Thou awe of nations, wherefore didst thou fall thus? What poor fate followed thee and plucked thee on To trust thy sacred life to an Egyptian? The life and light of Rome to a blind stranger That honorable war ne’er taught a nobleness, Nor worthy circumstance showed what a man was? That never heard thy name sung but in banquets And loose lascivious pleasures? To a boy That had no faith to comprehend thy greatness, No study of thy life to know thy goodness?… Egyptians, dare you think your high pyramides, Built to out-dure the sun, as you suppose, Where your unworthy kings lie raked in ashes, Are monuments fit for him? No, brood of Nilus, Nothing can cover his high fame but heaven; No pyramid set off his memories,
But the eternal substance of his greatness, To which I leave him.
JOHN MILTON.
FAME.
[From _Lycidas._]
Alas! what boots it with incessant care To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd’s trade, And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? Were it not better done, as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,
Or with the tangles of Neaera’s hair? Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of noble mind)
To scorn delights and live laborious days; But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears,[121] And slits the thin-spun life. “But not the praise,” Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears: “Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil
Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies, But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes And perfect witness of all-judging Jove; As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.”
THE PLEASURES OF MELANCHOLY.
[From _Il Penseroso._]
Sweet bird that shun’st the noise of folly, Most musical, most melancholy!
Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among I woo, to hear thy even-song;
And, missing thee, I walk unseen
On the dry smooth-shaven green,
To behold the wandering moon,
Riding near her highest noon,
Like one that had been led astray
Through the heaven’s wide pathless way, And oft, as if her head she bowed,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft, on a plat of rising ground,
I hear the far-off curfew sound,
Over some wide-watered shore,
Swinging slow with sullen roar;
Or, if the air will not permit,
Some still removed place will fit, Where glowing embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom, Far from all resort of mirth,
Save the cricket on the hearth,
Or the bellman’s drowsy charm[122] To bless the doors from nightly harm…. But let my due feet never fail
To walk the studious cloister’s pale, And love the high embowed roof.
With antique pillars massy-proof,
And storied windows richly dight,
Casting a dim religious light.
There let the pealing organ blow,
To the full-voiced quire below,
In service high and anthem clear,
As may with sweetness, through mine ear, Dissolve me into ecstasies,
And bring all Heaven before mine eyes. And may at last my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown and mossy cell,
Where I may sit and rightly spell
Of every star that heaven doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew,
Till old experience do attain
To something like prophetic strain. These pleasures, Melancholy, give;
And I with thee will choose to live.
[Footnote 121: Atropos, the fate who cuts the thread of life.] [Footnote 122: The watchman’s call.]
THE PROTECTION OF CONSCIENCE.
[From _Comus_.]
Scene: A wild wood; night.
_Lady_: My brothers, when they saw me wearied out With this long way, resolving here to lodge Under the spreading favor of these pines, Stepped, as they said, to the next thicket-side To bring me berries, or such cooling fruit As the kind hospitable woods provide.
They left me then when the grey-hooded Even, Like a sad votarist in palmer’s weed,
Rose from the hindmost wheels of Phoebus’ wain. But where they are, and why they came not back, Is now the labor of my thoughts. ‘Tis likeliest They had engaged their wandering steps too far; And envious darkness, ere they could return, Had stolen them from me. Else, O thievish Night, Why shouldst thou, but for some felonious end, In thy dark lantern thus close up the stars That Nature hung in heaven, and filled their lamps With everlasting oil, to give due light To the misled and lonely traveller?
This is the place, as well as I may guess, Whence even now the tumult of loud mirth Was rife, and perfect in my listening ear; Yet nought but single darkness do I find. What might this be? A thousand fantasies Begin to throng into my memory,
Of calling shapes and beckoning shadows dire, And airy tongues that syllable men’s names On sands and shores and desert wildernesses. These thoughts may startle well, but not astound The virtuous mind, that ever walks attended By a strong siding champion, Conscience. O, welcome, pure-eyed Faith, white-handed Hope, Thou hovering angel girt with golden wings, And thou unblemished form of Chastity!
I see ye visibly, and now believe
That He, the Supreme Good, to whom all things ill Are but as slavish officers of vengeance, Would send a glistening guardian, if need were, To keep my life and honor unassailed…. Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud
Turn forth her silver lining on the night? I did not err: there does a sable cloud Turn forth her silver lining on the night, And casts a gleam over this tufted grove.
INVOCATION TO LIGHT.
[From _Paradise Lost_.]
Thee I revisit safe,
And feel thy sovereign vital lamp; but thou Revisitest not these eyes, that roll in vain To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn; So thick a drop serene[123] hath quenched their orbs, Or dim suffusion veiled. Yet not the more Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill, Smit with the love of sacred song; but chief Thee, Sion, and the flowery brooks beneath, That wash thy hallowed feet, and warbling flow, Nightly I visit: nor sometimes forget
Those other two equalled with me in fate, I equalled with them in renown,
Blind Thamyris and blind Maeonides,[124] And Tiresias and Phineus, prophets old: Then feed on thoughts that voluntary move Harmonious numbers; as the wakeful bird Sings darkling, and in shadiest covert hid Tunes her nocturnal note. Thus with the year Seasons return, but not to me returns
Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer’s rose, Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine; But cloud instead, and ever-during dark, Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair Presented with a universal blank
Of nature’s works, to me expunged and rased, And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out. So much the rather thou, celestial Light, Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers Irradiate; there plant eyes, all mist from thence Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell Of things invisible to mortal sight.
[Footnote 123: The _gutta serena_, or cataract.] [Footnote 124: Homer.]
SATAN.
[From _Paradise Lost_.]
He scarce had ceased when the superior Fiend Was moving toward the shore: his ponderous shield, Etherial temper, massy, large and round, Behind him cast; the broad circumference Hung on his shoulders like the moon, whose orb Through optic glass the Tuscan artist[125] views At evening from the top of Fesole,[126] Or in Valdamo, to descry new lands,
Rivers or mountains on her spotty globe. His spear (to equal which the tallest pine Hewn on Norwegian hills, to be the mast Of some great ammiral, were but a wand) He walked with, to support uneasy steps Over the burning marle, not like those steps On heaven’s azure; and the torrid clime Smote on him sore beside, vaulted with fire. Nathless he so endured, till on the beach Of that inflamed sea he stood, and called His legions, angel-forms, who lay entranced Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks In Vallombrosa, where the Etrurian shades High over-arched embower, or scattered sedge Afloat, when with fierce winds Orion armed Hath vexed the Red Sea coast, whose waves o’erthrew Busiris and his Memphian chivalry,
While with perfidious hatred they pursued The sojourners of Goshen, who beheld
From the safe shore their floating carcasses And broken chariot-wheels: so thick bestrewn, Abject and lost lay these, covering the flood, Under amazement of their hideous change.
[Footnote 125: Galileo.]
[Footnote 126: A hill near Florence.]
ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT.[127]
Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold; Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones, Forget not: in thy book record their groans Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piedmontese, that rolled Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow O’er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway The triple Tyrant,[128] that from these may grow A hundred-fold, who, having learnt thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian woe.[129]
[Footnote 127: This sonnet refers to the persecution instituted in 1655 by the Duke of Savoy against the Vaudois Protestants.] [Footnote 128: The Pope, who wore the triple crown or tiara.] [Footnote 129: The Papacy, with which the Protestant reformers identified Babylon the Great, the “Scarlet Woman” of Revelation.]
SIR THOMAS BROWNE.
THE VANITY OF MONUMENTS.
[From _Urn Burial_]
There is no antidote against the opium of time, which temporally considereth all things. Our fathers find their graves in our short memories, and sadly tell us how we may be buried in our survivors. Grave-stones tell truth scarce forty years. Generations pass while some trees stand, and old families last not three oaks….The iniquity[130] of oblivion blindly scattereth her poppy, and deals with the memory of men without distinction to merit of perpetuity. Who can but pity the founder of the pyramids? Herostratus lives, that burnt the temple of Diana, he is almost lost that built it. Time hath spared the epitaph of Adrian’s horse, confounded that of himself. In vain we compute our felicities by the advantage of our good names, since bad have equal durations and Thersites[131] is like to live as long as Agamemnon. Who knows whether the best of men be known, or whether there be not more remarkable persons forgot than any that stand remembered in the known account of time? Without the favor of the everlasting register, the first man had been as unknown as the last, and Methusaleh’s long life had been his only chronicle.
Oblivion is not to be hired.[132] The greater part must be content to be as though they had not been, to be found in the register of God, not in the record of man. Twenty-seven names make up the first story, and the reported names ever since contain not one living century. The number of the dead long exceedeth all that shall live. The night of time far surpasseth the day, and who knows when was the equinox? Every hour adds unto that current arithmetic which scarce stands one moment. And since death must be the Lucina[133] of life, and even pagans could doubt whether thus to live were to die; since our longest sun sets at right descensions and makes but winter arches, and, therefore, it cannot be long before we lie down in darkness and have our light in ashes. Since the brother[134] of death daily haunts us with dying mementoes, and time that grows old in itself bids us hope no long duration; diuturnity is a dream and folly of expectation….
There is nothing strictly immortal but immortality. Whatever hath no beginning may be confident of no end. All others have a dependent being and within the reach of destruction, which is the peculiar of that necessary essence that cannot destroy itself, and the highest strain of omnipotency, to be so powerfully constituted as not to suffer even from the power of itself. But the sufficiency of Christian immortality frustrates all earthly glory, and the quality of either state after death makes a folly of posthumous memory. God, who can only[135] destroy our souls, and hath assured our resurrection, either of our bodies or names hath directly promised no duration. Wherein there is so much of chance that the boldest expectants have found unhappy frustrations, and to hold long subsistence seems but a scape[136] in oblivion. But man is a noble animal, splendid in ashes and pompous in the grave, solemnizing nativities and deaths with equal lustre, nor omitting ceremonies of bravery[137] in the infamy of his nature.
[Footnote 130: Injustice.]
[Footnote 131: See Shakspere’s _Troilus and Cressida_.] [Footnote 132: That is, bribed, bought off.] [Footnote 133: The goddess of childbirth. We must die to be born again.] [Footnote 134: Sleep.]
[Footnote 135: That is, the only one who can.] [Footnote 136: Freak.]
[Footnote 137: Ostentation.]
* * * * *
JOHN DRYDEN.
THE CHARACTER OF ZIMRI.[138]
[From _Absalom and Achitophel_.]
In the first rank of these did Zimri stand, A man so various that he seemed to be
Not one, but all mankind’s epitome: Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong, Was every thing by turns, and nothing long; But in the course of one revolving moon Was chymist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon; Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking, Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking, Blest madman, who could every hour employ With something new to wish or to enjoy! Railing and praising were his usual themes, And both, to show his judgment, in extremes: So over-violent or over-civil
That every man with him was God or Devil. In squandering wealth was his peculiar art; Nothing went unrewarded but desert.
Beggared by fools whom still he found[139] too late, He had his jest, and they had his estate. He laughed himself from court; then sought relief By forming parties, but could ne’er be chief: For spite of him, the weight of business fell To Absalom and wise Achitophel.[140]
Thus, wicked but in will, of means bereft, He left not faction, but of that was left.
[Footnote 138: This is a satirical
sketch of George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham.] [Footnote 139: Found out, detected.]
[Footnote 140: The Duke of Monmouth and the Earl of Shaftesbury.]
THE CHEATS OF HOPE.
[From _Aurengzebe_.]
When I consider life, ’tis all a cheat; Yet, fooled with hope, men favor the deceit, Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay; To-morrow’s falser than the former day. Lies worse, and while it says we shall be blest With some new joys, cuts off what we possessed. Strange cozenage! none would live past years again, Yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain, And from the dregs of life think to receive What the first sprightly running could not give. I’m tired of waiting for this chymic[141] gold Which fools us young and beggars us when old.
[Footnote 141: The gold which the
alchemists tried to make from base metals.]
* * * * *
JONATHAN SWIFT.
THE EMPEROR OF LILLIPUT.
[From _Gulliver’s Travels_.]
He is taller by almost the breadth of my nail than any of his court; which alone is enough to strike an awe into the beholders. His features are strong and masculine, with an Austrian lip and arched nose, his complexion olive, his countenance erect, his body and limbs well proportioned, all his motions graceful, and his deportment majestic. He was then past his prime, being twenty-eight years and three quarters old, of which he had reigned about seven in great felicity, and generally victorious. For the better convenience of beholding him, I lay on my side, so that my face was parallel to his, and he stood but three yards off; however, I have had him since many times in my hand, and therefore cannot be deceived in the description. His dress was very plain and simple, and the fashion of it between the Asiatic and the European; but he had on his head a light helmet of gold, adorned with jewels and a plume on the crest. He held his sword drawn in his hand to defend himself, if I should happen to break loose; it was almost three inches long: the hilt and scabbard were gold enriched with diamonds. His voice was shrill, but very clear and articulate, and I could distinctly hear it, when I stood up.
THE STRULDBRUGS.
[From _Gulliver’s Travels_.]
One day in much good company, I was asked by a person of quality whether I had seen any of their _Struldbrugs_, or immortals? I said I had not, and desired he would explain to me what he meant by such an appellation, applied to a mortal creature. He told me that sometimes, though very rarely, a child happened to be born in a family with a red circular spot in the forehead, directly over the left eyebrow, which was an infallible mark that it should never die….He said these births were so rare that he did not believe there could be above eleven hundred _Struldbrugs_ of both sexes in the whole kingdom; of which he computed about fifty in the metropolis, and among the rest, a young girl born about three years ago; that these productions were not peculiar to any family, but a mere effect of chance; and the children of the _Struldbrugs_ themselves were equally mortal with the rest of the people….After this preface, he gave me a particular account of the _Struldbrugs_ among them. He said they commonly acted like mortals till about thirty years old; after which, by degrees, they grew melancholy and dejected, increasing in both till they came to fourscore. This he learned from their own confession; for otherwise, there not being above two or three of that species born in an age, they were too few to form a general observation by. When they came to fourscore years, which is reckoned the extremity of living in this country, they had not only all the follies and infirmities of other old men, but many more, which arose from the dreadful prospect of never dying. They were not only opinionative, peevish, covetous, morose, vain, talkative, but incapable of friendship and dead to all natural affection, which never descended below their grandchildren. Envy and impotent desires are their prevailing passions. But those objects against which their envy seems principally directed are the vices of the younger sort and the deaths of the old. By reflecting on the former, they find themselves cut off from all possibility of pleasure; and whenever they see a funeral they lament and repine that others are gone to a harbor of rest, to which they themselves never can hope to arrive. They have no remembrance of any thing but what they learned and observed in their youth and middle age, and even that is very imperfect, And for the truth or particulars of any fact, it is safer to depend on common tradition than upon their best recollections. The least miserable among them appear to be those who turn to dotage and entirely lose their memories; these meet with more pity and assistance, because they want many bad qualities which abound in others….At ninety, they lose their teeth and hair; they have at that age no distinction of taste, but eat and drink whatever they can get, without relish or appetite. The diseases they were subject to still continue, without increasing or diminishing. In talking, they forget the common appellation of things, and the names of persons, even of those who are their nearest friends and relatives. For the same reason they never can amuse themselves with reading, because their memory will not serve to carry them from the beginning of a sentence to the end; and by this defect they are deprived of the only entertainment whereof they might otherwise be capable…. They are despised and hated by all sorts of people; when one of them is born, it is reckoned ominous, and their birth is recorded very particularly….They were the most mortifying sight I ever beheld; and the women were homelier than the men Beside the usual deformities in extreme old age, they acquired an additional ghastliness, in proportion to their number of years, which is not to be described; and among half a dozen I soon distinguished which was the eldest, although there was not above a century or two between them.
* * * * *
ALEXANDER POPE.
A CHARACTER OF ADDISON.
[From the _Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot_.]
Peace to all such! but were there one whose fires True genius kindles and fair fame inspires; Blest with each talent and each art to please, And born to write, converse, and live with ease: Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne; View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, And hate, for arts that caused himself to rise; Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, Just hint a fault and hesitate dislike; Alike reserved to blame or to commend,
A timorous foe and a suspicious friend; Dreading even fools, by flatterers besieged; And so obliging that he ne’er obliged;
Like _Cato_,[142] give his little Senate laws, And sit attentive to his own applause;
While wits and templars[143] every sentence raise, And wonder with a foolish face of praise– Who but must laugh if such a man there be? Who would not weep if Atticus were he?
AN ORNAMENT TO HER SEX.
[From the _Epistle of the Characters of Women_.]
See how the world its veterans rewards! A youth of frolic, an old age of cards; Fair to no purpose, artful to no end,
Young without lovers, old without a friend; A fop their passion, but their prize a sot; Alive, ridiculous, and dead, forgot.
Ah! Friend,[144] to dazzle let the vain design; To raise the thought and touch the heart be thine! That charm shall grow, while what fatigues the Ring[145] Flaunts and goes down, an unregarded thing. So when the sun’s broad beam has tired the sight, All mild ascends the moon’s more sober light, Serene in virgin majesty she shines,
And unobserved, the glaring orb declines. Oh! blest with temper, whose unclouded ray Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day;
She who can love a sister’s charms, or hear Sighs for a daughter with unwounded ear; She who ne’er answers till a husband cools, Or, if she rules him, never shows she rules; Charms by accepting, by submitting sways, Yet has her humour most when she obeys; Let fops or fortune fly which way they will, Disdains all loss of tickets or Codille;[146] Spleen, vapours, or small-pox, above them all, And mistress of herself though china fall…. Be this a woman’s fame; with this unblest, Toasts live a scorn, and queens may die a jest. This Phoebus promised (I forget the year) When those blue eyes first opened on the sphere; Ascendant Phoebus watched that hour with care, Averted half your parents’ simple prayer; And gave you beauty, but denied the pelf That buys your sex a tyrant o’er itself. The generous God who wit and gold refines, And ripens spirits as he ripens mines,
Kept dross for duchesses, the world shall know it, To you gave sense, good-humour, and a poet.
[Footnote 142: A reference to Addison’s tragedy of _Cato_.] [Footnote 143: Young lawyers resident in the temple. See Spenser’s _Prothalamion_.]
[Footnote 144: Martha Blount, a dear friend of the poet’s.] [Footnote 145: The fashionable promenade in Hyde Park.] [Footnote 146: The “pool” in the game of ombre.]
* * * * *
JOSEPH ADDISON.
SIGNOR NICOLINI AND THE LION.
[From the _Spectator_.]
There is nothing that of late years has afforded matter of greater amusement to the town than Signor Nicolini’s combat with a lion in the Haymarket, which has been very often exhibited to the general satisfaction of most of the nobility and gentry in the kingdom of Great Britain….But before I communicate my discoveries I must acquaint the reader that upon my walking behind the scenes last winter, as I was thinking on something else, I accidentally jostled against a monstrous animal that extremely startled me, and, upon my nearer survey of it, appeared to be a lion rampant. The lion, seeing me very much surprised, told me in a gentle voice that I might come by him if I pleased; “for,” says he, “I do not intend to hurt any body.” I thanked him very kindly and passed by him, and in a little time after saw him leap upon the stage and act his part with very great applause. It has been observed by several that the lion has changed his manner of acting twice or thrice since his first appearance, which will not seem strange when I acquaint the reader that the lion has been changed upon the audience three several times.
The first lion was a candle-snuffer, who, being a fellow of a testy, choleric temper, overdid his part, and would not suffer himself to be killed so easily as he ought to have done; besides, it was observed of him that he grew more surly every time he came out of the lion; and having dropt some words in ordinary conversation, as if he had not fought his best, and that he suffered himself to be thrown upon his back in the scuffle, and that he would wrestle with Mr. Nicolini for what he pleased, out of his lion’s skin, it was thought proper to discard him; and it is verily believed to this day that had he been brought upon the stage another time he would certainly have done mischief. Besides, it was objected against the first lion that he reared himself so high upon his hinder paws, and walked in so erect a position, that he looked more like an old man than a lion.
The second lion was a tailor by trade, who belonged to the playhouse, and had the character of a mild and peaceful man in his profession. If the former was too furious, this was too sheepish, for his part; inasmuch that, after a short, modest walk upon the stage, he would fall at the first touch of ‘Hydaspes'[147] without grappling with him and giving him an opportunity of showing his variety of Italian trips; it is said, indeed, that he once gave him a rip in his flesh-colored doublet; but this was only to make work for himself in his private character of a tailor. I must not omit that it was this second lion who treated me with so much humanity behind the scenes.
The acting lion at present is, as I am informed, a country gentleman who does it for his diversion, but desires his name may be concealed. He says very handsomely, in his own excuse, that he does not act for gain, that he indulges an innocent pleasure in it, and that it is better to pass away an evening in this manner than in gaming and drinking; but at the same time says, with a very agreeable raillery upon himself, that if his name should be known the ill-natured world might call him _the ass in the lion’s skin_. This gentleman’s temper is made out of such a happy mixture of the mild and the choleric that he outdoes both his predecessors, and has drawn together greater audiences than have been known in the memory of man.
I must not conclude my narrative without taking notice of a groundless report that has been raised to a gentleman’s disadvantage, of whom I must declare myself an admirer; namely, that Signor Nicolini and the lion have been seen sitting peaceably by one another and smoking a pipe together behind the scenes, by which their common enemies would insinuate that it is but a sham combat which they represent upon the stage; but upon inquiry I find that if any such correspondence has passed between them it was not till the combat was over, when the lion was to be looked upon as dead, according to the received rules of the drama. Besides, this is what is practiced every day in Westminster Hall, where nothing is more usual than to see a couple of lawyers, who have been tearing each other to pieces in the court, embracing one another as soon as they are out of it.
[Footnote 147: In the opera of _Hydaspes_, presented at the Haymarket in 1710, the hero, whose part was taken by Signor Nicolini, kills a lion in the amphitheater.]
SAMUEL JOHNSON.
DETACHED PASSAGES FROM BOSWELL’S LIFE.
We talked of the education of children, and I asked him what he thought was best to teach them first. _Johnson_: Sir, it is no matter what you teach them first, any more than what leg you shall put into your breeches first. Sir, while you are considering which of two things you should teach your child first, another boy has learnt them both.
Sir, a woman’s preaching is like a dog’s walking on his hind legs. It is not done well, but you are surprised to see it done at all.
A gentleman who had been very unhappy in marriage married immediately after his wife died. Johnson said it was a triumph of hope over experience.
He would not allow Scotland to derive any credit from Lord Mansfield, for he was educated in England. “Much,” said he, “may be made of a Scotchman if he be _caught_ young.” _Johnson_: An old tutor of a college said to one of his pupils, “Read over your compositions, and wherever you meet with a passage which you think is particularly fine strike it out.” A gentleman who introduced his brother to Dr. Johnson was earnest to recommend him to the doctor’s notice, which he did by saying: “When we have sat together some time you’ll find my brother grow very entertaining.”
“Sir,” said Johnson, “I can wait.”
“Greek, sir,” said he, “is like lace; every man gets as much of it as he can.”
Lord Lucan tells a very good story, that when the sale of Thrale’s brewery was going forward, Johnson appeared bustling about with an inkhorn and pen in his button-hole, like an exciseman, and on being asked what he really considered to be the value of the property which was to be disposed of, answered, “We are not here to sell a parcel of boilers and vats, but the potentiality of growing rich beyond the dreams of avarice.”
_Johnson_: My dear friend, clear your _mind_ of cant. You may _talk_ as other people do; you may say to a man, “Sir, I am your most humble servant.” You are _not_ his most humble servant. You may say, “These are bad times; it is a melancholy thing to be reserved to such times.” You don’t mind the times. You tell a man, “I am sorry you had such bad weather the last day of your journey and were so much wet.” You don’t care sixpence whether he is wet or dry. You may _talk_ in this manner; it is a mode of talking in society, but don’t _think_ foolishly.
A lively saying of Dr. Johnson to Miss Hannah More, who had expressed a wonder that the poet who had written _Paradise Lost_ should write such poor sonnets: “Milton, madam, was a genius that could cut a colossus from a rock, but could not carve heads upon cherry-stones.”
A gentleman having said that a _conge d’elire_ has not, perhaps, the force of a command, but may be considered only as a strong recommendation. “Sir,” replied Johnson, “it is such a recommendation as if I should throw you out of a two pair of stairs window, and recommend you to fall soft.”
Happening one day to mention Mr. Flaxman, the doctor replied, “Let me hear no more of him, sir; that is the fellow who made the index to my _Ramblers_, and set down the name of Milton thus: ‘Milton, _Mr_, John.'”
Goldsmith said that he thought he could write a good fable, mentioned the simplicity which that kind of composition requires, and observed that, in most fables, the animals introduced seldom talk in character. “For instance,” said he, “the fable of the little fishes, who saw birds fly over their heads, and, envying them, petitioned Jupiter to be changed into birds. The skill,” continued he, “consists in making them talk like little fishes.” While he indulged himself in this fanciful reverie, he observed Johnson shaking his sides and laughing. Upon which he smartly proceeded, “Why, Dr. Johnson, this is not so easy as you seem to think; for if you were to make little fishes talk, they would talk like WHALES.”
He expressed a particular enthusiasm with respect to visiting the wall of China. I caught it for the moment, and said I really believed I should go and see the wall of China, had I not children of whom it was my duty to take care. “Sir,” said he, “by doing so, you would do what would be of importance in raising your children to eminence. There would be a luster reflected upon them from your spirit and curiosity. They would be at all times regarded as the children of a man who had gone to view the wall of China–I am serious, sir.”
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
THE VILLAGE PASTOR AND SCHOOL-MASTER.
[From _The Deserted Village_.]
Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden flower grows wild; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher’s modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e’er had changed, nor wished to change, his place. Unskillful he to fawn or seek for power By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour: Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train– He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain; The long-remembered beggar was his guest, Whose beard, descending, swept his aged breast. The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sat by his fire and talked the night away; Wept o’er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, Shouldered his crutch and showed how fields were won. Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity gave e’er charity began.
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And e’en his failings leaned to virtue’s side…. At church, with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorned the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, And fools who came to scoff remained to pray. The service past, around the pious man, With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran; E’en children followed with endearing wile And plucked his gown to share the good man’s smile. His ready smile a parent’s warmth expressed, Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed; To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head.
Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossomed furze unprofitable gay,
There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule, The village master taught his little school. A man severe he was, and stern to view; I knew him well, and every truant knew. Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace The day’s disasters in his morning face; Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee At all his jokes (for many a joke had he); Full well the busy whisper, circling round, Conveyed the dismal, tidings when he frowned Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, The love he bore for learning was his fault. The village all declared how much he knew– ‘Twas certain he could write and cipher too; Lands he could measure, times and tides presage, And e’en the story ran that he could gauge. In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill, For, e’en though vanquished, he could argue still, While words of learned length and thundering sound Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around; And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew That one small head could carry all he knew.
* * * * *
EDMUND BURKE.
THE DECAY OF LOYALTY.
[From _Reflections on the Revolution in France_.]
It is sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the queen of France,[148] then the dauphiness, at Versailles; and surely never lighted on this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. I saw her just above the horizon, decorating and cheering the elevated sphere she just began to move in; glittering like the morning star, full of life and splendor and joy. O, what a revolution! and what a heart must I have to contemplate without emotion that elevation and that fall. Little did I dream, when she added titles of veneration to those of enthusiastic, distant, respectful love, that she should ever be obliged to carry the sharp antidote against disgrace concealed in that bosom; little did I dream that I should have lived to see such disasters fallen upon her in a nation of gallant men, in a nation of men of honor and of cavaliers. I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from the scabbards to avenge even a look that threatened her with insult. But the age of chivalry is gone. That of sophisters, economists, and calculators has succeeded; and the glory of Europe is extinguished forever. Never, never more shall we behold that generous loyalty to rank and sex, that proud submission, that dignified obedience, that subordination of the heart which kept alive, even in servitude itself, the spirit of an exalted freedom. The unbought grace of life, the cheap defense of nations, the nurse of manly sentiment and heroic enterprise is gone! It is gone, that sensibility of principle, that chastity of honor, which felt a stain like a wound, which inspired courage, whilst it mitigated ferocity, which ennobled whatever it touched, and under which vice itself lost half its evil by losing all its grossness….On the scheme of this barbarous philosophy, which is the offspring of cold hearts and muddy understandings, and which is as void of solid wisdom as it is destitute of all taste and elegance, laws are to be supported only by their own terms, and by the concern which each individual may find in them from his own private speculations, or can spare to them from his own private interests. In the groves of their academy, at the end of every vista, you see nothing but the gallows. Nothing is left which engages the affections on the part of the commonwealth. On the principles of this mechanic philosophy, our institutions can never be embodied, if I may use the expresssion, in persons; so as to create in us love, veneration, admiration, or attachment. But that sort of reason which banishes the affections is incapable of filling their place. These public affections, combined with manners, are required sometimes as supplements, sometimes as corrections, always as aids, to law. The precept given by a wise man, as well as a great critic, for the construction of poems, is equally true as to states. _Non satis est pulchra esse poemata, dulcia sunto_. There ought to be a system of manners in every nation which a well-formed mind would be disposed to relish. To make us love our country, our country ought to be lovely.
[Footnote 148: Marie Antoinette.]
* * * * *
THOMAS GRAY.
ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE.
Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, That crown the watery glade,
Where grateful Science still adores Her Henry’s[149] holy shade;
And ye, that from the stately brow Of Windsor’s heights th’ expanse below Of grove, of lawn, of mead, survey,
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among Wanders the hoary Thames along
His silver-winding way:
Ah happy hills, ah pleasing shade,
Ah fields beloved in vain,
Where once my careless childhood strayed, A stranger yet to pain!
I feel the gales that from ye blow, A momentary bliss bestow,
As waving fresh their gladsome wing My weary soul they seem to soothe,
And, redolent of joy and youth,
To breathe a second spring.
Say, father Thames, for thou hast seen Full many a sprightly race,
Disporting on thy margent green,
The paths of pleasure trace,
Who, foremost now delight to cleave With pliant arm thy glassy wave?
The captive linnet which enthral? What idle progeny succeed
To chase the rolling circle’s speed, Or urge the flying ball?
While some, on earnest business bent, Their morning labors ply
‘Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint To sweeten liberty:
Some bold adventurers disdain
The limits of their little reign,
And unknown regions dare discry:
Still as they run they look behind, They hear a voice in every wind,
And snatch a fearful joy.
Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,
Less pleasing when possest;
The tear forgot as soon as shed,
The sunshine of the breast:
Theirs buxom health of rosy hue,
Wild wit, invention ever new,
And lively cheer of vigour born;
The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light,
That fly th’ approach of morn.
Alas! regardless of their doom
The little victims play.
No sense have they of ill to come, Nor care beyond to-day:
Yet see how all around them wait
The ministers of human fate,
And black Misfortune’s baleful train! Ah, show them where in ambush stand,
To seize their prey the murth’rous 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 skulks behind;
Or pining Love shall waste their youth, Or Jealousy with rankling tooth,
That only 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’ altered eye,
That mocks the tear it forced to flow; And keen Remorse with blood defiled,
And moody Madness laughing wild
Amid severest woe.
Lo in the vale of years beneath
A grisly troop are seen,
The painful family of Death,
More hideous than their queen:
This racks the joints, this fires the veins, That every laboring sinew strains,
Those in the deeper vitals rage:
Lo, Poverty, to fill the band,
That numbs the soul with icy hand, And slow consuming Age.
To each his sufferings: all are men, Condemned alike to groan,
The tender for another’s pain,
The unfeeling for his own.
Yet ah! why should they know their fate? Since sorrow never comes too late,
And happiness too swiftly flies,
Thought would destroy their paradise. No more; where ignorance is bliss,
‘Tis folly to be wise.
[Footnote 149: Henry VI., founder of Eton College.]
* * * * *
WILLIAM COWPER.
FROM LINES ON THE RECEIPT OF HIS MOTHER’S PICTURE.
O, that those lips had language! Life has passed With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine–thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, “Grieve not, my child; chase all thy fears away!” My mother! When I learnt that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hovered thy spirit o’er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life’s journey just begun? I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day; I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away; And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. What ardently I wished I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived; By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of _to-morrow_ even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learnt at last submission to my lot;
But, though I less deplored thee, ne’er forgot.
WINTER EVENING.
[From _The Task_.]
Now stir the fire and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, And while the bubbling and loud hissing urn Throws up a steaming column, and the cups That cheer but not inebriate wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful evening in…. O winter! ruler of the inverted year,
Thy scattered hair with sleet-like ashes filled, Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheek Fringed with a beard made white with other snows Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in clouds, A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne A sliding car, indebted to no wheels,
But urged by storms along its slippery way; I love thee, all unlovely as thou seemest, And dreaded as thou art. Thou holdest the sun A prisoner in the yet undawning east,
Shortening his journey between morn and noon, And hurrying him, impatient of his stay, Down to the rosy west; but kindly still Compensating his loss with added hours
Of social converse and instructive ease, And gathering, at short notice, in one group The family dispersed, and fixing thought, Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares. I crown thee king of intimate delights, Fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness, And all the comforts that the lowly roof Of undisturbed retirement, and the hours Of long uninterrupted evening know.
* * * * *
MAN’S INHUMANITY TO MAN.
[From _The Task_.]
O for a lodge in some vast wilderness, Some boundless contiguity of shade,
Where rumor of oppression and deceit, Of unsuccessful or successful war
Might never reach me more! My ear is pained, My soul is sick with every day’s report Of wrong or outrage with which earth is filled. There is no flesh in man’s obdurate heart, It does not feel for man; the natural bond Of brotherhood is severed as the flax
That falls asunder at the touch of fire.
* * * * *
ROBERT BURNS.
TAM O’SHANTER.
When chapman billies[150] leave the street, And drouthy[151] neebors neebors meet,
As market-days are wearing late
An’ folk begin to tak the gate;[152] While we sit bousing at the nappy,[153] An’ getting fou[154] and unco[155] happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses,[156] waters, slaps,[157] and styles, That lie between us and our hame,
Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.
This truth fand honest Tam O’Shanter, As he frae Ayr ae[158] night did canter, (Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a town surpasses, For honest men and bonnie lasses.)
O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise As ta’en thy ain wife Kate’s advice!
She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum,[159] A blethering,[160] blustering, drunken blellum;[161] That frae November till October,
Ae market-day thou wasna sober;
That ilka melder,[162] wi’ the miller, Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That every naig was ca’d[163] a shoe on, The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;
That at the Lord’s house, even on Sunday, Thou drank wi’ Kirten Jean till Monday. She prophesy’d that, late or soon,
Thou would be found deep drowned in Doon, Or catch’d wi’ warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway’s auld haunted kirk.
Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,[164] To think how monie counsels sweet,
How monie lengthened, sage advices The husband frae the wife despises! . . Nae man can tether time or tide;
The hour approaches Tam maun[165] ride; That hour, o’ night’s black arch the key-stane, That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; And sic[166] a night he taks the road in, As ne’er poor sinner was abroad in.
The wind blew as ‘twad blawn its last; The rattling showers rose on the blast; The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed; Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellowed: That night, a child might understand,
The Deil had business on his hand.
(Mounted on his gray mare Maggie, Tarn pursues his homeward way in safety till, reaching Kirk-Alloway, he sees the windows in a blaze, and, looking in, beholds a dance of witches, with Old Nick playing the fiddle. Most of the witches are any thing but inviting, but there is one winsome wench, called Nannie, who dances in a “cutty-sark,” or short smock.)
But here my muse her wing maun cower; Sic flights are far beyond her power;
To sing how Nannie lap and flang[167] (A souple jade she was, and strang),
And how Tam stood like are bewitched, And thought his very e’en enriched.
Even Satan glowered and fidged fu’ fain,[168] And hotch’d[169] and blew wi’ might and main; Till first ae caper, syne[170] anither, Tam tint[171] his reason a’ thegither,
And roars out, “Weel done, Cutty-sark!” And in an instant all was dark:
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied.
As bees bizz out wi’ angry fyke,[172] When plundering herds assail their byke;[173] As open pussie’s mortal foes,
When, pop! she starts before their nose; As eager runs the market-crowd
When “Catch the thief!” resounds aloud. So Maggie runs, the witches follow
Wi’ monie an eldritch skreech and hollow, Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou’ll get thy fairin’![174] In hell they’ll roast thee like a herrin’! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin’:
Kate soon will be a woefu’ woman.
Now do thy speedy utmost Meg,
And win the key-stane of the brig;[175] There at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they dare na cross, But ere the key-stane she could make,
The fient[176] a tale she had to shake, For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie pressed,
And flew at Tam wi’ furious ettle;[177] But little wist she Maggie’s mettle–
Ae spring brought aff her master hale,[178] But left behind her ain gray tail;
The carlin[179] claught[180] her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.
[Footnote 150: Peddler fellows.]
[Footnote 151: Thirsty.]
[Footnote 152: Road home.]
[Footnote 153: Ale.]
[Footnote 154: Full.]
[Footnote 155: Uncommonly.]
[Footnote 156: Swamps.]
[Footnote 157: Gaps in a hedge.]
[Footnote 158: One.]
[Footnote 159: Good-for-nothing.]
[Footnote 160: Babbling.]
[Footnote 161: Gossip.]
[Footnote 162: Every time corn was sent to the mill.] [Footnote 163: Driven.]
[Footnote 164: Makes me weep.]
[Footnote 165: Must.]
[Footnote 166: Such.]
[Footnote 167: Leaped and flung.]
[Footnote 168: Stared and fidgeted with eagerness.] [Footnote 169: Hitched about.]
[Footnote 170: Then.]
[Footnote 171: Lost.]
[Footnote 172: Fuss.]
[Footnote 173: Hive.]
[Footnote 174: Deserts.]
[Footnote 175: Bridge.]
[Footnote 176: Devil.]
[Footnote 177: Aim.]
[Footnote 178: Whole.]
[Footnote 179: Hag.]
[Footnote 180: Caught.]
JOHN ANDERSON.
John Anderson, my jo,[181] John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;[182]
But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snow;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
And monie a canty[183] day, John,
We’ve had wi’ are anither:
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we’ll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo.
[Footnote 181: Sweetheart.]
[Footnote 182: Smooth]
[Footnote 183: Merry.]
* * * * *
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
SONNET.
The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers– For this, for every thing, we are out of tune; It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be A Pagan, suckled in a creed outworn,
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea, Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
THE PRE-EXISTENCE OF THE SOUL.
[From Ode on the Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood.]
Our birth is but a sleep, and a forgetting: The soul that rises with us, our life’s star, Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar;
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home.
Heaven lies about us in our infancy: Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing boy;
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, He sees it in his joy.
The youth, who daily farther from the east Must travel, still is Nature’s priest, And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended;
At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day….
O joy! that in our embers
Is something that doth live,
That nature yet remembers
What was so fugitive!
The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benedictions: not, indeed,
For that which is most worthy to be blest; Delight and liberty, the simple creed
Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast– Not for these I raise
The song of thanks and praise;
But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things,
Fallings from us, vanishings;
Blank misgivings of a creature
Moving about in worlds not realized, High instincts, before which our mortal nature Did tremble, like a guilty thing surprised: But for those first affections,
Those shadowy recollections,
Which, be they what they may,
Are yet the fountain light of all our day, Are yet a master light of all our seeing; Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal silence: truths that wake To perish never;
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, Nor man nor boy,
Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy.
Hence, in a season of calm weather, Though inland far we be,
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither;
Can in a moment travel thither,
And see the children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.
LUCY.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A maid whom there were none to praise, And very few to love.
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye:
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!
THE SOLITARY REAPER.
Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No nightingale did ever chant
More welcome notes to weary bands Of travelers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands.
A voice so thrilling ne’er was heard In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again?
Whate’er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending, I saw her singing at her work,
And o’er the sickle bending;
I listened, motionless and still,
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
SKATING AT NIGHT.
[From the _Prelude_.]
So through the darkness and the cold we flew, And not a voice was idle; with the din
Smitten, the precipices rang aloud; The leafless trees and every icy crag
Tinkled like iron; while far distant hills Into the tumult sent an alien sound
Of melancholy not unnoticed, while the stars Eastward were sparking clear, and in the west The orange sky of evening died away.
Not seldom from the uproar I retired Into a silent bay, or sportively
Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng, To cut across the reflex of a star
That fled, and, flying still before me, gleamed Upon the glassy plain; and oftentimes,
When we had given our bodies to the wind, And all the shadowy banks on either side Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still The rapid line of motion, then at once
Have I, reclining back upon my heels, Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs Wheeled by me–even as if the earth had rolled With visible motion her diurnal round!
Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched Till all was tranquil as a dreamless sleep.
* * * * *
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
THE SONG OF THE SPIRITS.
[From _The Ancient Mariner_.]
Sometimes, a-dropping from the sky,
I heard the skylark sing;
Sometimes all little birds that are, How they seemed to fill the sea and air With their sweet jargoning!
And now ’twas like all instruments,
And now like a lonely flute;
And now it is an angel’s song
That makes the heavens be mute.
It ceased; yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon,
A noise like of a hidden brook
In the leafy month of June,
That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune.
THE LOVE OF ALL CREATURES.
[From the same.]
O wedding guest, this soul hath been Alone on a wide, wide sea:
So lonely ’twas that God himself
Scarce seemed there to be.
O sweeter than the marriage feast,
‘Tis sweeter far to me,
To walk together to the kirk
With a goodly company.
To walk together to the kirk,
And all together pray,
While each to his great Father bends, Old men and babes and loving friends,
And youths and maidens gay.
Farewell, farewell! but this I tell
To thee, thou wedding guest;
He prayeth well who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast.
He prayeth best who loveth best
All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.
ESTRANGEMENT OF FRIENDS.
[From _Christabel_.]
Alas! they had been friends in youth But whispering tongues can poison truth, And constancy lives in realms above,
And life is thorny and youth is vain, And to be wroth with one we love
Doth work like madness in the brain. And thus it fared, as I divine,
With Roland and Sir Leoline.
Each spake words of high disdain
And insult to his heart’s best brother; But never either found another
To free the hollow heart from paining. They stood aloof, the scars remaining, Like cliffs that had been rent asunder: A dreary sea now flows between,
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder Can wholly do away, I ween,
The marks of that which once has been.
WALTER SCOTT.
NATIVE LAND.
[From _The Lay of the Last Minstrel_.]
Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said.
This is my own, my native land?
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned,
From wandering on a foreign strand? If such there breathe, go mark him well; For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.
O Caledonia! stern and wild,
Meet nurse for a poetic child!
Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, Land of the mountain and the flood,
Land of my sires! what mortal hand Can e’er untie the filial band
That knits me to thy rugged strand? Still, as I view each well-known scene, Think what is now, and what hath been,
Seems as, to me, of all bereft
Sole friends thy woods and streams are left: And thus I love them better still
Even in extremity of ill.
By Yarrow’s stream still let me stray, Though none should guide my feeble way
Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, Although it chill my withered cheek;
Still lay my head by Teviot’s stone, Though there, forgotten and alone,
The bard may draw his parting groan.
SUNSET ON THE BORDER.
[From _Marmion_.]
Day set on Norham’s castled steep
And Tweed’s fair river, broad and deep, And Cheviot’s mountains lone:
The battled towers, the donjon keep, The loop-hole grates where captives
The flanking walls that round it sweep, In yellow luster shone.
The warriors on the turrets high,
Moving athwart the evening sky
Seemed forms of giant height:
Their armor; as it caught the rays, Flashed back again the western blaze,
In lines of dazzling light.
St. George’s banner, broad and gay,
Now faded, as the fading ray
Less bright, and less was flung;
The evening gale had scarce the power To wave it on the donjon tower,
So heavily it hung.
The scouts had parted on their search, The castle gates were barred;
Above the gloomy portal arch,
Timing his footsteps to a march,
The warden kept his guard;
Low humming, as he passed along,
Some ancient border-gathering song.
PROUD MAISIE.
Proud Maisie is in the wood
Walking so early;
Sweet Robin sits on the bush
Singing so rarely.
“Tell me, thou bonny bird,
When shall I marry me?”
–“When six braw[184] gentlemen
Kirkward shall carry ye.”
“Who makes the bridal bed,
Birdie, say truly?”
“The gray-headed sexton
That delves the grave duly.
“The glow-worm o’er grave and stone
Shall light thee steady;
The owl from the steeple sing
Welcome, proud lady.”
[Footnote 184: Brave, fine.]
PIBROCH OF DONUIL DHU.
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, Pibroch of Donuil, Wake thy wild voice anew, summon Clan-Conuil. Come away, come away, hark to the summons! Come in your war array, gentles and commons.
Come from deep glen and from mountain so rocky, The war-pipe and pennon are at Inverlochy. Come every hill-plaid and true heart that wears one, Come every steel blade and strong hand that bears one.
Leave untended the herd, the flock without shelter; Leave the corpse uninterred, the bride at the altar; Leave the deer, leave the steer, leave nets and barges: Come with your fighting gear, broadswords and targes.
Come as the winds come when forests are rended; Come as the waves come when navies are stranded; Faster come, faster come; faster and faster, Chief, vassal, page and groom, tenant and master.
Fast they come, fast they come; see how they gather! Wide waves the eagle plume blended with heather. Cast your plaids, draw your blades, forward each man set! Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, knell for the onset!
* * * * *
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR.
I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low
And the stars are shining bright.
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Has led me–who knows how?–
To thy chamber-window, sweet.
The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream;
The champak odours fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale’s complaint,
It dies upon her heart,
As I must die on thine,
O beloved as thou art!
O lift me from the grass!
I die, I faint, I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heartbeats loud and fast:
O! press it close to thine again,
Where it will break at last.
VENICE.
[From _Lines Written in the Euganean Hills_.]
Sun-girt city, thou hast been
Ocean’s child, and then his queen; Now is come a darker day
And thou soon must be his prey,
If the power that raised thee here Hallow so thy watery bier.
A less drear ruin then than now,
With thy conquest-branded brow
Stooping to the slave of slaves
From thy throne among the waves,
Wilt thou be, when the sea-mew
Flies, as once before it flew,
O’er thine isles depopulate,
And all is in its ancient state;
Save where many a palace gate
With green sea-flowers overgrown,
Like a rock of ocean’s own
Topples o’er the abandoned sea
As the tides change sullenly.
The fisher on his watery way
Wandering at the close of day,
Will spread his sail and seize his oar Till he pass the gloomy shore,
Lest thy dead should, from their sleep Bursting o’er the starlight deep,
Lead a rapid masque of death
O’er the waters of his path.
A LAMENT.
O world! O life! O time!
On whose last steps I climb,
Trembling at that where I had stood before, When will return the glory of your prime? No more–O, never more!
Out of the day and night
A joy has taken flight;
Fresh spring and summer and winter hoar Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight No more–O, never more!
THE POET’S DREAM.
[From _Prometheus Unbound_.]
On a poet’s lips I slept
Dreaming like a love-adept
In the sound his breathing kept.
Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses, But feeds on the aerial kisses
Of shapes that haunt thought’s wildernesses. He will watch from dawn to gloom
The lake-reflected sun illume
The yellow bees in the ivy bloom,
Nor heed nor see what things they be; But from these create he can
Forms more real than living man,
Nurslings of immortality.
GEORGE GORDON BYRON.
ELEGY ON THYRZA.
And thou art dead, as young and fair As aught of mortal birth:
And form so soft and charms so rare, Too soon returned to earth:
Though earth received them in her bed, And o’er the spot the crowd may tread
In carelessness or mirth,
There is an eye which could not brook A moment on that grave to look.
I will not ask where thou liest low
Nor gaze upon the spot;
There flowers or weeds at will may grow, So I behold them not:
It is enough for me to prove
That what I loved and long must love Like common earth can rot;
To me there needs no stone to tell ‘Tis nothing that I loved so well.
Yet did I love thee to the last
As fervently as thou,
Who didst not change through all the past And canst not alter now.
The love where death has set his seal Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,
Nor falsehood disavow:
And, what were worse, thou canst not see Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.
The better days of life were ours;
The worst can be but mine:
The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers, Shall never more be thine.
The silence of that dreamless sleep I envy now too much to weep,
Nor need I to repine
That all those charms have passed away, I might have watched through long decay.
The flower in ripened bloom unmatched Must fall the earliest prey;
Though by no hand untimely snatched, The leaves must drop away:
And yet it were a greater grief
To watch it withering leaf by leaf, Than see it plucked to-day;
Since earthly eye but ill can bear To trace the change to foul from fair.
I know not if I could have borne
To see thy beauties fade;
The night that followed such a morn Had worn a deeper shade:
Thy day without a cloud hath past, And thou wert lovely to the last,
Extinguished, not decayed;
As stars that shoot along the sky
Shine brightest as they fall from high.
As once I wept, if I could weep,
My tears might well be shed,
To think I was not near to keep
One vigil o’er thy bed;
To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
To fold thee in a faint embrace,
Uphold thy drooping head;
And show that love, however vain,
Nor thou nor I can feel again.
Yet how much less it were to gain,
Though thou hast left me free,
The loveliest things that still remain, Than thus remember thee!
The all of thine that cannot die
Through dark and dread Eternity,
Returns again to me,
And more thy buried love endears
Than aught, except its living years.
THE BALL AT BRUSSELS ON THE NIGHT BEFORE WATERLOO.
[From _Childe Harold_.]
There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium’s capital had gathered there Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men: A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage-bell;
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!
Did ye not hear it? No; ’twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o’er the stony street. On with the dance! let joy be unconfined! No sleep till morn when youth and pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet– But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! arm! it is–it is–the cannon’s opening roar!…
Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne’er might be repeated: who could guess If evermore should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise?
And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips, “The foe! They come! they come!”
And wild and high the “Cameron’s gathering” rose, The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn’s hills Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes: How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years; And Evan’s, Donald’s fame rings in each clansman’s ears.
And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with nature’s tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e’er grieves, Over the unreturning brave–alas!
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow, In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valor rolling on the foe,
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.
JOHN KEATS.
ODE ON A GRECIAN URN.
Thou still unravished bride of quietness! Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme; What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loath? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet; but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal–yet do not grieve: She cannot fade though thou hast not thy bliss, Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; And happy melodist, unwearied
Forever piping songs forever new; More happy love! more happy, happy love! Forever warm and still to be enjoyed,
Forever panting and forever young; All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high sorrowful and cloyed, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? What little town by river or sea-shore, Or mountain built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of its folk this pious morn? Ah! little town, thy streets forever more Will silent be; and not a soul to tell Why thou art desolate can e’er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st, “Beauty is truth, truth beauty”–that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
MADELINE.