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And there sung the doleful'st ditty,
That to hear it was great pity.
Fie, fie, fie, nor would she cry;
Teru, teru, by and by;
That to hear her so complain,
Scarce I could from tears refrain;
For her griefs, so lively shown,
Made me think upon mine own.
Ah! (thought I) thou mourn'st in vain ;
None takes pity on thy pain:
Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee,
Ruthless bears, they will not cheer thee.
King Pandion, he is dead;
All thy friends are lapp'd in lead;
All thy fellow-birds do sing,
Careless of thy sorrowing!
Whilst, as fickle Fortune smil'd,
Thou and I were both beguil❜d.
Every one that flatters thee
Is no friend in misery.
Words are easy like the wind;,
Faithful friends are hard to find,
Every man will be thy friend
Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend;
But if store of crowns be scant,
No man will supply thy want.
If that one be prodigal,
Bountiful they will him call;
And with such like flattering,
Pity but he were a king.'
If he be addict to vice,
Quickly him they will entice;
If to women he be bent,
They have at commandement;
But if fortune once do frown,
Then farewell his great renown;
They that fawn'd on him before
Use his company no more.
He that is thy friend indeed,
He will help thee in thy need;
If thou sorrow, he will weep,
If thou wake, he cannot sleep:
Thus, of every grief in heart
He with thee doth bear a part.
These are certain signs to know
Faithful friend from flattering foe.
TO THE MOON.
THOU Silent Moon, that look'st so pale,
So much exhausted, and so faint,
Wandering over hill and dale,
Watching oft the kneeling saint-
Hearing his groans float on the gale-
No wonder thou art tir'd and pale.
Yet have I often seen thee bring
Thy beams o'er yon bare mountain's steep; Then, with a smile, their lustre fling
Full on the dark and roaring deep; When the pilgrim's heart did fail, And when near lost the tossing sail.
Sure, that passing blush deceives;
For thou, fair nymph, art chaste and cold! Love our bosoms seldom leaves;
But thou art of a different mould.
Hail, chaste queen! for ever hail!
And, prithee, look not quite so pale!
Yet stay-perhaps thou'st travell'd far,
Exulting in thy conscious light;
Till, as I fear, some youthful star,
Hath spread his charms before thy sight:
And when he found his arts prevail
He left thee, sickening, faint, and pale.
Miss Scott, of Ancram,
TO THE OWL.
WHILE the Moon, with sudden gleam,
Through the clouds that cover her,
Darts her light upon the stream,
And the poplars gently stir,
Pleas'd I hear thy boding cry!
Owl, that lov'st the cloudy sky,
Sure, thy notes are harmony!
While the maiden, pale with care,
Wanders to the lonely shade,
Sighs her sorrows to the air,
While the flowerets round her fade,
Shrinks to hear thy boding cry,-
Owl, that lov'st the cloudy sky,
To her it is not harmony!
While the wretch, with mournful dole,
Wrings his hands in agony,
Praying for his brother's soul,
Whom he pierced suddenly,
Shrinks to hear thy boding cry,—
Owl! that lov'st the cloudy sky,
To him it is not harmony.
WHEN first the fiery-mantled Sun
His heavenly race began to run,
Round the earth and ocean blue,
His children four (the Seasons) flew:
First in green apparel dancing,
Smiled the Spring with angel face ;
Rosy Summer next advancing,
Rushed into her sire's embrace-
Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep
For ever nearest to his smiles-
On Calpe's olive shaded steep,
Or India's citron-cover'd isles,
More remote and buxom brown
The queen of vintage bow'd before his throne; A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown, A ripe sheaf bound her zone.
But howling Winter fled afar
To hills that prop the polar star,
And loves on deer-borne car to ride,
With barren Darkness by his side,
Round the shore where loud Lofoden
Whirls to death the roaring whale, Round the pole where Runic Oden
Howls his war-song to the gale :
Save when down the ravag'd globe
He travels on his native storm;
Deflowering Nature's grassy robe,
And trampling on her faded form;
Till night's returning lord assume
The shaft that drives him to the northern field, Of power to pierce his raven plume, And crystal-cover'd shield.
O sire of storms! whose savage ear
The Lapland drum delights to hear,
When Phrenzy, with her blood-shot eye,
Implores thy dreadful deity--
Archangel power of desolation,
Fast descending as thou art,
Say, hath mortal invocation
Spells to touch thy stony heart? Then, sullen Winter, hear my prayer, And gently rule the ruined year; Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare,
Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear;
To shiv'ring Want's unmantled bed
Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend,
And mildly on the orphan head
Of innocence descend!
But chiefly spare, O king of clouds,
The sailor on his airy shrouds—
When wrecks and beacons strew the steep,
And spectres walk along the deep;
Milder yet thy snowy breezes
Breathe on yonder tented shores,
Where the Rhine's bright billow freezes,
Where the dark-brown Danube roars!