« السابقةمتابعة »
| Witness those rings and roundelayes The scrich-owles egges, and the feathers blacke, Of theirs, which yet remaine; The bloud of the frogge, and the bone in his Were footed in queen Maries dayes backe,
On many a grassy playne.
And later James came in ;
They never danc'd on any heath,
As when the time had been.
|. By which wee note the fairies Night-shade, moone-wort, libbards bane;
Were of the old profession; And twise by the dogges was like to be tane.
| Their songs were Ave Maries,
Their dances were procession. 10 Witch.
But now, alas! they all are dead, I from the jaws of a gardiner's bitch
Or gone beyond the seas, Didsnatch ihese bones, and then leap'd theditch: Or farther for religion fled, Yet went I back to the house againe,
Or else they take their ease. Kill'd the blacke cat, and here is the braine.
A tell-tale in their company
They never could endure;
To pinch such blacke and blue :
O how the common-welth doth need
Such justices as you!
A Register they have,
A man both wise and grave.
By one that I could name
To William for the same.
To William Churne of Staffordshire, $ 125. The Fairies Farewell.
Give laud and praises due,
Pr. CORBET, afterwards bishop of Norwich, &c. In With tales both old and true;
tune of Fortune.”
§ 126. Unfading Beauty. For now foule sluts in dairies
This little beautiful Sonnel is reprinted from a small Doe fare as well as they;
volume of Poems by Thomas Cartu, Esq. one of And though they sweepe their hearths no less
the gentlemen of the privie-chamber, and sewer en Than mayds were wont to doe,
ordinary to his majesty Charles I. Lond. 1640." This Yet who of late for cleanliness
elegant, and almost forgotten writer, whose poeme
bave been deservedly revived, died in the prime di Finds six-pence in her shoe?
his age, in 1639. Lament, lament, old abbies,
Io the original follows a third stanza, wlich, nor berug The fairies lost command !
of general application, nor of equal merit, I want They did but change priests babies,
ventured to onit. But some have chang'd your land ;
Ilee that loves a rosie cheeke, And all your children stoln from thence
Or corall lip admires, Are now growne Puritanes,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek Who live as changelings ever since,
Fuell to maintaine his fires; For love of your demaines.
As old time makes these decay, At morning and at evening both
So his flames must waste away. You merry were and glad,
But a smooth and stedfaste mind, So little care of sleepe and sloth
Gentle thoughts, and calm desires, These prettie ladies had.
Hearts with equal love combind, When Tom came home from labour,
Kindle nerer-dying fires ; Or Ciss to milking rose,
Where these are not, I despise Then mercily went their tabour,
Lovely cheekes, or lips, or eyes. And nimbly went their toes.
S 127. Song. The Sky-Lark. Shenstone. $ 129. A Pastoral Ballad. In Four Parts. Go, tuneful bird, that gladd'st the skies,
SHENSTONE. To Daphne's window speed thy way;
1. ABSENCE. And there on quiv'ring pinions rise,
Ye shepherds so cheerful and gay, And there thy vocal art display,
Whose Alocks never carelessly roam; And if she deign thy notes to hear,
Should Corydon's happen to stray, And if she praise thy matin song,
() call the poor wanderers home. Tell her, the sounds that soothe her ear
Allow me to muse and to sigh, To Damon's native plains belong.
Nor talk of the change that ye find;
None, once, was so watchful as 1 : Tell her, in livelier plumes array'd,
- I have left my dear Phillis behind. The bird from Indian grores may shine ; But ask the lovely, partial maid,
Now I know what it is to have strove Where are his notes compar'd with thine? With the torture of doubt and desire ;
| What it is to admire and to love, Then bid her treat yon witless beau !
And to leave her we love and admire. And all his flaunting race with scorn;
Ah, lead forth my flock in the morn, And lend an ear to Damon's woe,
And the damps of each evening repel : Who sings her praise, and sings forlorn.
Alas! I am faint and forloru :
- I have bade my dear Phillis farewell.
Since Phillis vouchsafd me a look, $ 128. The Ilermit. Beattie.
I never once dream'd of my vine: At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, May I lose both my pipe and my crook,
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, If I knew of a kid that was mine! When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill, I priz'd every hour that went by, And nought but the nightingale's song in the Beyond all that had pleas'd me before ; grove
But now they are pass'd, and I sigh, 'Twas then, by the cave of the mountain reclin'd, And I grieve that I priz'd them no more.
A hermit his nightly complaint thus began : Though mournful his numbers, his soul was B
But why do I languish in vain ? resign'd;
Why wander thus pensively here?
10, why did I come from the plain, He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man.
" Where I fed on the smiles of my dear? “Ah! why, thus abandon'd to darkness and woe, They tell me, my favorite maid, Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad The pride of that valley, is flown; strain?
Alas! where with her I have stray'd, For spring shall return, and a lover bestow; I could wander with pleasure alone. And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain.
When forc'd the fair nymph to forego, Yet, if pity inspire thee, O cease not thy lay!
What anguish I felt at my hear!! Mourn, sweetest companion! man calls thee
Yet I thought, but it might not be so, to mourn :
'Twas with pain when she saw me depart. O soothe him whose pleasures, like thine, pass
She gaz'd, as I slowly withdrew; away!
My path I could hardly discern; Full quickly they pass, but they never return!
So sweetly she bade me adieu, " Now gliding remote on the verge of the sky, ! I thought that she bade me return. The moon, balf extinct, a dim crescent dis
The pilgrim that journeys all day plays; But lately I markd, when majestic on high
To visit some far-distant shrine,
| If he bear but a relique away, She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.
| Is happy, nor heard to repine. Roll on then, fair orb, and with gladness pursue
Thus, widely remov'd from the fair, The path that conducts thee to splendor again: 1
Where my vows, my devotion, I owe, But man's faded glory no change shall renew;
Soft hope is the relique I bear, Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain!
And my solace wherever I go. "r 'Tisnight, and the landscape is lovely no more: I mourn; but, ye woodlands, I mourn not
2. Hope. for you; For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, My banks they are furnish'd with bees, Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glitt'ring Whose murmur invites one to sleep; with dew.
My grottoes are shaded with trees, Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn ; | And my hills are white over with sheep.
Kind Nature the embryo-blossom shall save: I seldom have met with a loss, But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn? Such health do my fountains bestow; O when shall it dawn on the night of the My fountains, all border'd with moss, grave?"
Where the hare-bell and violet gmw,
Not a pine in my grove is there seen,
| With her mien she enamours the brave; But with tendrils of woodbine is bound; l With her wit she engages the free; Not a beech's more beautiful green,
With her modesty pleases the grave; But a sweet-brier twines it around.
She is every way pleasing to me. Not my fields in the prime of the year
O you that have been of her train, More charms than my cattle unfold:
Come and join in my amorous lays ! Not a brook that is limpid and clear,
| I could lay down my life for the swain But it'glitters with fishes of gold.
1 That will sing but a song in her praise. One would think she might like to retire When he sings, may the nymphs of the town To the bow'r I have labor'd to rear;
Come trooping, and listen the while ; Not a shrub that I heard her admire,
Nay, on him let not Phillida frown; But I hasted and planted it there.
-But I cannot allow her to smile. O how sudden the jessamine strove
For when Paridel tries in the dance With the lilac to render it gay!
Any favor with Phillis to find, Already it calls for my love,
O how, with one trivial glance, To prune the wild branches away.
Might she ruin the peace of my mind ! From the plains, from the woodlands, and In ringlers he dresses his hair, groves,
And his erook is bestudded around; What strains of wild melody flow!
And his pipe-o may Phillis beware How the nightingales warble their loves
Of a magic there is in the sound ! From thickets of roses that blow!
'Tis his with mock passion to glow; And when her bright form shall appear,
'Tis his in smooth tales to unfold, Each bird shall harmoniously join
" How her face is as bright as the snow, In a concert so soft and so clear,
And her bosom, be sure, is as cold; As—she may not be fond to resign
How the nightingales labor the strain, I have found out a gift for my fair,
With the notes of his charmer to vie; I have found where the wood-pigeons breed; How they vary their accents in rain, But let me that plunder forbear,
Repine at her triumphs, and die." She will say 'twas a barbarous deed.
To the grove or the garden he strays, For he ne'er could be true, she averr'd,
And pillages every sweet; Who could rob a poor bird of its young;
Then, suiting the wreath to his lays, And I lov'd her the more when I heard
He throws it at Phillis's feet. Such tenderness fall from her tongue. “O Phillis," he whispers, “ more fair, I have heard her with sweetness unfold
More sweet, than the jessamine's flow'r! How that pity was due to a dove,
1 What are pinks in a morn, to compare? That it ever attended the bold;
What is eglantine after a shower? And she call'd it the sister of love.
“ Then the lily no longer is white; But her words such a pleasure convey,
Then the rose is depriv'd of its bloom; So much I her accents adore,
Then the violets die with despite, Let her speak, and whatever she say,
And the woodbines give up their perfume." Methinks, I should love her the more.
Thus glide the soft numbers along, Can a bosom so gentle remain
And he fancies no shepherd his peer; Unmov'd, when her Corydon sighs ? | Yet I never should envy the song, Will a nymph that is fond of the plain,
Were pot Phillis to lend it an ear. These plains and this valley despise ?
Let his crook be with hyacinths bound, Dear regions of silence and shade!
So Phillis the trophy despise; Soft scenes of contentment and ease!
Let his forehead with laurels be crown'd. Where I could have pleasingly stray'd,
So they shine not in Phillis's eyes, If aught in her absence could please.
The language that Aows from the heart But where does my Phillida stray
Is a stranger to Paridel's tongue;
| Or sure I must envy the song.
And the face of the valleys as fine; The swains may in manners compare,
4. DISAPPOINTMENT. But their love is not equal to mine.
Ye shepherds, give ear to my lay,
And take no more heed of my sheep: 3. SOLICITUDE.
They have nothing to do but to stray,
I have nothing to do but to weep. Why will you my passion reprove,
Yet do not my folly reprove : Why term it a folly to grieve,
She was fair, and my passion begna; Ere I show you the charms of my love? She smild, and I could not but love; She is fairer than you can believe.
She is faithless, and I am undoac.
Perhaps I was void of all thought;
| And Phæbe was pleas'd too, and to my dog said, Perhaps it was plain to foresee,
“ Come hither, poor fellow !" and patted his That a nymph so complete would be sought
flook, By a swain more engaging than me. But now, when he's fawning, I, with a sour Ah! love ev'ry hope can inspire:
Cry, “Sirrah!” and give him a blow with It banishes wisdom the while;
my crook : And the lip of the nymph we admire
And I'll give him another; for why should Seems for ever adorn'd with a smile!
Be dull as his master, when Phæbe's away? She is faithless, and I am undone ; Ye that wilness the woes I endure,
Sweet music went with us both all the wood Let reason instruct you to shun
[too; What it cannot instruct you to cure. The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale Beware how you loiter in vain
Winds over us whisper'd, Alocks by us did bleat, Amid nymphs of a higher degree:
And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet. It is not for me to explain
But now she is absent, though still they sing on, How fair and how fickle they be.
| The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone!
Her voice in the concert, as now I have found, Alas! from the day that we met, What hope of an end to my woes,
Gives every thing else its agreeable sound. When I cannot endure to forget
Will no pitying Power that hears me comThe glance that undid my repose ?
plain, Yet time may diminish the pain :
Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain? The flow'r, and the shrub, and the tree,
To be cur'd, thou must, Colin, thy passion reWhich I rear'd for her pleasure in vain,
move, In time may have comfort for me.
But what swain is so silly to live without love?
No, deity, bid the dear nymph to return; The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose,
For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn. The sound of a murinuring stream,
Ab! what shall I do? I shall die with despair: The peace which from solitude flows, Take heed, all ye swains, how ye love one so fair.
Henceforth shall be Corydon's theme. High transports are shown to the sight,
But we are not to find them our own: Fate never bestow'd such delight,
$ 131. A Pastoral Ballad. RowĒ. As I with my Phillis had known. .
DesPAIRING beside a clear stream, ( ye woods, spread your branches apace; A shepherd forsaken was laid; To your deepest recesses I Aly;
And, while a false nymph was his theme, I would hide with the beasts of the chase, A willow supported his head. I would vanish from every eye.
The wind that blew over the plain, Yet my reed shall resound through the grove To his sighs with a sigh did reply ;
With the same sad complaint it begun; And the brook, in return to his pain, How she smild, and I could not but love; Ran mournfully murmuring by. Was faithless, and I am undone!
Alas! silly swain that I was!
(Thus sadly complaining, he cried ;)
When first I beheld that fair face, $ 130. Phæbe. A Pastoral. BYROM. "Twere better by far I had died.
She talk'd, and I hless'd her dear tongue; My time, O ye muses! was happily spent, When she smil'd, it was pleasure too great; When Phæbe went with me wherever I went: I listen'd, and cried, when she sung, Ten thousand soft pleasures I felt in my breast: Was nightingale ever so sweet! Sure never food shepherd like Colin was blest. But now she is gone, and has left me behind. | How foolish was I to believe What a marvellous change on a sudden I find! She could doat on so lowly a clown, When things were as fine as could possibly be, / Orth
| Or that her fond heart would not grieve
é! To forsake the fine folk of the town! I thought it was spring; but alas! it was she.
To think that a beauty so gay The fountain that wont to run sweetly along, So kind and so constant would prove.; And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among, | Or go clad, like our maidens, in grey, Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phæbe was there, | Or live in a cottage on love! It was pleasant to look at, 'twas music to hear! But now she is absent, I walk by its side, What though I have skill to complain, And, still as it murmurs, do nothing but chide: 1. Though the muses my temples have crown'd Must you be so cheerful, whilst I go in pain? What though, when they hear my soft strain, Peace there with your bubbling, and hear inc | The virgins sit weeping around;
| Ah, Colin! thy hopes are in vain,
Thy pipe and thy laurel resign;
All you, my companions so dear,
And now the sounds increase: Who sorrow to see me betray'd,
And, from the corner where he lay, Whatever I suffer, forbear,
He sees a train, profusely gay, Forbear to accuse the false maid.
Come prankling o'er the place. Though through the wide world I should range,
| But (trust me, gentles) never yet 'Tis in vain from my fortune to fly;
Was dight a masquing half so neat, 'Twas hers to be false, and to change ;
Or half so rich, before; 'Tis mine to be constant, and die.
The country lent the sweet perfumes, If, while my hard fate 1 sustain,
The sea the pearl, the sky the plumes,
The town its silken store.
In flaunting robes above the rest,
With awful accent cried :
At this the swain, whose vent'rous soul
No fears of magic art control, Be finest at ev'ry fine show,
Advanc'd in open sight; And frolic it all the long day:
“ Nor have I cause of dread," he said, While Colin, forgotten and gone,
“ Who view, by no presumption led, No more shall be talk'd of or seen,
Your revels of the night.
“ 'Twas grief, for scorn of faithful love,
Amid the nightly dew.” $ 132. A Fairy Tale. Parnell.
“ 'Tis well,” the gallant cries again, . In Britain's isle, and Arthur's days,
“ We fairies never injure men When midnight fairies daunc'd the maze,
Who dare to tell us true.
« Exalt thy love-dejected heart; Edwin, I wis, a gentle youth,
Be mine the task, or ere we part, Endow'd with courage, sense, and truth,
To make thee grief resign; Though badly shap'd he been.
Now take the pleasure of thy chaunce; His mountain back mote well be said
Whilst I with Mab, my partner, daunce, To measure height against his head,
Be little Mable thine."
He spoke, and, all a sudden, there
Light music floats in wanlon air;
The Monarch leads the Queen :
The rest their fairie partners found:
And Mable trimly tript the ground
With Edwin of the Green.
The dauncing past, the board was laid,
And siker such a feast was made
As heart and lip desire :
Withouten hands the dishes fly,
The glasses with a wish come nigh, With slighted passion paced along,
1. And with a wish retire. All in the moony light;
But now, to please the fairie king, "Twas near an old enchanted court,
Full every deal they laugh and sing,
And antic feats devise;
Some wind and tumble like an ape, His heart was drear, his hope was cross'd, And other some transmute their shape, 'Twas late, 'twas far, the path was lost
In Edwin's wond'ring eyes. That reach'd the neighbour town: Till one, at last, that Robin hight, With weary steps he quits the shades,
Renown'd for pinching maids at night, Resolv’d, the darkling dome he treads,
Has bent him up aloof;
And full against the beam he fung,
Where by the back the youth he hung, : When hollow winds remove the door,
To sprawl unneath the roof.
From thence, “Reverse my charm," he cries, And, well I ween to count aright,
“ And let it fairly now suffice, At once an hundred tapers light
The gambol has been shown."
But Oberon answers, with a smile,
“ Content thee, Edwin, for a while, Now sounding feet approachen near,
The vantage is thine own."