He'd a fine merry boy, (such another as you,) So he hoped that, one day, when his darling should grow To thank his old father for loving him so. But what do you think came of all this at last ? Instead of rememb'ring how kind he had been, So he wander'd about in the frost and the snow! And the tears, poor old man, oh! how fast they did pour: CCCII. LEIGH HUNT, 1784-1859. 1. THE HORSE. A noble horse, With flowing back, firm chest, and fetlocks clean, 2. THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS. King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, And one day, as his lions fought, sat looking on the court; The nobles filled the benches round, the ladies by their side, And 'mongst them sat the count de Lorge, with one for whom he sigh'd. And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below. Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws; With wallowing might and stifled roar, they rolled on one another, Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thund'rous smother; The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the air: Said Francis then, " Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there." Delorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous, lively dame, With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seemed the same; She thought, The count, my lover, is brave as brave can be He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me : King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine,I'll drop my glove to prove his love; great glory will be mine. She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then looked at him and smiled; He bowed and in a moment leaped among the lions wild : The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regained the place, Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face. "By God!" cried Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from where he sat, "No love," quoth he, “but vanity, sets love a task like that!" CCCIII. JA. SHERIDAN KNOWLES, 1784-1812. CAIUS GRACCHUS AND CORNELIA. Cornelia. Your brother's blood, my son! * Does not his blood Cry for revenge, and is your ear unapt To hear it?-Caius, that dear brother's death's The life of all thy acts!-'Twas that did plead For Vettius-ask'd the Tribuneship-revived Tiberius' laws-defied the Senate-made thee' Like a god to Rome, dealing out fate—and, now Thou art no longer arm'd with thy great office, Would lead thee forth to sacrifice-My son, Go not to the Forum! 'Tis a worthless cause! Why should you go, my Caius ? To defend Your laws from abrogation? Think of them For whom you made those laws-the fickle people Did lend a hand to pull you from your seat, And raise up them they shake at! Thou art single! Thou hast no seconds! 'Tis a hopeless struggle! So sunk are all, the heart of public virtue Has not the blood to make it beat again! C. Grac. And should I therefore sink with the base times ? What, mother, what! Are the gods also base? A thing contemptible-and not to be Is manhood Maintain'd? Remember you Messina, mother? Aghast, save one! Alone he strove to guide Of winds and waters raging.—With one hand The foaming courser safe! 'Twas he, the same!— You clasp'd your Caius in your arms, and cried, Cor. Caius-Caius ! C. Grac. Mother-I Cor. My son! C. Grac. Well, I'll not go, I will be ruled by you, And point and smile, and say to one another, Cor. Know the people you did promise C. Grac. Are they not here with Fulvius Flaccus Expecting me? But let them go with him; He'll speak for them. He'll be their friend-He'll dare Cor. You must go to the Forum-you must. Cor. I neither will it nor will it not. They go without me! Cor. Why, I think, as it is, You cannot help but go. I know not what's C. Grac. My only use Go! Of life's to prove it! Cor. Go! Go! Go! my Caius. CCCIV. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM, 1784-1842. 1. A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. A wet sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail, O for a soft and gentle wind! But give to me the snoring breeze, The world of waters is our home, There's tempest in yon horned moon, But hark, the music, mariners! The wind is piping loud, my boys, 2. THE LASS OF GLENESLAN MILL. ; With all her stars, pure streaming still; For then in light and love I meet The sweet lass of Gleneslan mill. The violets lay their blossoms low; |