(In the sun or under shade,
Upon bough or grassy blade)
And with busy revellings,
Chirp and song, and murmurings,
Made this orchard's narrow space
And this vale so blithe a place,
Multitudes are swept away
Never more to breathe the day :
Some are sleeping ; some in bands
Travelled into distant lands ;
Others slunk to moor and wood,
Far from human neighbourhood;
And, among the Kinds that keep
With us closer fellowship,
With us openly abide,
All have laid their mirth aside.

Where is he, that giddy Sprite,
Blue-cap, with his colours bright,
Who was blest as bird could be,
Feeding in the apple-tree;
Made such wanton spoil and rout,
Turning blossoms inside out;
Hung-head pointing towards the ground-
Fluttered, perched, into a round
Bound himself, and then unbound;
Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin !
Prettiest Tumbler ever seen!
Light of heart and light of limb;
What is now become of Him?
Lambs, that through the mountains went
Frisking, bleating merriment,
When the year was in its prime,
They are sobered by this time.
If you look to vale or hill,
If you listen, all is still,
Save a little neighbouring rill,
That from out the rocky ground
Strikes a solitary sound.
Vainly glitter hill and plain,
And the air is calm in vain ;
Vainly Morning spreads the lure
Of a sky serene and pure ;
Creature none can she decoy


Into open sign of joy :
Is it that they have a fear
Of the dreary season near ?
Or that other pleasures be
Sweeter even than gaiety?

Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell
In the impenetrable cell
Of the silent heart which Nature
Furnishes to every creature ;
Whatso'er we feel and know
Too sedate for outward show,
Such a light of gladness breaks,
Pretty Kitten ! from thy freaks,
Spreads with such a living grace
O'er my little Dora's face ;
Yes, the sight so stirs and charins
Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms,
That almost I could repine
That your transports are not mine,
That I do not wholly fare
Even as ye do, thoughtless pair !
And I will have my careless season,
Spite of melancholy reason,
Will walk through life in such a way
That, when time brings on decay,
Now and then I may possess
Hours of perfect gladsomeness.
--Pleased by any random toy ;
By a kitten's busy joy,
Or an infant's laughing eye
Sharing in the ecstasy ;
I would fare like that or this,
Find my wisdom in my bliss ;
Keep the sprightly soul awake;
And have faculties to take,
Even from things by sorrow wrought
Matter for a jocund thought;
Spite of care, and spite of grief,
To gambol with Life's falling Leaf.


The Pilgrim
Who would true valour see

Let him come hither !
One here will constant be,

Come wind, come weather :
There's no discouragement
Shall make him once relent
His first-avow'd intent

To be a Pilgrim.
Whoso beset him round

With dismal stories,
Do but themselves confound;

His strength the more is.
No lion can him fright;
He'll with a giant fight ;
But he will have a right

To be a Pilgrim.
Nor enemy, nor fiend,

Can daunt his spirit ;
He knows he at the end

Shall Life inherit :-
Then, fancies, fly away ;
He'll not fear what men say ;
He'll labour, night and day,
To be a Pilgrim.


The Solitude of Alexander Selkirk

I AM monarch of all I survey,

My right there is none to dispute,
From the centre all round to the sea,

I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
O Solitude ! where are the charms

That sages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms,

Than reign in this horrible place.
I am out of humanity's reach,

I must finish my journey alone,
Never hear the sweet music of speech, -

I start at the sound of my own.

The beasts that roam over the plain

My form with indifference see; They are so unacquainted with man,

Their tameness is shocking to me. Society, Friendship, and Love,

Divinely bestow'd upon man, Oh, had I the wings of a dove

How soon would I taste you again! My sorrows I then might assuage

In the ways of religion and truth, Might learn from the wisdom of age,

And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth. Ye winds that have made me your sport,

Convey to this desolate shore
Some cordial endearing report

Of a land I shall visit no more !
My friends, do they now and then send

A wish or a thought after me?
Oh, tell me I yet have a friend,

Though a friend I am never to see. How fleet is a glance of the mind !

Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind,

And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land,

In a moment I seem to be there ; But alas ! recollection at hand

Soon hurries me back to despair. -But the seafowl is gone to her nest,

The beast is laid down in his lair, Even here is a season of rest,

And I to my cabin repair.
There's mercy in every place,

And mercy, encouraging thought !
Gives even affliction a grace,
And reconciles man to his lot.

W. CowPER. The Eve of St. John

THE Baron of Smaylho'me rose with day,

He spurr'd his courser on,
Without stop or stay, down the rocky way,

That leads to Brotherstone.
He went not with the bold Buccleuch,

His banner broad to rear ;
He went not 'gainst the English yew,

To lift the Scottish spear.
Yet his plate-jack' was braced, and his helmet was laced,

And his vaunt-brace of proof he wore ;
At his saddle-gerthe was a good steel sperthe,

Full ten pound weight and more.
The Baron return'd in three days' space,

And his looks were sad and sour ;
And weary was his courser's pace,

As he reach'd his rocky tower.
He came not from where Ancram Moor

Ran red with English blood ;
Where the Douglas true, and the bold Buccleuch,

'Gainst keen Lord Evers stood.
Yet was his helmet hack'd and hew'd,

His acton pierced and tore,
His axe and his dagger with blood imbrued, -

But it was not English gore.
He lighted at the Chapellage,

He held him close and still ;
And he whistled thrice for his little foot-page,

His name was English Will.
• Come thou hither, my little foot-page ;

Come hither to my knee ;
Though thou art young, and tender of age,

I think thou art true to me.
Come, tell me all that thou hast seen,

And look thou tell me true !
Since I from Smaylho'me tower have been,

What did thy lady do ?'

- The plate-jack is coat-armour; the vaunt-brace, or wam-brace, armour for the body; the sperthe, a battle-axe.


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