R. M. (Robert Maynard) Leonard.

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The hart hath hung his old head on the pale ; Y ,, /

The buck in brake his winter coat he .flings ;

The fishes fleet with new repaired scale.

The adder all her slough away she slings ;

The swift swallow pursueth the flies small ;

The busy bee her honey now she mings ;

Winter is worn that was the flowers' bale.
And thus I see among these pleasant things
Each care decays ; and yet my sorrow springs.

H. HOWARD, EARL or SURREY.

490. ABOU BEN ADHEM

ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich and like a lily in bloom
An angel, writing in a book of gold.
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
* What writest thou ? ' The vision raised its head,



238 HUNT



And, with a look made of all sweet accord.
Answered, ' The names of those who love the Lord.'
' And is mine one ? ' said Abou. ' Nay, not so,'
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still, and said, ' I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men.'

The angel wrote and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

J. H. LEIGH HUNT.

491. DIRGE

BLEST is the turf, serenely blest,

Where throbbing hearts may sink to rest,

Where life's long journey turns to sleep,

Nor ever pilgrim wakes to weep.

A little sod, a few sad flowers,

A tear for long-departed hours,

Is all that feeling hearts request

To hush their weary thoughts to rest.

There shall no vain ambition come

To lure them from their quiet home ;

Nor sorrow lift, with heart-strings riven,

The meek imploring eye to heaven ;

Nor sad remembrance stoop to shed

His wrinkles on the slumberer's head ;

And never, never love repair

To breathe his idle whispers there !

J. H. LEIGH HUNT.

492. THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET

GREEN little vaulter in the sunny grass,
Catching your heart up at the feel of June,
Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon,
When even the bees lag at the summoning brass ;
And you, warm little housekeeper, who class
With those who think the candles come too soon,
Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune
Nick the glad silent moments as they pass;

Oh sweet and tiny cousins, that belong,

One to the fields, the other to the hearth,

Both have your sunshine ; both though small are strong

At your clear hearts ; and both seem given to earth

To ring in thoughtful ears this natural song

Indoors and out, summer and winter, Mirth.

J. H. LEIGH HUNT.



HUNT HUNTER 239

493. JENNY KISSED ME WHEN WE MET

JENNY kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in ;
Time, you thief ! who love to get

Sweets into your list, put that in.
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad ;

Say that health and wealth have missed me ;
Say I'm growing old, but add
Jenny kissed me !

J. H. LEIGH HUNT.

494. THE DEAREST POETS

WERE I to name, out of the times gone by,
The poets dearest to me, I should say,
Pulci for spirits, and a fine, free way ;
Chaucer for manners, and close, silent eye ;
Milton for classic taste, and harp strung high ;
Spenser for luxury, and sweet, sylvan play ;
Horace for chatting with, from day to day ;
Shakespeare for all, but most, society.

But which take with me, could I take but one ?

Shakespeare, as long as I was unoppressed

With the world's weight, making sad thoughts intenser ;

But did I wish, out of the common sun

To lay a wounded heart in leafy rest,

And dream of things far off and healing, Spenser.

J. H. LEIGH HUNT.

495. 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 !

'Tis sad to think the days are gone

When those we love were near !
I sit upon this mossy stone,

And sigh when none can hear :

And while I spin my flaxen thread,

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

Now Lubin is away ! ANNE HUNTER.



240



INGELOW



496.



FROM ' THE HIGH TIDE ON THE
LINCOLNSHIRE COAST '



I SHALL never hear her more
By the reedy Lindis shore,
' Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha ! ' calling.
Ere the early dews be falling ;
I shall never hear her song,
' Cusha ! Cusha ! ' all along,
Where the sunny Lindis floweth,

Goeth, floweth ;
From the meads where melick

groweth,

When the water winding down,
Onward floweth to the town.

I shall never see her more
Where the reeds and rushes quiver,

Shiver, quiver ;

Stand beside the sobbing river,
Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling,



1 To the sandy lonesome shore ;
I I shall never hear her calling,
* Leave your meadow grasses mel-
low,

Mellow, mellow ;

Quit your cowslips, cowslips yel-
low ;
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe

Lightfoot ;
Quit your pipes of parsley hollow,

Hollow, hollow ;
Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and

follow ;

Lightfoot, Whitefoot;
From your clovers lift the head ;
Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow,
Jetty, to the milking shed.'

JEAN INGELOW.



497. OH, MY LOST LOVE

OH, my lost love, and my own, own love,

And my love that loved me so !
Is there never a chink in the world above

Where they listen for words from below ?
Nay, I spoke once, and I grieved thee sore,

I remember all that I said,
And now thou wilt hear me no more no more

Till the sea gives up her dead.

Thou didst set thy foot on the ship, and sail

To the ice-fields and the snow ;
Thou wert sad, for thy love did naught avail,

And the end I could not know ;
How could I tell I should love thee to-day,

Whom that day I held not dear ?
How could I know I should love thee away

When I did not love thee anear ?

JEAN INGELOW (Supper at the Mitt).



INGELOW



241



498. PLAYING ON THE VIRGINALS



PLAYING on the virginals,

Who but I ! Sae glad, sae

free,
Smelling for all cordials,

The green mint and marjorie ;
Set among the budding broom,

Kingcup and daffodilly ;
By my side I made him room :

O love my Willie !

' Like me, love me, girl o'
gowd,'

Sang he to my nimble strain ;
Sweet his ruddy lips o'erflowed

Till my heartstrings rang

again :
By the broom, the bonny broom,

Kingcup and daffodilly,
In my heart I made him room :

O love my Willie !



' Pipe and play, dear heart,' sang
he,

* I must go, yet pipe and play ;
Soon I'll come and ask of thee

For an answer yea or nay ' ;
And I waited till the flocks

Panted in yon waters stilly,
And the corn stood in the shocks :

love my Willie !

I thought first when thou didst
come,

1 would wear the ring for
thee,

But the year told out its sum
Ere again thou sat'st by me ;

Thou hadst naught to ask that day
By kingcup and daffodilly ;

I said neither yea nor nay :
O love my Willie !



JEAN INGELOW (Supper at the Mill).



499. TO BEAR, TO NURSE, TO REAR



To bear, to nurse, to rear,

To watch, and then to lose :
To see my bright ones disappear,

Drawn up like morning dews
To bear, to nurse, to rear,

To watch, and then to lose :
This have I done when God drew
near

Among His own to choose.

To hear, to heed, to wed,

And with thy lord depart
In tears that he, as soon as
shed,

Will let no longer smart.
To hear, to heed, to wed,

This while thou didst I smiled,
For now it was not God who
said,

' Mother, give Me thy child.'



O fond, O fool, and blind,

To God I gave with tears ;
But when a man like grace would
find,

My soul put by her fears
O fond, O fool, and blind,

God guards in happier spheres ;
That man will guard where he
did bind

Is hope for unknown years.

To hear, to heed, to wed,

Fair lot that maidens choose,
Thy mother's tenderest words are
said,

Thy face no more she views
Thy mother's lot, my dear,

She doth in naught accuse ;
Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear,

To love and then to lose.
JEAN INGELOW (Songs of Seven).



242



INGELOW KING JAMES I



500. WHEN THE DIMPLED WATER SLIPPETH

When the falling waters utter

Something mournful on their

way,
And departing swallows flutter,

Taking leave of bank and brae ;
When the chaffinch idly sitteth

With her mate upon the sheaves,
And the wistful robin flitteth

Over beds of yellow leaves ;
When the clouds, like ghosts that
ponder

Evil fate, float by and frown,
And the listless wind doth wander

Up and down, up and down :
Though the heart be not attending,

Having sorrows of her own,
Through the fields and fallows
wending,

It is sad to walk alone.



WHEN the dimpled water slippeth,

Full of laughter on its way,
And her wing the wagtail dippeth,

Running by the brink at play ;
When the poplar leaves a-tremble

Turn their edges to the light,
And the far-up clouds resemble

Veils of gauze most clear and

white ;
And the sunbeams fall and flatter

Woodland moss and branches

brown,
And the glossy finches chatter

Up and down, up and down :
Though the heart be not attending,

Having music of her own,
On the grass, through meadows
wending,

It is sweet to walk alone.



501.



JEAN INGELOW (Afternoon at a Parsonage).

WITH LEADEN FOOT TIME CREEPS ALONG
WITH leaden foot time creeps along,

While Delia is away ;
With her, nor plaintive was the song,

Nor tedious was the day,
Ah ! envious power, reverse my doom ;

Now double thy career ;
Strain every nerve, stretch every plume,

And rest them when she 's here.



R. JAGO.



502. SONNET



PBEFIXED TO His MAJESTY'S INSTRUCTIONS TO HIS DEAREST

SON, HENRY THE PRINCE

GOD gives not kings the style of gods in vain,
For on His throne His sceptre do they sway ;
And as their subjects ought them to obey,
So kings should fear and serve their God again.
If then ye would enjoy a happy reign,
Observe the statutes of your Heavenly King,
And from His Law make all your laws to spring,
Since His lieutenant here ye should remain :
Reward the just ; be steadfast, true, and plain ;
Repress the proud, maintaining ay the right ;
Walk always so as ever in His sight,
Who guards the godly, plaguing the profane,
And so ye shall in princely virtues shine,
Resembling right your mighty King divine. KING JAMES I.



JOHNSON 243



503. ON THE DEATH OF MR. ROBERT LEVET,
A PRACTISER IN PHYSIC

IN misery's darkest cavern known,

His useful care was ever nigh,
Where hopeless anguish poured his groan,

And lonely want retired to die ;

No summons mocked by chill delay,

No petty gain disdained by pride,
The modest wants of every day

The toil of every day supplied.

His virtues walked their narrow round,
Nor made a pause, nor left a void :

And sure the Eternal Master found

The single talent well employed. S. JOHNSON.

504. BY POVERTY DEPRESSED

OF all the griefs that harass the distressed,
Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest ;
Fate never wounds more deep the generous heart
Than when a blockhead's insult points the dart.

Has Heaven reserved, in pity to the poor,
No pathless waste, or undiscovered shore ?
No secret island in the boundless main ?
No peaceful desert yet unclaimed by Spain ?
Quick let us rise, the happy seats explore,
And bear oppression's insolence no more.
This mournful truth is everywhere confessed,
Slow rises worth by poverty depressed.

S. JOHNSON (London).

505. CHARLES XII

ON what foundation stands the warrior's pride,

How just his hopes let Swedish Charles decide.

A frame of adamant, a soul of fire,

No dangers fright him, and no labours tire ;

O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain,

Unconquered lord of pleasure and of pain ;

No joys to him pacific sceptres yield,

War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field.

Behold surrounding kings their powers combine,

And one capitulate, and one resign :

Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain :

' Think nothing gained,' he cries, ' till naught remain,

On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly,

And all be mine beneath the polar sky t '



244 JOHNSON



The march begins, in military state,

And nations on his eye suspended wait ;

Stern famine guards the solitary coast,

And Winter barricades the realms of frost ;

He comes, nor want nor cold his course delay !

Hide, blushing glory, hide Pultowa's day:

The vanquished hero leaves his broken bands,

And shows his miseries in distant lands ;

Condemned a needy supplicant to wait,

While ladies interpose, and slaves debate.

But did not chance at length her error mend ?

Did no subverted empire mark his end ?

Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound ?

Or hostile millions press him to the ground ?

His fall was destined to a barren strand,

A petty fortress, and a dubious hand :

He left the name at which the world grew pale,

To point a moral, or adorn a tale.

S. JOHNSON (The Vanity of Human Wishes).

506. TO-MORROW

TO-MORROW !

That fatal mistress of the young, the lazy,
The coward, and the fool, condemned to lose
A useless life in waiting for to-morrow
To gaze with longing eyes upon to-morrow.
Till interposing death destroys the prospect !
Strange ! that this general fraud from day to day
Should fill the world with wretches undetected.
The soldier, labouring through a winter's march,
Still sees to-morrow dressed in robes of triumph ;
Still to the lover's long-expecting arms
To-morrow brings the visionary bride.
But thou, too old to bear another cheat,
Learn that the present hour alone is man's.

S. JOHNSON (Irene).

507. SHAKESPEARE AND JONSON

WHEN Learning's triumph o'er her barbarous foes
First reared the Stage, immortal Shakespeare rose ;
Each change of many-coloured life he drew,
Exhausted worlds, and then imagined new ;
Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign,
And panting Time toiled after him in vain.
His powerful strokes presiding Truth impressed,
And unresisted passion stormed the breast.

Then Jonson came, instructed from the school,
To please in method, and invent by rule ;



JOHNSON JONSON



245



His studious patience and laborious art,

By regular approach assayed the heart.

Cold approbation gave the lingering bays,

For those who durst not censure, scarce could praise ;

A mortal born, he met the general doom,

But left, like Egypt's kings, a lasting tomb.

S. JOHNSON (Drury Lane Prologue, 1747).

508. 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.

SIR W. JONES.

509. VENUS' RUNAWAY

BEAUTIES, have you seen this toy,

Called Love, a little boy,

Almost naked, wanton, blind ;

Cruel now, and then as kind ?

If he be amongst ye, say ?

He is Venus' runaway. B. JONSON (Mask).

510. COME, MY CELIA, LET US PROVE



COME, my Celia, let us prove,
While we can, the sports of love,
Time will not be ours for ever,
He, at length, our good will sever ;
Spend not then his gifts in vain ;
Suns that set may rise again :
But if once we lose this light,
'Tis with us perpetual night.
Why should we defer our joys ?
Fame and rumour are but toys.



Cannot we delude the eyes
Of a few poor household spies ?
Or his easier ears beguile,
Thus removed by our wile ?
'Tis no sin love's fruits to steal ;
But the sweet thefts to reveal,
To be taken, to be seen,
These have crimes accounted
been.

B. JONSON (Volpone).



511. TO CELIA

only with thine



DRINK to

eyes,

And I will pledge with mine ;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth

rise,

Doth ask a drink divine :
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.



I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope that there

It could not withered be.
But thou thereon didst only

breathe,

And sent'st it back to me :
Since when it grows, and smells,

I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.

B. JONSON (The Forest).



246 JONSON



512. THAT WOMEN ARE BUT MEN'S SHADOWS

FOLLOW a shadow, it still flies you;

Seem to fly it, it will pursue :
So court a mistress, she denies you ;

Let her alone, she will court you.
Say are not women truly, then,
Styled but the shadows of us men ?

B. JONSON (The Forest}.

513. HAVE YOU SEEN BUT A BRIGHT LILY GROW

HAVE you seen but a bright lily grow,
Before rude hands have touched it ?
Have you marked but the fall o' the snow

Before the soil hath smutched it ?
Have you felt the wool of the beaver ?

Or swan's down ever ?
Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier ?

Or the nard in the fire ?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee ?
so white ! O so soft ! O so sweet is she !

B. JONSON (.4 Celebration of Charis).



514. IF I FREELY MAY DISCOVER

IF I freely may discover

What would please me in my lover,

I would have her fair and witty,

Savouring more of ynnrt, t.ha.p nif.y ;

A little proud, but full olTpity :

Light and humorous in her toying ;
Oft building Tiopes, and soon destroying;
Long, but sweet, in the enjoying ;
Neither too easy, nor too hard :
All extremes I would have barred.

She should be allowed her passions,
So they were but used as fashions ;
Sometimes froward^ and thenfrowning,
Sometimes siqkish and then Jsw66Tiing,
Every fit wjth cnange still crWning.
Purely jealous 1 wouTd havtrher,
Then only constant when I crave her :
'Tis a virtue should not save her.



Thus, nor her delicates would cloy me,
Neither "Wr-" ftftvishppsa~fl/nTy' me.



(The Poetaster).



JONSON 247



515. IT IS NOT GROWING LIKE A TREE

IT is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make men better be ;
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:
A lily of a day
Is fairer far in May,
Although it fall and die that night ;
It was the plant and flower of light.
In small proportions we just beauties see ;
And in short measures life may perfect be.

B. JONSON (A Pindaric Ode to the Memory
of Sir L. Carey and Sir H. Morison).



516. THE KISS



THAT joy so soon should waste !

Or so sweet a bliss

As a kiss

Might not for ever last !
So sugared, so melting, so soft, so
delicious,

The dew that lies on roses,



When the morn herself discloses,
Is not so precious.
Oh, rather than I would it smother,
Were I to taste such another,
It should be my wishing
That I might die with kissing.
B. JONSON (Cynthia's Revels).



517. HYMN TO DIANA

QUEEN and huntress, chaste and fair,

Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair

State in wonted manner keep :
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious shade

Dare itself to interpose ;
Cynthia's shining orb was made

Heaven to clear when day did close ;
Bless us then with wished sight,
Goddess excellently bright.

Lay thy bow of pearl apart,

And thy crystal shining quiver ;
Give unto the flying hart

Space to breathe, how short soever,
Thou that mak'st a day of night,
Goddess excellently bright.

B. JONSON (Cynthia's Revels).



248 JONSON



518. SHAKESPEARE

SOUL of the age !

The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage,
My Shakespeare, rise ! I will not lodge thee by
Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie
A little further, to make thee a room :
Thou art a monument without a tomb,
And art alive still, while thy book doth live,
And we have wits to read, and praise to give.

That I not mix thee so my brain excuses ;
I mean, with great but disproportioned Muses.
For, if I thought my judgement were of years,
I should commit thee, surely, with thy peers.
And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine
Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty line.

And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek,

From thence, to honour thee, I will not seek

For names ; but call forth thundering Aeschylus,

Euripides, and Sophocles to us,

Paccuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead

To life again, to hear thy buskin tread

And shake a stage; or when thy sock was on,

Leave thee alone, for the comparison

Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome

Sent forth ; or since did from their ashes come.

Triumph, my Britain ! Thou hast one to show
To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe.
He was not of an age, but for all time !
And all the Muses still were in their prime,
When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm
Our ears, or, like a Mercury, to charm.
Nature herself was proud of his designs,
And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines,
Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit
As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit.
The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,
Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please ;
But antiquated and deserted lie,
As they were not of Nature's family.

Yet must I not give Nature all ! Thy art,
My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part.
For though the Poet's matter Nature be
His art doth give the fashion. And that he
Who casts to write a living line, must sweat
(Such as thine are), and strike the second heat



JONSON 249



Upon the Muses' anvil, turn the same

(And himself with it), that he thinks to frame;

Or for the laurel he may gain a scorn !

For a good Poet 's made as well as born ;

And such wert thou ! Look how the father's face

Lives in his issue ; even so, the race

Of Shakespeare's mind and manners brightly shines

In his well-turned and true-filed lines ;

In each of which he seems to shake a lance

As brandished at the eyes of Ignorance.

Sweet Swan of Avon ! what a sight it were

To see thee in our water yet appear,

And make those flights upon the banks of Thames

That so did take Eliza, and our James !

B. JONSON.

519. STILL TO BE NEAT

STILL to be neat, still to be dressed,

As you were going to a feast ;

Still to be powdered, still perfumed :

Lady, it is to be presumed,

Though art's hid causes are not found,

All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face,

That makes simplicity a grace ;

Robes loosely flowing, hair as free :

Such sweet neglect more taketh me,

Than all the adulteries of art ;

They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

B. JONSON (The Silent Woman}.



520. ON THE PORTRAIT OF SHAKESPEARE

THIS figure that thou here seest put,
It was for gentle Shakespeare cut,
Wherein the graver had a strife
With Nature, to outdo the life.

Oh, could he but have drawn his wit
As well in brass, as he has hit
His face, the print would then surpass
All that was ever writ in brass.

But, since he cannot, reader, look
Not on his picture, but his book.

B. JONSON (In the First Folio of
Shakespeare's Works, 1623).



250 JONSON



521. TRUTH



TRUTH is the trial of itself,
And needs no other touch ;

And purer than the purest gold,
Refine it ne'er so much.



It is the life and light of love,
The sun that ever shineth,

And spirit of that special grace,
That faith and love defineth.



It is the warrant of the word,

That yields a scent so sweet,
As gives a power to faith to tread

All falsehood under feet. B. JONSON.

522. AN EPITAPH ON SALATHIEL PAVY
(A CHILD OF QUEEN ELIZABETH'S CHAPEL)

WEEP with me, all you that read

This little story ;
And know, for whom a tear you shed,

Death's self is sorry.
'Twas a child, that so did thrive

In grace and feature,
As Heaven and Nature seemed to strive

Which owned the creature.

Years he numbered scarce thirteen,

When Fates turned cruel ;
Yet three filled zodiacs had he been

The stage's jewel ;
And did act, what now we moan,

Old men so duly,
As sooth, the Parcae thought him one,

He played so truly.

So, by error, to his fate

They all consented ;
But, viewing him since (alas, too late !),

They have repented ;'
And have sought, to give new birth,

In baths to steep him :
But, being so much too good for earth ;

Heaven vows to keep him. JB. JONSON.

523. TO MY WORTHY AND HONOURED FRIEND
MASTER GEORGE CHAPMAN

WHOSE work could this be, Chapman, to refine
Old Hesiod's ore, and give it thus ! but thine,
Who hadst before wrought in rich Homer's mine.

What treasure hast thou brought us ! and what store
Still, still, dost thou arrive with at our shore,
To make thy honour, and our wealth the more !



JONSON KEATS 251



If all the vulgar tongues that speak this day
Were asked of thy discoveries, they must say,
To the Greek coast thine only knew the way.

Such passage hast thou found, such returns made,

As now of all men, it is called thy trade,

And who make thither else, rob or invade. B. JONSON.

524. EPITAPH ON ELIZABETH L. H.

WOULDST thou hear what man can say
In a little ? Reader, stay.

Underneath this stone doth lie



Online LibraryR. M. (Robert Maynard) LeonardThe pageant of English poetry → online text (page 19 of 46)