« EelmineJätka »
With timely care I'll sow my little field,
And plant my orchard with its master's hand, Nor blush to spread the hay, the hook to wield,
Or range my sheaves along the sunny land. If late at dusk, while carelessly I roam,
I meet a strolling kid, or bleating lamb, Under my arm I'll bring the wanderer home,
And not a little chide its thoughtless dam. What joy to hear the tempest howl in vain,
And clasp a fearful mistress to my breast ? Or, lulled to slumber by the beating rain,
Secure and happy, sink at last to rest ?
By shady rivers indolently stray,
Hear how they murmur as they glide away?
To stop and gaze on Delia as I go?
And teach my lovely scholar all I know?
In silent happiness I rest unknown ;
I live for Delia and myself alone.
Could float and wander with ambition's wind,
Not heed the sickness of his conscious mind!
Nor trust to happiness that's not our own
raise, But here I know that I am loved alone. Hers be the care of all my little train,
While I with tender indolence am blest, The favourite subject of her gentle reign,
By love alone distinguished from the rest.
In gloomy forests tend my lonely flock;.
And sleep extended on the naked rock:
And far from her 'midst tasteless grandeur weep, By marble fountains lay the pensive head,
And, while they murmur, strive in vain to sleep? Delia alone can please, and never tire,
Exceed the paint of thought in true delight; With her, enjoyinent wakens new desire,
And equal rapture glows through every night : Beauty and worth in her alike contend,
To charm the fancy, and to fix the mind; In her, my wife, my mistress, and my friend,
I taste the joys of sense and reason joined.
On her I'll gaze, when others' loves are o'er,
And dyivg press her with my clay-cold hand-
Nor can that gentle breast the thought withstand.
Nor let thy grief with sharper torments kill,
Though I am dead, my soul shall love thee still.
Or t'ou wilt die, so tender is thy heart,
These weeping friends will do thy mournful part:
Convey the corse in melancholy state,
While pitying maids our wondrous loves relate.
My Winifreda, move your care;
Nor squeamish pride nor gloomy fear.
With pompous titles grace our blood :
And, to be noble, we'll be good.+
Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke;
How they respect such little folk.
No mighty treasures we possess;
And be content without excess.
Sufficient for our wishes give;
And that's the only life to live.
We'll hånd in hand together tread;
And babes, sweet smiling babes, our bed.
While round my knees they fondly clung!
To hear them lisp their mother's tongue ! * This beautiful piece first appeared in a volume of Miscellaneous Poems. published by D. Lewis, 17.6. It has been erroneously ascribed to John Gilbert Cooper (1723-1769), author of a volume of poems, and some prose works (including a Life of Socrates).
+ This sentiment has been expressed in similar, but inore pointed language by Mr. Tennyson :
Howe'er it be. it seems to me.
Tis only noble to be good :
Lady Clara Vere do Vore.
And when with envy Time transported,
Shall think to rob us of our joys;
And I'll go wooing in my boys.
The Mystery of Life. By JOHN GAMBOLD, a bishop among the Moravian Brethren, who died in 1771. So many years I've seen the sun, [own, Some oft and freely mixed with mine,
And called these eyes and hands my In lasting bonds my heart have laid: A thousand little acts I've done,
O what is friendship! why impressed And childhood have, and manbood On my weak, wretched, dying breast ?
known : O what is life! and this dull round So many wondrous gleams of light, To tread, why was a spirit bound ?
And gentle ardours from above,
Have made me sit, like seraph bright, So many airy draughts and lines,
Some moments on a throne of love: And warm excursions of the mind, O what is virtue! why had I, Have filled my soul with great de igns: Who am so low, a taste so high ?
While practice grovelled far behind; O what is thought! and where withdraw Ere long, when sovereign wisdom wills, The glories which iny fincy saw ?
My soul an unknown path shall tread,
And strangely leave, who strangely fills So many tender joys and woes
This frame, and waft me to the dead : Have on iny quivering soul had power; O what is death! 'tis life's last shore, Plaiu life with heightening passions rose, Where vanities are vain no more ;
The boast or burden of their hour: Where all pursuits their goal obtain, O what is all we feel! why fled
And life is all retouched again ; Those pains and pleasures o'er my head? Where in their bright result shall rise
Thoughts, virtues, friendships, griefs, and So many human souls divine.
joys. So at one interview displayed,
The Beggar. By the Rev. T. Moss, who died in 1808, minister of Brierly Pill and of Trentham, Staffordshire. He published in 1769 a small collection of miscellaneous poems.
Pity the sorrows of a poor old man!
Whose trembling limbs have borne hiin to your door,
Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.
These hoary locks proclaim my leugthened years;
Has been the channel to a stream of tears.
With tempting aspect drew me from my road,
And grandeur a magnificent abode.
Here craving for a morsel of their bread,
To seek a shelter in a humbler shed.
Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold !
For I am poor, and miserably old.
Should I reveal the sonrce of every grief,
If soft humanity c'er touched your breast,
And tears of pity could not be repressed.
'Tis Heaven has brought me to the state you see:
The child of sorrow, and of misery.
Then, like the lark, I sprightly hailed the morn;
My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.
Lured by a villain from her native home,
And doomed in scanty poverty to roam.
Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree,
And left the world to wretchedness and me.
Pity the sorrows of a poor old man !
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,
Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.
Song from "The Shamrock' (Dublin, 1772). Belinda's sparkling eyes and wit
Thus the wild flood, with deafening roar, Do various passions raise;
Bursts dreadful from on high ; And, like the lightning, yield a bright, But soon its empty rage is o'er, But momentary blaze.
And leaves the channel dry : Eliza's milder, gentler sway,
While the pure stream, which still and Her conqnests fairly won,
slow, Shall last till life and time decay,
Its gentler current brings, Eternal as the sun.
Through every change of time shall flow,
With unexhausted springs.
Though with sighs and folded arms
I muse with silence on her charms;
Such delights I find in grief,
My fond heart would scorn the blessing." * These lines of the young , poet seem to have susgested a similar piece by Samuel Rogers, entitled, •TO
Go-you may call it madness, folly : Oh, if you knew the pensive pleasure
You shall not chase my gloom away; That fills my bosom when I sigh,
Monarchs aro too or to buy.
SCOTTISH POETS. Though most Scottish authors at this time—as Thomson, Mallet, &c. -composed in the English language, a few, stimulated by the success of Allan Ramsay, cultivated their native tongue. The best of these was Fergusson. The popularity of Ramsay's Tea-table Miscellanv' led to other collections and to new contributions to Scottish song, including “The Charmer,' by J. Yair, 1749–51. In 1776 appeared . Ancient and Modern Scottish Songs, Heroic Ballads,' &c. The editor of this collection was David HERD (1732–1810), a native of St. Cyrus, in Kincardineshire, who was clerk to an accountant in Edinburgh. Sir Walter Scott calls Herd's collection the first classsical collection of Scottish Songs and Ballads.' Above fifty pieces were written down from recitation, and thus preserved by the meritorious editor,
WILLIAM HAMILTON of Bangour, a Scottish gentleman of education, rank, and accomplishments, was born of an ancient family in Ayrshire in 1704. He was the delight of the fashionable circles of his native country, and became early distinguished for his poetical talents. Struck, we may suppose, with the romance of the enterprise, Hamilton, in 1745, joined the standard of Prince Charles, and became the volunteer laureate' of the Jacobites, by celebrating the battle of Gladsmuir. On the discomfiture of the party, Hamilton succeeded in effecting his escape to France; but having many friends and admirers among the royalists at home, a pardon was procured for the rebellious poet, and he was soon restored to bis native country and his paternal estate. He did not, however, live long to enjoy his good-fortune. His health had always been delicate, and a pulmonary complaint forced him to seek the warmer climate of the continent. He gradually declined, and died at Lyon in 1754,
Hamilton's first and best strains were dedicated to lyrical poetry. Before he was twenty he had assisted Allan Ramsay in his • Tea-table Miscellany.' In 1748, some person, unknown to him, collected and published his poems in Glasgow; but the first genuine and correct copy did not appear till after the author's death, in 1760, when a collection was made from his own manuscripts. The most attractive feature in bis works is his pure English style, and a somewhat ornate poetical diction. He had more fancy than feeling, and in this respect his amatory songs resemble those of the courtier-poets of Charles II.'s court. Nor was he more sincere, if we may credit an anecdote related of him by Alexander Tytler in his life of Henry Home, Lord Kames. One of the ladies whom Hamilton annoyed by his perpetual compliments and solicitations, consulted Home how she should get rid of the poet, who, she was convinced, bad no serious object in view. The philosopher advised her to dance with him, and shew him every mark of her kindness, as if she had resolved to favour his