The antic Monkeys, whose wild gambols late, When not a breeze waved the tall jungle grass, Shook the whole wood, are hush'd, and silently Hang on the cluster'd tree. All things in wonder and delight are still; Only at times the nightingale is heard, Not that in emulous skill that sweetest bird Her rival strain would try, A mighty songster, with the Maid to vie; She only bore her part in powerful sympathy. 190 Nor trinketry on front, or neck, or breast, Marring the perfect form: she seem'd a thing Of Heaven's prime uncorrupted work, a child Of early nature undefiled, A daughter of the years of innocence. And therefore all things loved her. When she stood Beside the glassy pool, the fish, that flies Quick as an arrow from all other eyes, Hover'd to gaze on her. The mother bird, When Kailyal's step she heard, Sought not to tempt her from her secret nest, But hastening to the dear retreat, would fly To meet and welcome her benignant eye. 210 THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM It was a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was done, And he before his cottage door Was sitting in the sun, And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine. She saw her brother Peterkin Roll something large and round, Which he beside the rivulet 6 In playing there had found; He came to ask what he had found, That was so large, and smooth, and round. Old Kaspar took it from the boy, Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head, And with a natural sigh, "Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, "Who fell in the great victory. "I find them in the garden, The ploughshare turns them out! For many thousand men," said he, "Were slain in that great victory." "Now tell me what 'twas all about," Young Peterkin, he cries; And little Wilhelmine looks up With wonder-waiting eyes; "Now tell us all about the war, And what they fought each other for." "It was the English," Kaspar cried, "Who put the French to rout; But what they fought each other for, I could not well make out; But everybody said," quoth he, "That 'twas a famous victory. "My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by; They burnt his dwelling to the ground, So with his wife and child he fled, "With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide, And many a childing mother then, And new-born baby died; But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory. II 18 24 30 36 42 48 My days among the Dead are past; The mighty minds of old; With them I take delight in weal, And while I understand and feel How much to them I owe, My cheeks have often been bedew'd My thoughts are with the Dead, with them Their virtues love, their faults condemn, 12 "Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast, Ever here in Cornwall been? For an if she have, I'll venture my life She has drunk of the Well of St. Keyne." 24 28 Drank of this crystal well, And before the Angel summoned her She laid on the water a spell. "If the Husband of this gifted well Shall drink before his Wife, A happy man thenceforth is he, For he shall be Master for life. 36 40 CHARLES LAMB FROM A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO May the Babylonish curse Straight confound my stammering verse, If I can a passage see In this word-perplexity, Or a language to my mind (Still the phrase is wide or scant), Half my love, or half my hate; And the passion to proceed More from a mistress than a weed. Sooty retainer to the vine! And, for thy pernicious sake, 'Gainst women! Thou thy siege dost lay Much, too, in the female way, While thou suck'st the labouring breath Faster than kisses, or than death. Thou in such a cloud dost bind us That our worst foes cannot find us, And ill fortune, that would thwart us, Shoots at rovers, shooting at us; 367 ΙΟ 20 30 While each man, through thy heightening steam, Does like a smoking Etna seem; And all about us does express (Fancy and wit in richest dress) A Sicilian fruitfulness. ΙΟ Bound with so playful and so light a foot, That the pressed daisy scarce declined her head. ΙΟ The snow had left the mountain-top; fresh flowers 20 Old Thallinos sat mute In solitary sadness. The strange tale (Not until Rhaicos died, but then the whole) Echion had related, whom no force Could ever make look back upon the oaks. The father said, "Echion! thou must weigh, Carefully, and with steady hand, enough (Although no longer comes the store as once!) Of wax to burn all day and night upon That hollow stone where milk and honey lie: So may the gods, so may the dead, be pleas'd!" Thallinos bore it thither in the morn, And lighted it and left it. And Acon; of one age, one hope, one trus "May never we The father of the youth Wanted not beauty for him, wanted not Song, that could lift earth's weight from off his heart, 49 Discretion, that could guide him thro' the world, Fathers have given life, but virgin heart 60 Acon was grieved, he said, grieved bitterly, The gentler, that relies on thee alone, 70 Meanwhile he sauntered in the wood of oaks, Nor shunn'd to look upon the hollow stone That held the milk and honey, nor to lay His plighted hand where recently 'twas laid Opposite hers, when finger playfully Advanced and push'd back finger, on each side. He did not think of this, as she would do If she were there alone. The day was hot; The moss invited him; it cool'd his cheek, It cool'd his hands; he thrust them into it And sank to slumber. Never was there dream Divine as his. He saw the Hamadryad. She took him by the arm and led him on So WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR Ald valley, where profusely grew 90 The feathery fern, and, browser of moist banks, Nothing was there delightful. At this change 100 "Weak youth! what brought Thy footstep to this wood, my native haunt, My life-long residence? this bank, where first I sate with him the faithful (now I know Too late!) the faithful Rhaicos. Haste thee home; Be happy, if thou canst; but come no more Where those whom death alone could sever, died." He started up: the moss whereon he slept III Was dried and withered: deadlier paleness spread Over his cheek; he sickened: and the sire Had land enough; it held his only son. ROSE AYLMER Ah, what avails the sceptred race, What every virtue, every grace! Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes A night of memories and of sighs A FIESOLAN IDYL Here, where precipitate Spring with one light bound Whose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier ones While I was gazing a few paces off 369 9 At what they seem'd to show me with their nods, Borne hard upon weak plant that wanted me, 30 Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts, 39 Of harder wing were working their way thro' Whether for me to look at or to take doubt. I dared not touch it; for it seemed a part |