that float upon the air
in gliding state she wins her easy way:

o'er her warm cheek and rising bosom move

the bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.

T. GRAY

335

UPON THE SHORTNESS OF MAN'S LIFE

M

ARK that swift arrow how it cuts the air,
how it outruns thy following eye,

use all persuasions now, and try

if thou canst call it back or stay it there;
that way it went, but thou shalt find
no track is left behind.

Fool, 'tis thy life, and the fond Archer thou,
of all the time thou'st shot away

I'll bid thee fetch but yesterday,
and it shall be too hard a task to do.
Besides repentance, what canst find
that it hath left behind?

Our life is carried with too strong a tide,
a doubtful cloud our substance bears,
and is the horse of all our years;
each day doth on a winged whirlwind ride.
We and our glass run out, and must
both render up our dust.

But his past life who without grief can see,
who never thinks his end too near,
but says to fame, thou art mine heir,
that man extends life's natural brevity:
this is, this is the only way
to outlive Nestor in a day.

A. COWLEY

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