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The furious German comes, with his trumpets

and his drums, His bravoes of Alsatia and pages of White

Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches and

your oaths ? Your stage-plays and your sonnets ? your

diamonds and your spades ?


They are bursting on our flanks! Grasp your

pikes ! Close your ranks ! For Rupert never comes, but to conquer, or to


They are here—they rush on-we are broken

-we are goneOur left is borne before them like stubble on

the blast. O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend

the right! Stand back to back, in God's name! and fight

it to the last!

Down! down! for ever down, with the mitre

and the crown! With the Belial of the Court, and the Mam

mon of the Pope! There is woe in Oxford halls, there is wail in

Durham stalls ; The Jesuit smites his bosom, the Bishop rends

his cope. And she of the Seven Hills shall mourn her

children's ills, And tremble when she thinks on the edge of

England's sword; And the Kings of earth in fear shall tremble

when they hear What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and the Word !

Macaulay.--Born 1800, Died 1859.

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1568.-SERMON IN A CHURCHYARD) LET pious Damon take his seat,

With mincing step, and languid smile, And scatter from his 'kerchief sweet,

Sabæan odours o'er the aisle ; And spread his little jewelled hand,

And smile round all the parish beauties, And pat his curls and smooth his band,

Meet prelude to his saintly duties. Let the thronged audience press and stare,

Let stifled maidens ply the fan, Admire his doctrines and his hair,

And whisper “What a good young man!" While he explains what seems most clear,

So clearly that it seems perplexed, I'll stay and read my sermon here ;

And skulls, and bones, shall be the text. Art thou the jilted dupe of fame ?

Dost thou with jealous anger pine Whene'er she sounds some other name,

With fonder emphasis than thine ? To thee I preach ; draw near; attend !

Look on these bones, thou fool, and see Where all her scorns and favours end,

What Byron is, and thou must be. Dost thou revere, or praise, or trust

Some clod like those that here we'spurn; Something that sprang like thee from dust,

And shall like thee to dust return ? Dost thou rate statesmen, heroes, wits,

At one sear leaf, or wandering feather ? Behold the black, damp, narrow pits,

Where they and thou must lie together. Dost thou beneath the smile or frown

Of some vain woman bend thy knee?

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Each mood of mind, each turn of fate,
Must end in dust and silence here.

Macaulay.--Born 1800, Died 1859.

1569.-SONNET. What was't awaken'd first the untried ear Of that sole man who was all humankind ? Was it the gladsome welcome of the wind, Stirring the leaves that never yet were sere ? The four mellifluous streams which flow'd so

near, Their lulling murmurs all in one combined ? The note of bird unnamed ? The startlad

hind Bursting the brake-in wonder, not in fear, Of her new lord? Or did the holy ground Send forth mysterious melody to greet The gracious presence of immaculate feet? Did viewless seraphs rustle all around, Making sweet music out of air as sweet ? Or his own voice awake him with its sound ?

Hartley Coleridge.--Born 1796, Died 1849.

Here take thy stand, and trample down

Things that were once as fair as she.
Here rave of her ten thousand graces,

Bosom, and lip, and eye, and chin,
While, as in scorn, the fleshless faces

Of Hamiltons and Waldegrares grin.
Whate'er thy losses or thy gains,

Whate'er thy projects or thy fears,
Whate'er the joys, whate'er the pains,

That prompt thy baby smiles and tears ;
Come to my school, and thou shalt learn,

In one short hour of placid thought,
A stoicism, more deep, more stern,

Than ever Zeno's porch hath taught.
The plots and feats of those that press

To seize on titles, wealth, or power, Shall seem to thee a game of chess,

Devised to pass a tedious hour. What matters it to him who fights

For shows of unsabstantial good, Whether his Kings, and Queens, and Knights,

Be things of flesh, or things of wood ? We check, and take ; exult, and fret;

Our plans extend, our passions rise, Till in our ardour we forget

How worthless is the victor's prize. Soon fades the spell, soon comes the night:

Say will it not be then the same, Whether we played the black or white,

Whether we lost or won the game ? Dost thou among these hillocks stray,

O'er some dear idol's tomb to moan ? Know that thy foot is on the clay

Of hearts once wretched as thy own. How many a father's anxions schemes,

How many rapturous thoughts of lovers, How many a mother's cherished dreams,

The swelling turf before thee covers ! Here for the living, and the dead,

The weepers and the friends they weep, Hath been ordained the same cold bed,

The same dark night, the same long sleep; Why shouldest thou writhe, and sob, and rave

O'er those with whom thou soon must be ? Death his own sting shall cure—the grave

Shall vanquish its own victory.
Here learn that all the griefs and joys,

Which now torment, which now beguile, Are children's hurts and children's toys,

Scarce worthy of one bitter smile.
Here learn that pulpit, throne, and press,

Sword, sceptre, lyre, alike are frail,
That Science is a blind man's guess,

And History a nurse's tale.
Here learn that glory and disgrace,

Wisdom and folly, pass away,
That mirth hath its appointed space,

That sorrow is but for a day; That all we love, and all we hate,

That all we hope, and all we fear,

1570.-ON SHAKSPERE. The soul of man is larger than the sky, Deeper than ocean-or the abysmal dark Of the unfathom'd centre. Like that ark, Which in its sacred hold uplifted high, O’er the drown'd hills, the human family, And stock reserved of every living kind, So, in the compass of the single mind, The seeds and pregnant forms in essence lie, That make all worlds. Great poet, 'twas thy

art To know thyself, and in thyself to be Whate'er Love, Hate, Ambition, Destiny, Ce the firm fatal purpose of the heart Can make of man. Yet thou wert still the

same, Serene of thought, unhurt by thy own flame.

Hartley Coleridge.Born 1796, Died 1849.

1571.-SONNETS TO A FRIEND. When we were idlers with the loitering rills, The need of human love we little noted : Our love was nature; and the peace that

floated On the white mist, and dwelt upon the hills, To sweet accord subdued our wayward wills : One soul was ours, one mind, one heart

devoted, That, wisely doting, ask'd not why it doted, And ours the unknown joy, which knowing kills.

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In the great city we are met again,
Where many souls there are that breathe and

die, Scarce knowing more of Nature's potency Than what they learn from heat, or cold, or

rainThe sad vicissitude of weary pain : For busy man is lord of ear and eye, · And what hath Nature but the vast void sky, And the throng'd river toiling to the main ? Oh! say not so, for she shall have her part In every smile, in every tear that falls, And she shall hide her in the secret heart, Where love persuades, and sterner duty

calls : But worse it were than death, or sorrow's

smart, To live without a friend within these walls.

Mail of Nature's own bestowing,
With peaceful radiance mildly glowing
Keener than the Tartar's arrow,
Sport ye in your sea so narrow.
Was the sun himself your sire ?
Were ye born of vital fire ?
Or of the shade of golden flowers,
Such as we fetch from eastern bower
To mock this murky clime of ours ?
Upwards, downwards, now ye glance,
Weaving many a mazy dance;
Seeming still to grow in size,
When ye would elude our eyes.
Pretty creatures ! we might deem
Ye were happy as ye seem,
As gay, as gamesome, and as blithe,
As light, as loving, and as lithe,
As gladly earnest in your play,
As when ye gleam'd in fair Cathay ;
And yet, since on this hapless earth
There's small sincerity in mirth,
And laughter oft is but an art
To drown the outcry of the heart,
It may be, that your ceaseless gambols,
Your wheelings, dartings, divings, rambles,
Your restless roving round and round
The circuit of your crystal bound,
Is but the task of weary pain,
An endless labour, dull and vain ;
And while your forms are gaily shining,
Your little lives are inly pining!
Nay—but still I fain would drearn
That ye are happy as ye seem.
Hartley Coleridge.-Born 1796, Died 1849.

We parted on the mountains, as two streams From one clear spring pursue their several

ways; And thy fleet course hath been through many

a maze

In foreign lands, where silvery Padus gleams To that delicious sky, whose glowing beams Brighten'd the tresses that old poets praise ; Where Petrarch's patient love and artful

lays, And Ariosto's song of many themes, Moved the soft air. But I, a lazy brook, As close pent up within my native dell, Have crept along from nook to shady nook, Where flow'rets blow and whispering Naiads

dwell. Yet now we meet, that parted were so wide, O’er rough and smooth to travel side by side.

Hartley Coleridge.Born 1796, Died 1849.

1573.-SONG. 'Tis sweet to hear the merry lark,

That bids a blithe good-morrow;
But sweeter to hark, in the twinkling dark

To the soothing song of sorrow.
Oh nightingale! What doth she ail ?

And is she sad or jolly ?
For ne'er on earth was sound of mirth

So like to melancholy.
The merry lark, he soars on high,

No worldly thought o'ertakes him ;
He sings aloud to the clear blue sky,

And the daylight that awakes him.
As sweet a lay, as loud, as gay,

The nightingale is trilling ;
With feeling bliss, no less than his,

Her little heart is thrilling.
Yet ever and anon a sigh

Peers through her lavish mirth;
For the lark's bold song is of the sky,

And hers is of the earth.
By night and day, she tunes her lay,

To drive away all sorrow;
For bliss, alas ! to-night must pass,

And woe may come to-morrow.
Hartley Coleridge.--Born 1796, Died 1849.

Restless forms of living light,
Quivering on your lucid wings,
Cheating still the curious sight
With a thousand shadowings ;
Various as the tints of even,
Gorgeous as the hues of heaven,
Reflected on your native streams
In flitting, flashing, billowy gleams.
Harmless warriors clad in mail
Of silver breastplate, golden scale ;

Unskilful he to note the card

Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,

And whelm him o'er !

1574.- NOVEMBER. The mellow year is hasting to its close The little birds have almost sung their last, Their small notes twitter in the dreary blastThat shrill-piped harbinger of early snows; The patient beauty of the scentless rose, Oft with the morn's hoar crystal quaintly

glass'd, Hangs, a pale mourner for the summer past, And makes a little summer where it grows. In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief day The dusky waters shudder as they shine ; The russet leaves obstruct the straggling way Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks define; And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array, Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy twine.

Hartley Coleridge.-Born 1796, Died 1849.

Such fate to suffering worth is given,
Who long with wants and woes has striven,
By human pride or cunning driven

To misery's brink,
Till wrench'd of every stay but Heaven,

He, ruin'd, sink !
Even thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate,
That fate is thine-no distant date ;
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate,

Full on thy bloom,
Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,

Shall be thy doom.
Robert Burns.-Born 1759, Died 1796.

Wee, modest, crimson-tippèd flower,
Thou's met me in an evil hour ;
For I maun crush amang the stoure

Thy slender stem :
To spare thee now is past my power,

Thou bonnie gem.
Alas ! it's no thy neibor sweet,
"The bonnie lark, companion meet,
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet !

Wi’ speckled breast,
When upward-springing, blithe, to groet

The purpling east.
Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth

Amid the storm,
Scarce rear'd above the parent earth

Thy tender form.
The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,
High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield :
But thou, beneath the random bield

O'clod or stane,
Adorns the histie stibble-field,

Unseen, alane.
There in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head

In humble guise ;
But now the share uptears thy bed,

And low thon lies!

1576.-AE FOND KISS Ae fond kiss, and then we sever Ae fareweel, alas ! for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. Who shall say that fortune grieves him, While the star of hope she leaves him ? Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me; Dark despair around benights me. I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, Naething could resist my Nancy ; But to see her was to love her: Love but her, and love for ever. Had we never loved sae kindly, Had we never loved sae blindly, Never met-or nerer parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted. Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest ! Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; Ae farewell, alas ! for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee !

Robert Burns.—Born 1759, Died 1796.

Such is the fate of artless maid,
Sweet flowret of the rural shade!
By love's simplicity betray'd,

And guileless trust,
Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid

Low i' the dust. Such is the fate of simple bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!

1577.--MY BONNIE MARY. Go fetch to me a pint o' wine,

And fill it in a silver tassio ; That I may drink, before I go,

A service to my bonnie lassie; The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith,

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry; The ship rides by the Berwick-law,

And I maun leave my bonnie Mary.

The trumpets sound, the banners fly,

The glittering spears are ranked ready ; The shouts o' war are heard afar,

The battle closes thick and bloody ; But it's not the roar o sea or shore

Wad make me langer wish to tarry ; Nor shouts o ar that's heard afarIt's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary.

Robert Burns.-Born 1759, Died 1796.

By oppression's woes and pains
By your sons in servile chains !
We will drain our dearest veins.

But they shall be free!
Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe !
Liberty's in every blow !
Let us do, or die!

Robert Burns.-Born 1759, Died 1796.

1578.-—MARY MORISON. Oh Mary, at thy window be,

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour ! Those smiles and glances let me see,

That make the miser's treasure poor : How blithely wad I bide the stoure,

A weary slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,

The lovely Mary Morison.
Yestreen when to the trembling string

The dance gaed through the lighted ha',
To thee my fancy took its wing,

I sat, but neither heard nor saw. Though this was fair, and that was braw,

And yon the toast of a' the town, I sigh’d, and said amang them a',

“Ye are na Mary Morison." Oh Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,

Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ? Or canst thou break that heart of his,

Whas; only faut is loving thee? If love for love thou wilt na gie,

At least be pity to me shown; A thought ungentle canna be The thought o' Mary Morison.

Robert Burns.Born 1759, Died 1796.


LANDS. My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not

here; My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the

deer; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the

North, The birth-place of valour, the country of worth; Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with Farewell to the straths and green valleys

below; Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging

woods; Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring

floods. My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not.

here, My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the


deer ;

Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go.

Robert Burns.—Born 1759, Died 1796.

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