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To the IDol of MY EYE AND DELIGHT OF MY HEART,
Would ye be taught, ye feathered throng,
With love's sweet notes to grace your song,
To pierce the heart with thrilling lay,
Listen to mine Anne Hathaway !
She hath a way to sing so clear,
Phoebus might wondering stop to hear.
To melt the sad, make blithe the gay,
And nature charm, Anne hath a way;
She hath a way,
To breathe delight Anne hath a way.
When Envy's breath and rancorous tooth
Do soil and bite fair worth and truth,
And merit to distress betray,
To soothe the heart Anne hath a way.
She hath a way to chase despair,
To heal all grief, to cure all care,
Turn foulest night to fairest day.
Thou know'st, fond heart, Anne hath a way;
She hath a way,
Anne Hathaway ;
To make grief bliss, Anne hath a way.
Talk not of gems, the orient list,
The diamond, topaz, amethyst,
The emerald mild, the ruby gay;
Talk of my gem, Anne Hathaway !
She hath a way, with her bright eye,
Their various lustres to defy, -
The jewels she, and the foil they,
So sweet to look Anne hath a way;
She hath a way,
- Anne Hathaway :
To shame bright gems, Anne hath a way.
But were it to my fancy given
To rate her charms, I'd call them heaven ;
For though a mortal made of clay,
Angels must love Anne Hathaway;
She hath a way so to control,
To rapture, the imprisoned soul,
THE Muse's fairest light in no dark time,
The wonder of a learnéd age ; the line
Which none can pass; the most proportioned
To nature, the best judge of what was fit;
The deepest, plainest, highest, clearest pen;
The voice most echoed by consenting men ;
The soul which answered best to all well said
By others, and which most requital made;
Tuned to the highest key of ancient Rome,
Returning all her music with his own ;
In whom, with nature, study claimed a part,
And yet who to himself owed all his art:
Here lies Ben Jonson every age will look
With sorrow here, with wonder on his book.
For thirty years secluded from mankind,
Here Marten lingered. Often have these walls
Echoed his footsteps, as with even tread
He paced around his prison : not to him
Did nature's fair varieties exist :
He never saw the sun's delightful beams,
Save when through yon high bars it poured a sil
And broken splendor. Dost thou ask his time:
He had rebelled against the king, and sat
In judgment on him ; for his ardent mind
Shaped goodliest plans of happiness on earth,
And peace and liberty. Wild dreams, but such
As Plato loved ; such as, with holy zeal,
Our Milton worshipped. Blessed hopes awhile
From man withheld, even to the latter days,
When Christ shall come and all things be fulfilled. Rob ERT Soo risis.
INSCRIPTION FOR BROWNRIGG'S CELL.
[Canning, who was retained by the other side, parodied Southey's
honest lines in the “Anti-Jacobin," November 20, 1797, by the fol.
lowing verses, entitled: “Inscription for the Door of the Cell in
Meagate where Mrs. Brownrigg the 'Prentice-cide was confined
previous to her Execution."]
For one long term, or ere her trial came,
Here Brownrigglingered. Often have these cells
Echoed her blasphemies, as with shrill voice
She screamed for fresh geneva. Not to her
Did the blithe fields of Tothill, or thy street,
St. Giles, its fair varieties expand;
Till at the last in slow-drawn cart she went
To execution. Dost thou ask her crime !
She whipped two female 'prentices to death,
And hid them in the coal-hole. For her mind
Shaped strictest plans of discipline. Sage
Such as Lycurgus taught, when at the shrine
Of the Orthyan goddess he bade flog
The little Spartans; such as erst chastised
Our Milton, when at college. For this act
Did Brownrigg swing. Harsh laws but time
When Franceshall reign, and laws be allrepealed.
WHENCE could arise the mighty critic spleen,
The muse a trifler, and her theme so mean
What had I done that angry heaven should send
The bitterest foe where most I wished a friend ?
Oft hath my tongue been wanton at this name,
And hailed the honors of thy matchless fame.
For me let hoary Fielding bite the ground,
So nobler Pickle stands superbly bound ;
From Livy's temples tear the historic crown,
Which with more justice blooms upon thy own.
Compared with thee, be all life-writers dumb,
But he who wrote the life of Tommy Thumb.
Who ever read the Regicide but sware
The author wrote as man ne'er wrote before ?
Others for plots and underplots may call,
Here's the right method, – have no plot at all !
TAKE back into thy bosom, earth,
This joyous, May-eyed morrow,
The gentlest child that ever mirth
Gave to be reared by sorrow !
'T is hard — while rays half green, half gold,
Through vernal bowers are burning,
Wild heather-bells and Robert Burns ! The moorland flower and peasant
How, at their mention, memory turns Her pages old and pleasant
The gray sky wears again its gold
And purple of adorning,
And manhood's noonday shadows hold
The dews of boyhood's morning.
The dews that washed the dust and soil From off the wings of pleasure,