294

ΑΝ ODE

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,
By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By Fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung,
There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay,
And Freedom shall a while repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there.

DIRGE

295

William Collins.

IN CYMBELINE

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove,
But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.

No wither'd witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew:
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew.

The red-breast oft at evening hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss and gather'd flowers,

To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds and beating rain
In tempests shake thy sylvan cell,
Or 'midst the chase on every plain,

The tender thought on thee shall dwell.

Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed:
Belov'd, till life can charm no more,

And mourn'd, till pity's self be dead.

William Collins.

296

ODE TO EVENING

IF aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,
Like thy own solemn springs,

Thy springs and dying gales,

O nymph reserv'd, while now the bright-hair'd Sun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
With brede ethereal wove,

O'erhang his wavy bed:

Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-ey'd bat
With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing,
Or where the beetle winds

His small but sullen horn,

As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,

Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum:

Now teach me, maid compos'd,

To breathe some soften'd strain,

Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale,
May not unseemly with its stillness suit,

As, musing slow, I hail

Thy genial lov'd return!

For when thy folding-star arising shows

His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
The fragrant Hours, and Elves

Who slept in buds the day,

And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, And sheds the freshening dew, and lovelier still,

The pensive Pleasures sweet

Prepare thy shadowy car.

Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene,
Or find some ruin 'midst its dreary dells,
Whose walls more awful nod

By thy religious gleams!

Or, if chill blustering winds, or driving rain,
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut,
That from the mountain's side

Views wilds and swelling floods,

And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires,
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all
Thy dewy fingers draw

The gradual dusky veil.

While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont,
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!

While Summer loves to sport
Beneath thy lingering light,

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves,
Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,
Affrights thy shrinking train,
And rudely rends thy robes:

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,

Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,

Thy gentlest influence own,

And love thy favourite name!

William Collins.

297

THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST

I'VE heard them lilting at our ewe-milking,

Lasses a-lilting before the dawn of day;

But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning :-
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At bughts in the morning nae blythe lads are scorning;

The lasses are lanely, and dowie, and wae;

Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing,
Ilk ane lifts her leglin, and hies her away.

In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering:
The bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray.

At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching—
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At e'en, in 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 of the Forest are a' wede away.

Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border! The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;

The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,
The prime of our land, lie cauld in the clay.

We'll hear nae mair lilting at our ewe-milking:
Women and bairns are heartless and wae,
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning:
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

Jean Elliot.

WHEN

298

LOVELY

WOMAN

WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom, is--to die.

Oliver Goldsmith.

299

DEEDS

IF

DOUGHTY

IF doughty deeds my lady please,
Right soon I'll mount my steed,
And strong his arm, and fast his seat,
That bears frae me the meed.

I'll wear thy colours in my cap,

Thy picture at my heart;

And he that bends not to thine eye

Shall rue it to his smart!

Then tell me how to woo thee, Love,

O, tell me how to woo thee!
For thy dear sake nae care I'll take,
Tho' ne'er another trow me.

If gay attire delight thine eye,
I'll dight me in array,

I'll tend thy chamber door all night,
And squire thee all the day.
If sweetest sounds can win thine ear,
These sounds I'll strive to catch:
Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysel',
That voice that nane can match.

But if fond love thy heart can gain,
I never broke a vow,

Nae maiden lays her skaith to me,
I never loved but you.

For you alone I ride the ring,
For you I wear the blue,

For you alone I strive to sing

O, tell me how to woo !

Then tell me how to woo thee, Love,

O, tell me how to woo thee!

For thy dear sake nae care I'll take,
Tho' ne'er another trow me.

Graham of Gartmore.

300

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 heel,
And laid her on her side.