In secret boughs no sweet birds sing,

in secret boughs no bird can shroud;
these are but leaves that take to wing,
and wintry winds that pipe so loud.
'Tis not trees' shade, but cloudy glooms
that on the cheerless vallies fall,
the flowers are in their grassy tombs,
and tears of dew are on them all,

T. HOOD

110

O

LULLABY OF AN INFANT CHIEF

HUSH thee, my babie! thy sire was a knight, thy mother a lady both lovely and bright;

the woods and the glens, from the towers which we see,
they all are belonging, dear babie, to thee.

O, fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows,
it calls but the warders that guard thy repose;
their bows would be bended, their blades would be red,
ere the step of a foeman draw near to thy bed.

O hush thee, my babie, the time will soon come,
when thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum;
then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may,
for strife comes with manhood and waking with day.

SIR W. SCOTT

III

LOCAL ATTACHMENT

T was a barren scene and wild

I where naked cliffs were rudely piled,

but ever and anon between

lay velvet tufts of loveliest green:
and well the lonely infant knew
recesses where the wall-flower grew,
and honey-suckle loved to crawl
up the low crag and ruined wall.

I deemed such nooks the sweetest shade
the sun in all its round surveyed;
and still I thought that shattered tower
the mightiest work of human power.

SIR W. SCOTT

112

113

114

SIREN ISLES

EASE, Stranger, cease those piercing notes,

CEAS

the craft of Siren choirs ;

hush the seductive voice that floats

upon the languid wires.

Music's ethereal fire was given

not to dissolve our clay,

but draw Promethean beams from heaven,

and purge the dross away.

Weak self! with thee the mischief lies,
those throbs a tale disclose:

nor age nor trial have made wise
the Man of many woes.

H

EPITAPH

Lyra Apostolica

ERE rests his head upon the lap of earth, a youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown; fair science frown'd not on his humble birth, and Melancholy mark'd him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ;

Heaven did a recompence as largely send:

he gave to Misery all he had, a tear,

he gain'd from Heav'n, 'twas all he wish'd, a friend. No farther seek his merits to disclose

or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (there they alike in trembling hope repose)

the bosom of his Father and his God.

TO A FLY

BUSY, curious, thirsty fly,

drink with me and drink as I;

freely welcome to my cup,
couldst thou sip and sip it up;
make the most of life you may;
life is short and wears away.
Both alike are, thine and mine,
hastening quick to their decline:
thine's a summer, mine's no more,
though repeated to threescore;
threescore summers, when they're gone,
will appear as short as one.

T. GRAY

W. OLDYS

115

116

MARIANA

WER tears fell with the dews at even;

she could not look on the sweet heaven,
either at morn or eventide.

Upon the middle of the night,

waking she heard the night-fowl crow:
the cock sung out an hour ere light:
from the dark fen the oxen's low
came to her: without hope of change,
in sleep she seemed to walk forlorn,
till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn
about the lonely moated grange.

MUTABILITY OF LOVE

OVE is an April's doubtful day:

LOVE

awhile we see the tempest lower; anon the radiant heaven survey,

and quite forget the flitting shower.

A. TENNYSON

The flowers, that hung their languid head,
are burnished by the transient rains;
the vines their wonted tendrils spread,
and double verdure gilds the plains.

The sprightly birds, that drooped no less
beneath the power of rain and wind,

in every raptured note express

the joy I feel,-when thou art kind.

W. SHENSTONE

117

AUTUMN

PENSIVE Autumn! how I grieve
thy sorrowing face to see,

when languid suns are taking leave
of every drooping tree.

Ah, let me not, with heavy eye,
this dying scene survey!

haste, Winter, haste; usurp the sky,

complete my bower's decay.

118

119

120

Ill can I bear the motley cast

yon sickening leaves retain,

that speak at once of pleasures past,
and bode approaching pain.

W. SHENSTONE

TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS

ELL me not, Sweet, I am unkinde,

TELL

that from the nunnerie

of thy chaste breast and quiet minde
to warre and armes I flee.

True, a new mistresse now I chase,
the first foe in the field;

and with a stronger faith imbrace
a sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such
as you too shall adore;

I could not love thee, Deare, so much,
loved I not Honour more,

R. LOVELACE

SHE

THE LOST LOVE

HE 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 O

the difference to me!

W. WORDSWORTH

THE SWEET NEGLECT

TILL to be neat, still to be drest,
as you were going to a feast:
still to be poud'red, still perfum'd:
Lady, it is to be presum'd,

though art's hid causes are not found,

all is not sweet, all is not sound.

121

Give me a look, give me a face,
that makes simplicity a grace;
robes loosely flowing, hayre as free:
such sweet neglect more taketh me,
than all th' adulteries of Art;

they strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

BEN JONSON

THE SPIRIT IN 'PROMETHEUS UNBOUND'

MY

Y coursers are fed with the lightning,
they drink of the whirlwind's stream,
and when the red morning is bright'ning
they bathe in the fresh sunbeam;

they have strength for their swiftness I deem,
then ascend with me, daughter of Ocean.
I desire: and their speed makes night kindle;
I fear: they outstrip the Typhoon :

ere the cloud piled on Atlas can dwindle
we encircle the earth and the moon:
we shall rest from long labours at noon:
then ascend with me, daughter of Ocean.

P. B. SHELLEY

122

FAR

ITALY

AR to the right, where Apennine ascends,
bright as the summer Italy extends:

its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side,

woods over woods in gay theatric pride;

while oft some temple's mouldering tops between
with venerable grandeur mark the scene.
Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast,
the sons of Italy were surely blest.

Whatever fruits in different climes are found,
that proudly rise or humbly court the ground;
whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear,
whose bright succession decks the varied year;
whatever sweets salute the northern sky
with vernal lives, that blossom but to die;
these here disporting own the kindred soil,
nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil;
while sea-born gales their gelid wings expand
to winnow fragrance round the smiling land.
O. GOLDSMITH