Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;
And Sport leap'd up, and seized his beechen spear.
Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:
He with viny crown, advancing,
First to the lively pipe his hand address'd;
But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best.
They would have thought, who heard the strain,
They saw in Tempè's vale her native maids
Amidst the festal-sounding shades
To some unwearied minstrel dancing,
While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round :
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;
And he amidst his frolic play,
As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.
O Music! sphere-descended Maid!
Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid!
Why, Goddess! why, to us denied,
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside?
As in that loved Athenian bower
You learn'd an all-commanding power,
Thy mimic soul, O Nymph endear'd!
Can well recall what then it heard.
Where is thy native simple heart,
Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art ?
Arise, as in that elder time,
Warm, energic, chaste, sublime!
Thy wonders in that god-like age
Fill thy recording Sister's page :
'Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
Had more of strength, diviner rage,
Than all which charms this laggard age,
E'en all at once together found,
Cecilia's mingled world of sound.
O bid our vain endeavours cease!
Revive the just designs of Greece!
Return in all thy simple state :
Confirm the tales her sons relate!
INSCRIPTION FOR A GROTTO.
To me, whom in their lays the shepherds call
Actæa, daughter of the neighbouring stream,
This cave belongs. The fig-tree and the vine,
Which o'er the rocky entrance downward shoot,
Were placed by Glycon. He with cowslips pale,
Primrose, and the purple lychnis, deck'd the green
Before my threshold, and my shelving walls
With honeysuckle cover'd. Here, at noon,
Lull'd by the murmur of my rising fount,
I slumber here my clustering fruits I tend;
Or from the humid flowers at break of day
Fresh garlands weave, and chase from all my bounds
Each thing impure or noxious. Enter in,
O Stranger! undismay'd. Nor bat nor toad
Here lurks and, if thy breast of blameless thoughts
Approve thee, not unwelcome shalt thou tread
My quiet mansion: chiefly if thy name
Wise Pallas and the immortal Muses own.
ON A SERMON AGAINST GLORY.
Come then, tell me, sage divine!
Is it an offence to own
That our bosoms e'er incline
Toward immortal Glory's throne?
For with me nor pomp nor pleasure,
Bourbon's might, Braganza's treasure,
So can Fancy's dream rejoice,
So conciliate Reason's choice,
As one approving word of her impartial voice.
If to spurn at noble praise
Be the passport to thy heaven,
Follow thou those gloomy ways!
No such law to me was given :
Nor, I trust, shall I deplore me,
Faring like my friends before me;
Nor an holier place desire
Than Timoleon's arms acquire,
And Tully's curule chair, and Milton's golden lyre.
THE FLOWERS O' THE FOREST.
I've heard the lilting at our yowe-milking,
Lasses a-lilting before dawn o' day;
But now they are moaning in ilka green loaning:
The Flowers o' the Forest are a' wede away.
At bughts in the morning nae blithe lads are scorning,
The lasses are lonely and dowie and wae ;
Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing ;
Ilk ane lifts her luglen and hies her away.
In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
The bandsters are lyart and runkled and grey;
At fair or at preaching nae wooing, nae fleeching :
The Flowers o' the Forest are a' wede away.
At e'en, at the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming,
'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play;
But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie :
The Flowers o' the Forest are a' wede away.
Dule and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border! The English, for ance, by guile wan the day :
The Flowers o' the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,
The Prime o' our Land, are cauld in the clay.
We hear nae mair lilting at our yowe-milking,
Women and bairns are heartless and wae,
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning:
The Flowers o' the Forest are a' wede away.
ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.
Toll for the Brave!
The Brave that are no more:
All sunk beneath the wave
Fast by their native shore!
Eight hundred of the Brave,
Whose courage well was tried,
Had made the vessel keel
And laid her on her side:
A land-breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset:
Down went the Royal George,
With all her crew complete.
Toll for the Brave!
Brave Kempenfelt is gone :
His last sea-fight is fought,
His work of glory done.
It was not in the battle,
No tempest gave the shock,
She sprang no fatal leak,
She ran upon no rock.
His sword was in its sheath,
His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down,
With twice four hundred men.
Weigh the vessel up
Once dreaded by our foes!
And mingle with our cup
The tear that England owes!
Her timbers yet are sound
And she may float again,
Full charged with England's thunder,
And plough the distant main:
But Kempenfelt is gone,
His victories are o'er ;
And he and his eight hundred
Shall plough the wave no more.
The twentieth year is well-nigh past
Since first our sky was overcast :
Ah! would that this might be the last,
My Mary!
Thy spirits have a fainter flow,
I see thee 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,
My Mary!
For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil
The same kind office for me still,
Thy sight now seconds not thy will,
My Mary!
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