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AD DIVINAM SAPIENTIAM
ALMIGHTY Spirit! thou that by
set turns and changes from thy high
THE POET TO HIS FARM
sweet farm, his pride and joy,
his little orphan boy!
lord of that evil day:
my miserable way.
his poet's home again :
a proud yet grateful strain.
He comes in yonder latticed room
to dream of manhood's days; he comes, beneath his father's trees to mix with rustic melodies
the great Farnese's praise.
Break forth, my father's blessed home,
thou prize of minstrelsy!
E. W. BARNARD
THE CASTLE OF ARLINKOW
HGH on a rock, whose castled shade
the towers of Arlinkow.
The fisher in the lake below
durst never cast his net,
her passing wing would wet.
The cattle from its ominous banks
in wild alarm would run,
the summer's scorching sun.
the long lank sedges waved,
its deafening billows raved;
the rooted pine would shake,
across the calm dead lake.
And ever then when death drew near
the house of Arlinkow,
HIS POETRY HIS PILLAR
NLY a little more
then I'll give o'er,
that I must stay,
or linger in it,
and scarce leav'st here
in vaults beneath ;
and piece-meal rot without a fame in death ? Behold this living stone
I rear for me,
ne'er to be thrown
if so they please,
here is my hope, and my pyramides.
PRAISE OF A COUNTRY LIFE
AP where joy, hearts.ase, and comforts grow,
you'd scorn proud towers,
and seek them in these bowers where winds sometimes our woods perhaps may shake, but blustering care could never tempest make,
nor murmurs e'er come nigh us,
saving of fountains that glide by us. Here's no fantastic masque or dance, but of our kids that frisk and prance;
nor wars are seen,
unless upon the green two harmless lambs are butting one the other ; which done, both bleating run, each to his mother;
and wounds are never found,
save what the ploughshare gives the ground. Go! let the diving Negro seek for gems
hid in some forlorn creek: we all pearls scorn,
save what the dewy morn
and gold ne'er here appears,
SIR W. RALEIGH
344 ODE ON THE DEATH OF JAMES THOMSON
where slowly winds the stealing wave!
to deck its poet's sylvan grave.
his airy harp shall now be laid,
may love through life the soothing shade.
and while its sounds at distance swell, shall sadly seem in Pity's ear
to hear the woodland pilgrim's knell. Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore
when Thames in summer wreaths is drest, and oft suspend the dashing oar,
to bid his gentle spirit rest!
to breezy lawn, or forest deep,
and 'mid the varied landscape weep. 345 But thou who own'st that earthly bed,
Ah! what will every dirge avail ? or tears, which Love and Pity shed,
that mourn beneath the gliding sail !
Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye
shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near ? with him, sweet bard, may Fancy die,
and Joy desert the blooming year.
no sedge-crowned sisters now attend;
whose cold turf hides the buried friend! And see, the fairy valleys fade;
dun night has veiled the solemn view ! yet once again, dear parted shade,
meek Nature's Child, again adieu ! The genial meads, assigned to bless
thy life, shall mourn thy early doom; their hinds and shepherd girls shall dress
with simple hands thy rural tomb. Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay
shall melt the musing Briton's eyes: O! vales, and wild woods, shall he say, in yonder grove your Druid lies !
REST on your battle-fields, ye brave!
let the pines murmur o'er your grave,
we call you back no more !
but that hath long been o'er.
darken the buried brow.