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Oh hide this self from me, that I

No more, but Christ in me may live! My vile affections crucify,

Nor let one darling lust survive! In all things nothing may I see, Nothing desire or seek but thee! Oh Love, thy sovereign aid impart,

To save me from low-thoughted care; Chase this self-will through all my heart,

Through all its latent mazes there:
Make me thy duteous child, that I
Ceaseless may Abba, Father, cry.
Ah no; ne'er will I backward turn:

Thine wholly, thine alone I am:
Thrice happy he who views with scorn

Earth's toys, for thee his constant flame. Oh help that I may never move, From the bless'd footsteps of thy love!

Each moment draw from earth away

My heart, that lowly waits thy call; Speak to my inmost soul, and say,

“I am thy Love, thy God, thy All!" To feel thy power, to hear thy voice, To taste thy love, be all my choice.

THOMAS CHATTERTON. 1752-1770.

MYNSTRELLE'S SONGE.
Oh! synge untoe mie roundelaie,
Oh! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee,
Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie,
Lycke a rennynge ryver bee ;

Mie love ys dedde,
Gon to hys death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe-tree.
Blacke hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte,
Whyte hys rode as the sommer snowe,
Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte,
Cald he lyes ynne the grave belowe ;

Mie love, &c. Swote hys tongue as the throstle's note, Quycke ynn daunce as thought canne bee, Defe hys taboure, codgelle stote, Oh! hee lyes bie the wyllowe-tree :

Mie love, &c. Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge, In the briered delle belowe; Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe synge, To the nyghte-mares as heie goe;

Mie love, &c.
See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie ;
Whyterre ys mie true love's shroude;
Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie,
Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude ;

Mie love, &c.
Heere uponne mie true love's grave,
Schalle the baren fleurs be layde,
Nee on hallie seyncte to save,
Al the celness of a mayde.

Mie love, &c.
Vol. 1.-FF

Wythe my hondes I'll dente the brieres
Rounde hys hallie corse to gre,
Ouphante fairie, lyghte your fyres,
Heere mie bodie still schalle bee.

Mie love, &c.
Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne,
Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie ;
Lyfe and all ytts goode I scorne,
Daunce bie nete, or feaste bie daie.

Mie love, &c.
Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes,
Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde.
I die ; I comme ; mie true love waytes.
Thos the damselle spake, and dyed.

TOBIAS SMOLLETT. 1720-1771.

ODE TO INDEPENDENCE.

Thy spirit, Independence, let me share !
Lord of the lion-heart and eagle eye,
Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare,
Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky.
Deep in the frozen regions of the North,
A goddess violated brought thee forth,
Immortal Liberty, whose look sublime
Hath bleach'd the tyrant's cheek in every varying
What time the iron-hearted Gaul,

(clime.
With frantic Superstition for his guide,
Arm'd with the dagger and the pall,
The sons of Woden to the field defied :
The ruthless hag, by Weser's flood,
In Heaven's name arged th' infernal blow,
And red the stream began to flow :
The vanquish'd were baptized with blood.

The Saxon prince in horror fled
From altars stain'd with human gore ;
And Liberty his routed legions led
In safety to the bleak Norwegian shore.
There in a cave asleep she lay,
Lull'd by the hoarse-resounding main :
When a bold savage pass'd that way,
Impeli’d by Destiny, his name Disdain.
Of ample front the portly chief appeard;
The hunted bear supplied a shaggy vest ;
The drifted snow hung on his yellow beard,
And his broad shoulders braved the furious blast.
He stopp'd: he gazed: his bosom glow'd,
And deeply felt the impression of her charms :
He seized the advantage Fate allow'd,
And straight compress'd her in his vigʻrous arms.

The curlew scream'd, the Tritons blew
Their shells to celebrate the ravish'd rite;
Old Time exulted as he flew,
And Independence saw the light.
The light he saw in Albion's happy plains,
Where, under cover of a flowering thorn,
While Philomel renew'd her warbled strains,
The auspicious fruit of stolen embrace was born
The mountain Dryads, seized with joy,
The smiling infant to their charge consign'd;
The Doric Muse caress'd the favourite boy;
The hermit Wisdom stored his opening mind.
As rolling years matured his age,
He flourish'd bold and sinewy as his sire ;
While the mild passions in his breast assuage
The fiercer flames of his maternal sire.

Accomplish'd thus, he wing'd his way,
And zealous roved from pole to pole,
The rolls of right eternal to display,
And warm with patriot thoughts the aspiring soul.
On desert islets it was he that raised
Those spires that gild the Adriatic wave,
When Tyranny beheld amazed
Fair Freedom's temple, where he mark'd her grave.
He steel'd the blunt Batavian's arms
To burst the Iberian's double chain;
And cities rear'd, and planted farms,
Won from the skirts of Neptune's wide domain.
He, with the generous rustics, sate
On Uri's rocks in close divan ;*
And wing'd that arrow, sure as fate,
Which ascertain'd the sacred rights of man.

Arabia's scorching sands he cross’d,
Where blasted Nature pants supine,
Conductor of her tribes adust,
To Freedom's adamantine shrine ;
And many a Tartar horde forlorn, aghast !
He snatch'd from under fell Oppression's wing ;
And taught amid the dreary waste
The all-cheering hymns of Liberty to sing.
He virtue finds, like precious ore,
Diffused through every baser mould,
Even now he stands on Calvi's rocky shore,
And tu the dross of Corsica to gold.
He, guardian genius, taught my youth
Pomp's tinsel livery to despise :
My lips, by him chastised to truth,
Ne’er paid that homage which the heart denies.

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