網頁圖片
PDF
ePub 版

For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate,
If, chance, by lonely Contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate;

+

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
“Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn,
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

[ocr errors]

There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove; Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn,

Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.

"One morn I missed him on the 'customed hill, Along the heath and near his favorite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill,

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood, was he;

"The next, with dirges due, in sad array,

Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne; Approach and read - for thou canst read the lay,

Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

THE EPITAPH.

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth,
A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown;
Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy marked him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send;

He gave to misery all he had

- a tear,

He gained from Heaven't was all he wished

a

friend.

No further seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode;
There they alike in trembling hope repose,-
The bosom of his Father and his God.

NATHANIEL COTTON.

1721-1788.

Cotron was a physician by profession, and was particularly distinguished for his treatment of insanity. The poet Cowper was, for a time, under his care, for this malady, and speaks in commendatory terms of his humanity and sweetness of temper. Cotton wrote Visions in Verse, for children, and a volume of poetical Miscellanies.

THE FIRESIDE.

DEAR CHLOE, while the busy crowd,
The vain, the wealthy and the proud,
In folly's maze advance,
Though singularity and pride

Be called our choice, we 'll step aside,
Nor join the giddy dance.

From the gay world we 'll oft retire,
To our own family and fire,

Where love our hours employs;
No noisy neighbor enters here,
Nor intermeddling stranger near,
To spoil our heartfelt joys.

If solid happiness we prize,
Within our breast this jewel lies,

And they are fools who roam;

The world has nothing to bestow;
From our own selves our joys must flow,

And that dear hut-our home.

Of rest was Noah's dove bereft,

When, with impatient wing, she left

That safe retreat the ark.

Giving her vain excursion o'er,

The disappointed bird once more
Explored the sacred bark.

Though fools spurn Hymen's gentle powers,

We, who improve his golden hours,

By sweet experience know, That marriage, rightly understood, Gives to the tender and the good A Paradise below.

Our babes shall richest comforts bring;
If tutored right, they'll prove a spring
Whence pleasures ever rise.

We'll form their minds with studious care,
To all that's manly, good and fair,
And train them for the skies.

While they our wisest hours engage,
They'll joy our youth, support our age,
And crown our hoary hairs.
They'll grow in virtue every day,
And thus our fondest loves repay,
And recompense our cares.

No borrowed joys,—they 're all our own,
While to the world we live unknown,
Or by the world forgot:

Monarchs! we envy not your state;
We look with pity on the great,
And bless our humbler lot.

Our portion is not large, indeed;
But then how little do we need!

For Nature's calls are few;

In this the art of living lies,

To want no more than may suffice,
And make that little do.

We'll therefore relish, with content,
Whate'er kind Providence has sent,

Nor aim beyond our power;
For, if our stock be very small,
'Tis prudence to enjoy it all,
Nor lose the present hour.

To be resigned when ills betide,
Patient when favors are denied,

And pleased with favors given;
Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part,
This is the incense of the heart,

Whose fragrance smells to heaven.

We'll ask no long-protracted treat,
Since winter-life is seldom sweet;
But when our feast is o'er,
Grateful from table we 'll arise,

Nor grudge our sons, with envious eyes,

The relics of our store.

Thus, hand in hand, through life we 'll go ;
Its chequered paths of joy and woe
With cautious step we 'll tread;
Quit its vain scenes without a tear,
Without a trouble or a fear,

And mingle with the dead.

While conscience, like a faithful friend,
Shall through the gloomy vale attend,
And cheer our dying breath;
Shall, when all other comforts cease,
Like a kind angel, whisper peace,
And smooth the bed of death.

DR. THOMAS PERCY. 1728-1811.

Percy is chiefly known as the compiler of Reliques of English Poetry, in which he has revived many old songs and ballads, and which have had an extensive influence in awakening a love of nature

and simplicity. They are said to have given the first impulse to Scott's genius, and to have affected the writings of Coleridge and Wordsworth. The Friar of Orders Gray was made from fragments of ancient ballads, with many additional stanzas, by Percy, and serves as a specimen of the olden song. Johnson and Goldsmith were friends of Percy, and, in his old age, he had the pleasure of seeing the early developments of his admirer, Walter Scott.

THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY..
Ir was a friar of orders gray

Walked forth to tell his beads,
And he met with a lady fair,

Clad in a pilgrim's weeds.

"Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar!

I

pray thee tell to me,

If ever at yon holy shrine

My true love thou didst see."

“And how should I know your true love,

From many another one?"
"O! by his cockle hat and staff,

And by his sandal shoon;

"But chiefly by his face and mien,

That were so fair to view,
His flaxen locks that sweetly curled,
And eyes of lovely blue.""

"O, lady, he is dead and gone!
Lady, he's dead and gone!
At his head a grass-green turf,
And at his heels a stone.

"Within these holy cloisters long

He languished, and he died,

Lamenting of a lady's love,

And 'plaining of her pride.

"Here bore him bare-faced on his bier
Six proper youths and tall;

And many a tear bedewed his grave
Within yon kirk-yard wall."

« 上一頁繼續 »