ÆäÀÌÁö À̹ÌÁö
PDF
ePub

232

233

TO THE LADY MARGARET, COUNtess of

H

CUMBERLAND

E that of such a height hath built his mind,
and rear'd the dwelling of his thoughts so strong,
as neither fear nor hope can shake the frame
of his resolved powers; nor all the wind
of vanity or malice pierce to wrong

his settled peace, or to disturb the same:
what a fair seat hath he, from whence he may
the boundless wastes and wilds of man survey!
And with how free an eye doth he look down
upon these lower regions of turmoil,

where all the storms of passions mainly beat
on flesh and blood: where honour, power, renown,
are only gay afflictions, golden toil;

where greatness stands upon as feeble feet,
as frailty doth; and only great doth seem
to little minds, who do it so esteem.

He is not moved with all the thunder-cracks
of tyrants' threats, or with the surly brow

of power, that proudly sits on others' crimes;
charged with more crying sins than those he checks.
The storms of sad confusion, that may grow
up in the present for the coming times,
appal not him; that hath no side at all,
but of himself, and knows the worst can fall.
And whilst distraught Ambition compasses
and is encompassed; whilst as craft deceives,
and is deceived: whilst man doth ransack man,
and builds on blood, and rises by distress;
and th' inheritance of desolation leaves
to great-expecting hopes: he looks thereon,
as from the shore of peace, with unwet eye,
and bears no venture in impiety.

S. DANIEL

234

THE GRAVE

HERE is a calm for those who weep;

Trest for weary pilgrims found,

they softly lie and sweetly sleep

low in the ground.

The storm that wrecks the winter sky
no more disturbs their deep repose,
than summer-evening's latest sigh
that shuts the rose.

There is a calm for those who weep;
a rest for weary pilgrims found;
and, while the mouldering ashes sleep
low in the ground,

the soul, of origin divine,

God's glorious image, freed from clay,
in heaven's eternal sphere shall shine,
a Star of Day.

J. MONTGOMERY

235

236

F

PROOF AGAINST FORTUNE

ORTUNE, that with malicious joy
does man her slave oppress,
proud of her office to destroy,

is seldom pleased to bless :
still various and inconstant still,
but with an inclination to be ill,
promotes, degrades, delights in strife,
and makes a lottery of life.

I can enjoy her while she's kind;

but when she dances in the wind,

and shakes the wings and will not stay,

I puff the prostitute away;

the little or the much she gave is quietly resigned: content with poverty my soul I arm,

and virtue, though. in rags, will keep me warm.

What is't to me,

who never sail in her unfaithful sea,

if storms arise, and clouds grow black;
if the mast split and threaten wreck?
Then let the greedy merchant fear
for his ill-gotten gain;

and pray to gods that will not hear,
while the debating winds and billows bear
his wealth into the main.

For me, secure from Fortune's blows,
secure of what I cannot lose,

237

in my small pinnace I can sail,
contemning all the blustering roar;

and running with a merry gale,
with friendly stars my safety seek
within some little winding creek;
and see the storm, ashore

ON RETURNING A BLANK BOOK

AKE back the virgin page,

Twhite and unwritten still;

some hand, more calm and sage,
the leaf must fill:

thoughts come, as pure as light,
pure as e'en you require:
but oh! each word I write
love turns to fire.

Yet let me keep the book;

oft shall my heart renew,
when on its leaves I look,
dear thoughts of you:
like you 'tis fair and bright;

like you, too bright and fair,
to let wild passion write
one wrong wish there.

238 Haply when from those eyes
far, far away I roam,
should calmer thoughts arise
towards you and home;
fancy may trace some line,

worthy those eyes to meet;

thoughts that not burn, but shine,
pure, calm and sweet.

And, as o'er ocean far

seamen their records keep, led by some hidden star

through the cold deep; so may the words I write tell through what storms you still the unseen light, guiding my way.

stray;

J. DRYDEN

T. MOORE

239

THE PROGRESS OF POESY FROM GREECE TO
ITALY AND FROM ITALY TO ENGLAND

WOODS, that

wave o'er Delphi's steep, isles, that crown th' Ægean deep,

fields, that cool Ilissus laves,

or where Mæander's amber waves
in lingering lab'rinths creep;

how do your tuneful echoes languish,
mute, but to the voice of anguish !
Where each old poetic mountain
inspiration breathed around;
every shade and hallow'd fountain
murmur'd deep a solemn sound;
till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour,
left their Parnassus for the Latian plains.
Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power,
and coward Vice, that revels in her chains.
When Latium had her lofty spirit lost,

they sought, O Albion! next thy sea-encircled coast.

T. GRAY

240

[ocr errors]

TO A STAR

FAIR and goodly star, upon the brow of night, that from thy silver car shootest thy friendly light,

thy path is calm and bright

through the clear azure of the starry way;

and from thy heavenly height

thou see'st how empires rise and pass away,

thou view'st the birth of human hopes

their blossom and decay.

Oh! that my spirit could cast off its mould of clay, and with the wise and good fly from this toil away;

that with thy bright array

we might look down upon the world of woe,

even as the god of day

looks on the listless ocean's flow,

and eyes the fighting waves

that part and foam below.

F. S. II.

7

241

242

THER

THE SOUL OF BEAUTY

HE shape alone let others prize,
the features of the fair;

I look for spirit in her eyes,
and meaning in her air.
A damask cheek, an ivory arm,
shall ne'er my wishes win;
give me an animated form

that speaks a mind within;

a face where awful honour shines,
where sense and sweetness move,
and angel innocence refines

the tenderness of love.

These are the soul of beauty's frame;
without whose vital aid

unfinished all her features seem,

and all her roses dead.

THEY

HEAVEN IN PROSPECT

M. AKENSIDE

HEY are all gone into the world of light!
And I alone sit ling'ring here!

Their very memory is fair and bright,

and my sad thoughts doth clear.

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,
like stars upon some gloomy grove,

or those faint beams in which this hill is drest
after the sun's remove.

I see them walking in an air of glory,

whose light doth trample on my days;

my days, which are at best but dull and hoary,
meer glimmering and decays.

He that hath found some fledg'd bird's nest may know
at first sight if the bird be flown:

but what fair dell or grove he sings in now,
that is to him unknown.

243 And yet, as Angels in some brighter dreams
call to the soul when man doth sleep,

SO some strange thoughts transcend

themes,

and into glory peep.

our wonted

« ÀÌÀü°è¼Ó »