Well knowing him a sacred thing, Not destined to my tooth, I only kissed his ruffled wing, And licked the feathers smooth.
Let my obedience then excuse My disobedience now, Nor some reproof yourselves refuse From your aggrieved bow-wow;
If killing brids be such a crime,
(Which I can hardly see,) What think you, sir, of killing Time With verse addressed to me?
THE twentieth year is well nigh past, Since our first sky was overcast, Ah would that this might be the last! My Mary!
'Thy spirits have a fainter flow, I see them daily weaker grow- 'Twas my distress that brought thee low My Mary!
Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disused, and shine no more,
For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil The same kind office for me still, Thy sight now seconds not thy will,
My Mary! But well thou playd'st the housewife's part, And all thy threads with magic art, Have wound themselves about this heart, My Mary!
Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language uttered in a dream; Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,
Thy silver locks once auburn bright, Are still more lovely in my sight Than golden beams of orient light, My Mary!
For could I view nor them nor thee, What sight worth seeing could I see? The sun would rise in vain for me,
Partakers of thy sad decline, Thy hands their little force resign; Yet gently prest, press gently mine,
Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st, That now at every step thou mov'st, Upheld by two, yet still thou lov'st, My Mary!
And still to love, though prest with ill, In wintry age to feel no chill, With me is to be lovely still,
But ah! by constant heed I know, How oft the sadness that I show, Transforms thy smiles to looks of wo, My Mary!
And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn-out heart will break at last, My Mary!
SEEN FLOATING IN THE GERMAN OCEAN.
WHAT portents, from that distant region, ride, Unseen till now in ours, the astonished tide? In ages past, old Proteus, with his droves Of seacalves, sought the mountains and the groves. But now, descending whence of late they stood, Themselves the mountains seem to rove the flood. Dire times were they, full-charged with human woes;
And these, scarce less calamitous than those. What view we now? More wondrous still? Behold!
Like burnished brass they shine, or beaten gold; And all around the pearl's pure splendour show, And all around the ruby's fiery glow. Come they from India, where the burning earth, All bounteous, gives her richest treasures birth; And where the costly gems, that beam around The brows of mightiest potentates, are found? No. Never such a countless dazzling store Had left, unseen, the Ganges' peopled shore. Rapacious hands, and ever-watchful eyes, Should sooner far have marked and seized the prize. Whence sprang they then? Ejected have they come From Ves'vius', or from Ætna's burning womb? Thus shine they self-illumed, or but display The borrowed splendours of a cloudless day? With borrowed beams they shine. The gales, that breathe
Now landward, and the current's force beneath, Have borne them nearer: and the nearer sight, Advantaged more, contemplates them aright. Their lofty summits crested high, they show, With mingled sleet, and long-incumbent snow. The rest is ice. Far hence, where most, severe, Bleak winter well-nigh saddens all the year
Their infant growth began. He bade arise Their uncouth forms, portentous in our eyes. Oft as dissolved by transient suns, the snow Left the tall cliff, to join the flood below; He caught, and curdled with a freezing blast The current, ere it reached the boundless waste. By slow degrees uprose the wondrous pile, And long successive ages rolled the while; Till, ceaseless in its growth, it claimed to stand, Tall as its rival mountains on the land. Thus stood, and unremoveable by skill, Or force of man, had stood the structure still; But that, though firmly fixed, supplanted yet By pressure of its own enormous weight,
It left the shelving beach-and, with a sound That shook the bellowing waves and rocks around Self-launched, and swiftly, to the briny wave, As if instinct with strong desire to lave, Down went the ponderous mass. So bards of old, How Delos swam th' Egean deep, have told. But not of ice was Delos. Delos bore Herb, fruit, and flower. She, crowned with laurel, wore,
Even under wintry skies, a summer smile; And Delos was Apollo's favourite isle. But, horrid wanderers of the deep, to you, He deems cimmerian darkness only due. Your hated birth he deigned not to survey, But, scornful, turned his glorious eyes away. Hence! seek your home, nor longer rashly dare The darts of Phoebus, and a softer air; Lest ye regret, too late, your native coast, In no congenial gulf for ever lost!
THE CASTAWAY. OBSCUREST night involved the sky;
Th' Atlantic billows roared, When such a destined wretch as I, Washed headlong from on board, Of friends, of hopes, of all bereft, His floating home for ever left.
No braver chief could Albion boast, Than he, with whom we went, Nor ever ship left Albion's coast, With warmer wishes sent.
He loved them both, but both in vain, Nor him beheld, nor her again.
Not long beneath the whelming brine,
Expert to swim he lay;
Nor soon he felt his strength decline, Or courage die away; But waged with death a lasting strife, Supported by despair of life.
He shouted; nor his friends had failed
To check the vessel's course, But so the furious blast prevailed, That, pitiless, perforce,
They left their outcast mate behind, And scudded still before the wind.
Some succour yet they could afford; And, such as storms allow, The cask, the coop, the floated cord,
Delayed not to bestow;
But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore, Whate'er they gave, should visit more.
Nor, cruel as it seemed, could he, Their haste himself condemn, Aware that flight, in such a sea,
Alone could rescue them; Yet bitter felt it still to die Deserted, and his friends so nigh.
He long survives, who lives an hour In ocean self-upheld:
And so long he, with unspent power His destiny repelled: And ever as the minutes flew, Entreated help, or cried-" Adieu!"
At length, his transient respite past, His comrades, who before Had heard his voice in every blast,
Could catch the sound no more. For then, by toil subdued, he drank The stifling wave, and then he sank.
No poet wept him: but the page Of narrative sincere,
That tells his name, his worth, his age, Is wet with Anson's tear. And tears by bards or heroes shed Alike immortalize the dead.
I therefore purpose not, or dream, Descanting on his fate, To give the melancholy theme A more enduring date. But misery still delights to trace Its 'semblance in another's case.
No voice divine the storm allayed No light propitious shone; When, snatched from all effectual aid, We perished each alone: But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelmed in deeper gulfs than hc.
Translations from Vincent Bourne
I. THE GLOW-WORM. BENEATH the hedge, or near the stream, A worm is known to stray; That shows by night a lucid beam, Which disappears by day.
Disputes have been, and still prevail, From whence his rays proceed; Some give that honour to his tail, And others to his head.
But this is sure the hand of night, That kindles up the skies, Gives him a modicum of light Proportioned to his size.
Perhaps indulgent Nature meant, By such a lamp bestowed, To bid the traveller, as he went,
Be careful where he trod:
Nor crush a worm, whose useful light Might serve, however small,
To show a stumbling-stone by night, And save him from a fall.
Whate'er she meant, this truth divine
Is legible and plain,
'Tis power almighty bids him shine, Nor bids him shine in vain.
Ye proud and wealthy, let this theme Teach humbler thoughts to you, Since such a reptile has its gem, And boasts its splendour too.
II. THE JACKDAW.
THERE is a bird, who by his coat, And by the hoarseness of his note, Might be supposed a crow; A great frequenter of the church, Where bishop-like he finds a perch, And dormitory too.
Above the steeple shines a plate, That turns and turns, to indicate
From what point blows the weather. Look up your brains begin to swim, 'Tis in the clouds-that pleases him, He chooses it the rather.
Fond of the speculative height, Thither he wings his airy flight, And thence securely sees The bustle and the rareeshow That occupy mankind below Secure and at his ease.
You think, no doubt, he sits and muses On future broken bones and bruises, If he should chance to fall. No; not a single thought like that Employs his philosophic pate, Or troubles it at all.
He sees that this great roundabout, The world, with all its motley rout, Church, army, physic, law, Its customs, and its business, Is no concern at all of his,
And says what says he?-Caw.
Thrice happy bird! I too have seen Much of the vanities men;
And, sick of having seen 'em, Would cheerfully these limbs resign For such a pair of wings as thine, And such a head between 'em.
III. THE CRICKET. LITTLE inmate, full of mirth, Chirping on my kitchen hearth. Wheresoe'er be thine abode, Always harbinger of good, Pay me for thy warm retreat With a song more soft and sweet In return thou shalt receive Such a strain as I can give.
Thus thy praise shall be expressed, Inoffensive, welcome guest! While the rat is on the scout, And the mouse with curious snout, With what vermin else infest Every dish, and spoil the best. Frisking thus before the fire, Thou hast all thine heart's desire.
Though in voice and shape they be Formed as if akin to thee, Thou surpassest, happier far, Happiest grasshoppers that are; Theirs is but a summer's song, Thine endures the winter long, Unimpaired, and shrill, and clear, Melody throughout the year.
Neither night, nor dawn of day, Puts a period to thy play: Sing then-and extend thy span Far beyond the date of man. Wretched man whose years are spent In repining discontent,
Lives not, aged though he be, Half a span, compared with thee.
IV. THE PARROT.
IN painted plumes superbly dressed, A native of the gorgeous east,
By many a billow tossed, Poll gains at length the British shore, Part of the captain's precious store, A present to his toast.
Belinda s maids are soon preferred, To teach him now and then a word,
As Poll can master it; But 'tis her own important charge, To qualify him more at large,
And make him quite a wit.
Sweet Poll! his doating mistress cries, Sweet Poll! the mimic bird replies;
And calls aloud for sack. She next instructs him in the kiss; 'Tis now a little one, like Miss, And now a hearty smack.
At first he aims at what he hears; And listening close with both his ears, Just catches at the sound; But soon articulates aloud, Much to th' amusement of the crowd, And stuns the neighbours round.
A querulous old woman's voice His humorous talent next employs; He scolds, and gives the lie. And now he sings, and now is sick, Here, Sally, Susan, come, come quick, Poor Poll is like to die!
Belinda and her bird! 'tis rare
To meet with such a well-matched pair, The language and the tone, Each character in every part Sustained with so much grace and art, And both in unison.
When children first begin to spell, And stammer out a syllable,
We think them tedious creatures; But difficulties soon abate, When birds are to be taught to prate, And women are the teachers.
V. THE THRACIAN.
THRACIAN parents, at his birth, Mourn their babe with many a tear, But with undissembled mirth
Place him breathless on his bier.
Greece and Rome, with equal scorn, "O the savages!' exclaim, 'Whether they rejoice or mourn, Well entitled to the name!'
But the cause of this concern, And this pleasure would they trace, Even they might somewhat learn From the savages of Thrace.
THE PRIMARY LAW OF NATURE.
ANDROCLES from his injured lord, in dread Of instant death, to Libya's desert fled. Tired with his toilsome flight, and parched with heat,
He spied, at length, a cavern's cool retreat; But scarce had given to rest his weary frame When hugest of his kind, a lion came: He roared approaching: but the savage din To plaintive murmurs changed, arrived within, And with expressive looks his lifted paw Presenting, aid implored from whom he saw. The fugitive, through terror at a stand, Dared not awhile afford his trembling hand, But bolder grown, at length inherent found A pointed thorn, and drew it from the wound. The cure was wrought; he wiped the sanious
And firm and free from pain the lion stood, Again he seeks the wilds, and day by day, Regales his inmate with the parted prey. Nor he disdains the dole, though unprepared, Spread on the ground, and with a lion shared. But thus to live-still lost-sequestered still- Scarce seemed his lord's revenge a heavier ill. Home! native home! O might he but repair! He must-he will, though death attends him there..
He goes, and doomed to perish, on the sands Of the full theatre unpitied stands: When lo! the self-same lion from his cage Flies to devour him, famished into rage. He flies, but viewing in his purposed prey The man, his healer, pauses on his way, And softened by remembrance into sweet And kind composure, crouches at his feet.
Mute with astonishment th' assembly gaze: But why, ye Romans? Whence your mute amaze? All this is natural: nature bade him rend An enemy; she bids him spare a friend.
More ancient than the Art of Printing, and not to be found in any Catalogue.
THERE is a book, which we may call (Its excellence is such) Alone a library, though small;
The ladies thumb it much.
Words none, things numerous it contains: And, things with words compared, Who needs be told, that has nis brains, Which merits most regard?
Ofttimes its leaves of scarlet hue A golden edging boast; And opened, it displays to view Twelve pages at the most.
Nor name, nor title, stamped behind, Adorns his outer part;
But all within 'tis richly lined, A magazine of art.
'The whitest hands that secret hoard
Oft visit: and the fair Preserve it in their bosoms stored, As with a miser's care.
Thence implements of every size, And formed for various use, (They need but to consult their eyes) They readily produce.
The largest and the longest kind Possess the foremost page, A sort most needed by the blind,
Or nearly such from age.
The full-charged leaf, which next ensues, Presents, in bright array, The smaller sort, which matrons use, Not quite so blind as they.
The third, the fourth, the fifth supply What their occasions ask, Who with a more discerning eye Perform a nicer task.
But still with regular decrease
From size to size they fall, In every leaf grow less and less;
The last are least of all.
O! what a fund of genius, pent In narrow space, is here! This volume's method and intent How luminous and clear!
It leaves no reader at a loss
Or posed, whoever reads: No commentator's tedious gloss, Nor even index needs.
Search Bodley's many thousands o'er,
Nor book is treasured there, Nor yet in Granta's numerous store, That may with this compare. No! Rival none in either host
Of this was ever seen, Or, that contents could justly boast, So brilliant anu so keer
VIII. AN ENIGMA. A NEEDLE small as small can be, In bulk and use surpasses me,
Nor is my purchase dear; For little, and almost for naught, As many of my kind are bought
As days are in the year.
Yet though but little use we boast, And are procured at little cost, The labour is not light,
Nor few artificers it asks, All skilful in their several tasks, To fashion us aright,
One fuses metal o'er the fire, A second draws it into wire,
The shears another plies, Who clips in lengths the brazen thread, For him, who, chafing every thread, Gives all an equal size.
A fifth prepares, exact and round, The knob with which it must be crowned;
His follower makes it fast: And with his mallet and his file To shape the point employs awhile
The seventh and the last.
Now, therefore, Edipus! declare What creature, wonderful and rare, A process that obtains Its purpose with so much ado, At last produces !-tell me true, And take me for your pains!
IX. SPARROWS SELF-DOMESTI
IN TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. NONE ever shared the social feast, Or as an inmate or a guest, Beneath the celebrated dome, Where once Sir Isaac had his home, Who saw not (and with some delight Perhaps he viewed the novel sight) How numerous, at the tables there, The sparrows beg their daily fare. For there, in every nook and cell, Where such a family may dwell, Sure as the vernal season comes Their nests they weave in hope of crumbs, Which kindly given, may serve, with food Convenient, their unfeathered brood; And oft as with its summons clear, The warning bell salutes the ear,
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