452

UP

TO A SKYLARK

P with me! up with me into the clouds!
for thy song, Lark, is strong;

up with me, up with me into the clouds!
singing, singing,

with clouds and sky about thee ringing,
lift me, guide me till I find

that spot which seems so to thy mind!

I have walked through wildernesses dreary
and to-day my heart is weary;

had I now the wings of a Faery,

up to thee would I fly.

There is a madness about thee, and joy divine in that song of thine;

lift me, guide me high and high

to thy banqueting-place in the sky.

Joyous as morning,

thou art laughing and scorning:

thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest;
and, though little troubled with sloth,

drunken Lark! thou would'st be loth

to be such a traveller as I.

Happy, happy Liver,

with a soul as strong as a mountain river
pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver,
joy and jollity be with us both!

Alas! my journey, rugged and uneven,
through prickly moors or dusty ways must wind;
but hearing thee or others of thy kind,

as full of gladness and as free of heaven,
I, with my fate contented, will plod on,

and hope for higher raptures, when life's day is done.

W. WORDSWORTH

453

CONSTAT GENITVM NIHIL

HEN the sun from his rosy bed

WHE

the dawning light begins to shed,

the drowsy sky uncurtains round,

and the (but now bright) stars all drown'd

454

in one great light, look dull and tame,
and homage his victorious flame.

Thus, when the warm Etesian wind
the earth's seal'd bosom doth unbind,
straight she her various store discloses
and purples every grove with roses;
but if the South's tempestuous breath
breaks forth, those blushes pine to death.
Oft in a quiet sky the deep

with unmoved waves seems fast asleep,
and oft again the blust'ring North

in angry heaps provokes them forth.

If then this world, which holds all nations,
suffer itself such alterations,

that not this mighty, massy frame,
nor any part of it can claim

one certain course, why should man prate
or censure the designs of fate?

Why from frail honours, and goods lent,
should he expect things permanent?
since 'tis enacted by divine decree,
that nothing mortal shall eternal be.

H. VAUGHAN

COMFORT FROM HIS MUSE IN PRISON

THO

HOUGH I miss the flowery fields
with those sweets the spring-tide yields;

though of all those pleasures past
nothing now remains at last,

but remembrance, poor relief,

that more makes than mends my grief;
she's my mind's companion still

maugre envy's evil will;

(whence she should be driven too,
wer't in mortal's power to do).

She doth tell me where to borrow
comfort in the midst of sorrow;
makes the desolatest place
to her presence be a grace;
and the blackest discontents
to be pleasing ornaments.
In my former days of bliss
her divine skill taught me this,

F. S. II.

15

that from everything I saw
I could some invention draw,
and raise pleasure to her height
through the meanest object's sight.
By the murmur of a spring
or the least bough's rusteling;
by a daisy whose leaves spread.
shut when Titan goes to bed,
or a shady bush or tree,
she could more infuse in me,
than all nature's beauties can
in some other wiser man.

G. WITHER

455 ELEGY ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON.

OURN, Spring, thou darling of the year!

MOURN,

ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear;

thou, Simmer, while each corny spear
shoots up its head,

thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear
for him that's dead!

Thou, Autumn, wi' thy yellow hair,
in grief thy sallow mantle tear!
Thou, Winter, hurling through the air
the roaring blast,

wide o'er the naked world declare
the worth we've lost!

Mourn him, thou Sun, great source of light!
mourn, Empress of the silent night;

and you, ye twinkling Starnies bright,
my Matthew mourn;

for through your orbs he's ta'en his flight

ne'er to return.

O Henderson! the man, the brother!
and art thou gone and gone for ever?
and hast thou crossed that unknown river,
life's dreary bound!

Like thee, where shall I find another,
the world around!

Go to your sculptured tombs, ye Great,
in a' the tinsel trash of state!

but by thy honest turf I'll wait,

thou man of worth!

and weep the ae best fellow's fate
e'er lay in earth.

R. BURNS

456 FROM THE ode on a distant prospect of

ETON COLLEGE

LAS! regardless of their doom

ALAS!

the little victims play!

no sense have they of ills to come,

no care beyond to-day:

yet see how all around 'em wait

the ministers of human fate

and black Misfortune's baleful train!

Ah shew them where in ambush stand
to seize their prey, the murderous band!
ah tell them they are men!

These shall the fury Passions tear,
the vultures of the mind,
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,

and Shame that sculks behind;

or pining Love shall waste their youth,
or Jealousy with rankling tooth
that inly gnaws the secret heart;
and Envy wan, and faded Care,
grim visaged comfortless Despair,
and Sorrow's piercing dart.

Ambition this shall tempt to rise,
then whirl the wretch from high
to bitter Scorn a sacrifice

and grinning Infamy.

The stings of Falsehood those shall try,
and hard Unkindness' alter'd eye,
that mocks the tear it forc'd to flow;
and keen Remorse with blood defiled,
and moody Madness laughing wild
amid severest woe.

T. GRAY

457

458

Ο

HOHENLINDEN

N Linden, when the sun was low,
all bloodless lay th' untrodden snow;
and dark as winter was the flow

of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,
when the drum beat at dead of night
commanding fires of death to light
the darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed
each horseman drew his battle-blade,
and furious every charger neigh'd

to join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven;
then rush'd the steed, to battle driven;
and louder than the bolts of Heaven
far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow
on Linden's hills of stainèd snow,
and bloodier yet the torrent flow
of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun
can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
where furious Frank and fiery Hun

shout in their sulph'rous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye Brave,
who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,

and charge with all thy chivalry! Few, few shall part, where many meet! the snow shall be their winding-sheet, and every turf beneath their feet

shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

ODE TO WINTER

T. CAMPBELL

SIRE of storms! whose savage ear the Lapland drum delights to hear, when Frenzy with her bloodshot eye implores thy dreadful deity