Слике страница
PDF
ePub

Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride.

Nomen, high-minded men,
With powers as far above dull brutes endued

In forest, brake, or den,
As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude;

Men, who their duties know,
But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain,

Prevent the long-aimed blow,
And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain:

These constitute a State,
And sovereign Law, that State's collected will,

O'er thrones and globes elate,
Sits Empress, crowning good, repressing ill.

Smit by her sacred frown,
The fiend, Dissension, like a vapour sinks,

And e’en the all-dazzling crown
Hides her faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks.

Such was this heaven-loved isle,
Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore !

No more shall Freedom smile?
Shall Britons languish, and be men no more?

Since all must life resign,
Those sweet rewards, which decorate the brave,

'Tis folly to decline,
And steal inglorious to the silent grave.

345

ON PARENT KNEES A NAKED NEW-BORN CHILD
ON parent knees, a naked new-born child,
Weeping thou sat'st while all around thee smiled:
So live, that sinking to thy life's last sleep,
Calm thou may'st smile, whilst all around thee weep.

346

SUSANNA BLAMIRE

[1747-1794]
AND YE SHALL WALK IN SILK ATTIRE
AND

ye

shall walk in silk attire, And siller' hae to spare,

1 Money.

Gin ye'll consent to be his bride,

Nor think o' Donald mair.
Oh, wha wad buy a silken goun

Wi' a puir broken heart?
Or what's to me a siller croun,

Gin frae my love I part?
The mind wha's every wish is pure

Far dearer is to me;
And ere I'm forced to break my faith,

I'll lay me doun and dee:
For I ha'e pledged my virgin troth

Brave Donald's fate to share;
And he has gi’en to me his heart,

Wi' a' its virtues rare.

His gentle manners wan my heart,

He gratefu' took the gift;
Could I but think to tak’ it back,

It wad be waur than theft.
For langest life can ne'er repay

The love he bears to me;
And ere I'm forced to break my troth

I'll lay me doun and dee.

ANNE HUNTER

(1742-1821)

347

MY MOTHER BIDS ME BIND MY HAIR

My mother bids me bind my hair

With bands of rosy hue,
Tie up my sleeves with ribbons rare,

And lace my bodice blue.

For why,' she cries, 'sit still and weep,

While others dance and play?'.
Alas! I scarce can go or creep
While Lubin is away.

2 Worse.

'Tis sad to think the days are gone

When those we love were near;
I sit
upon

this
And sigh when none can hear.

mossy stone

And while I spin my flaxen thread,

And sing my simple lay,
The village seems asleep or dead,

Now Lubin is away.

JOHN DUNLOP

[1755-1820)
THE YEAR THAT'S AWA'

348

HERE's to the year that's awa'!

We will drink it in strong and in sma’;
And here's to ilk bonnie young lassie we lo'ed,
While swift flew the year that's awa'

And here's to ilk, etc.

Here's to the sodger who bled,

And the sailor who bravely did fa';
Their fame is alive though their spirits are fled
On the wings o' the year that's awa'.

Their fame is alive, etc.

Here's to the friends we can trust

When storms of adversity blaw;
May they live in our song and be nearest our hearts,
Nor depart like the year that's awa'.

May they live, etc.

[merged small][merged small][ocr errors]

Mine be a cot beside the hill;
A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook, that turns a mill,
With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch,
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivy'd porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
In russet gown

and
apron

blue.

The village-church among the trees,
Where first our marriage-vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze,
And point with taper spire to heaven.

350

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY

SLEEP on, and dream of Heaven awhile
Tho' shut so close thy laughing eyes,
Thy rosy lips still wear a smile
And move, and breathe delicious sighs!

Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks
And mantle o'er her neck of snow:
Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks
What most I wish-and fear to know !

She starts, she trembles, and she weeps!
Her fair hands folded on her breast:
-And now, how like a saint she sleeps!
A seraph in the realms of rest!

Sleep on secure! Above controul
Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee:
And may the secret of thy soul
Remain within its sanctuary !

WILLIAM BLAKE

(1757-1827]

351

THE TIGER

TIGER, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes ?
On what wings dare he aspire ?
What the hand dare seize the fire ?

And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And, when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? What the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?

« ПретходнаНастави »