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But now,



8 Witch.

Witness those rings and roundelayes Thescrich-owles egges, and the feathers blacke, Of theirs, which yet remaine; The bloud of the frogge, and the bone in his Were footed in queen Maries dayes backe,

On many a grassy playne. I have been getting; and made of his skin But since of late Elizabeth A purset, to keep sir Cranion in.

And later James came in ;

They never danc'd on any heath,
9 Wiich.

As when the time had been.
And I ha' been plucking (plants among)
Hemlock, henbane, adders tongue,

By which wee note the fairies
Night-shade, moone-wort, libbards bane;

Were of the old profession; And twise by the dogges was like to be tane.

Their songs were Ave Maries,

Their dances were procession. 10 Witch.

alas! they all are dead, I from the jaws of a gardiner's bitch

Or gone beyond the seas, Didsnatch these bones, and then leap'd the ditch: Or farther for religion filed, Yet went I back to the house againe,

Or else they take their ease. Kill'd the blacke cat, and here is the braine. A tell-tale in their company 11 Witch.

They never could endure;
I went to the toade, breeds under the wall, And whoso kept not secretly,
I charmed him out, and he came at

Their mirth, was punish'd sure :
I scratch'd out the eyes of the owle before ; It was a just and Christian deed
Į tore the batts wings : what would you have To pinch such blacke and blue :

O how the common-welth doth need

Such justices as you!
Yes: I have brought, to helpe your vows, Now they have left our quarters ;
Horned poppie, cypresse boughes,

A Register they have,
The fig-iree wild that grows on tombes, Who can preserve their charters;
And juice that from the larch-tree comes, A man both wise and grave.
The basiliskes bloud, and the vipers skin ;

An hundred of their merry pranks
And now our orgies let's begin.

By one that I could name
Are kept in store; con twenty thanks

To William for the same.

To William Churne of Staffordshire, § 125. The Fairies Farewell.

Give laud and praises due,

cheare This humorous old song fell from the hand of the wilty Who every meale can mend your Pr. CORBET, afterwards bishop of Norwich, &c. In

With tales both old and true;
his Poetica Stromata it is called “ A proper new Bal- To Williain all give audience,
lad, intituled, The Fairies Farewell, or God-a-mercy And pray yee for his noddle;
Will: to be sung or whistled to the tune of the Mca- For all the fairies evidence
dow Brow, by the learned; by the unlearned, to the

Were lost, if it were addle.
tune of Fortune."
FAREWELL, rewards and Fairies !
Good housewives now may say;

§ 126. Unfading Beauty. For now foule sluts in dairies

This little beautiful Sounet is reprinted from a smail Doe fare as well as they;

volume of “Poems by Thomas Carew, Esq. one of And though they sweepe their hearths no less the gentlemen of the privie-chamber, and sewer in Than mayds were wont to doe,

ordinary to his majesty Charles I. Lond. 1640." This Yet who of late for cleanliness

elegant, and almost forgotten writer, whose poerne

have been deservedly revived, died in the prime of Finds six-pence in her shoe?

his age, in 1639. Lament, lament, old abbies,

Io the original follows a third stanza, wlich, not being The fairies lost command !

of general application, nor of equal merit, I have They did but change priests babies,

• ventured to oinit. But some have chang'd your land:

Ilee that loves a rosie cheeke, And all your children stoln from thence

Or corall lip admires, Are now growne Puritanes,

Or from star-like eyes doth seek Who live as changelings ever since,

Fuell to maintaine his fires; For love of your demaines.

As old time makes these decay, At morning and at evening both

So his flames must wasie away. You merry were and glad,

But a smooth and sted faste mind, So little care of sleepe and sloth

Gentle thoughts, and calm desires, These prettie ladies had.

Hearts with equal love combin'd, When Tom came home from labour,

Kindle never-dying fires ; Or Ciss to milking rose,

Where these are not, I despise Then merrily went their tabour,

Lovely cheekes, or lips, or eyes. And nimbly went their toes.

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$ 127. Song. The Sky-Lark. Shenstone. $129. A Pastoral Ballad. In Four Parts.

SHENSTONE. Go, tuneful bird, that gladd'st the skies, To Daphne's window speed thy way;

1. ABSENCE. And there on quiv'ring pinions rise,

Ye shepherds so cheerful and gay, And there thy vocal art display.

Whose flocks never carelessly roam ; And if she deign thy notes to hear,

Should Corydon's happen to stray, And if she praise thy matin song,

O call the poor wanderers home. Tell her, the sounds that soothe her ear

Allow me to muse and to sigh, To Damon's native plains belong.

Nor talk of the change that ye find;

None, once, was so watchful as 1 :
Tell her, in livelier plumes array'd,
The bird from Indian grores may shine;

-I have left my dear Phillis behind.
But ask the lovely, partial maid,

Now I know what it is to have strove Where are his notes compar'd with thine? With the torture of doubt and desire ;

What it is to admire and to love, Then bid her treat yon witless beau

And to leave her we love and admire. And all his flaunting race with scorn;

Ah, lead forth my Aock in the morn, And lend an ear to Damon's woe,

And the damps of each evening repel : Who sings her praise, and sings forlorn.

Alas! I am faint and forloru :
- I have bade


dear Phillis farewell.

Since Phillis vouchsaf'd me a look, § 128. The IIermil. BeATTIE.

I never once dream'd of my vine:
At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, May I lose both my pipe and my crook,
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,

If I knew of a kid that was mine!
When nonght but the torrent is heard on the hill, I priz'd every hour that went by,
And nought but the nightingale's song in the Beyond all that had pleas'd me before;

But now they are pass'd, and I sigh, 'Twas then, by the cave of thie mountain reclin'd, And I grieve that I priz'd them no more.

A hermit his nightly complaint thus began: But why do I languish in vain? Though mournful his numbers, his soul was resign'd;

Why wander thus pensively here?

O, why did I come from the plain, He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man.

Where I fed on the smiles of my dear? “Ah! why, thus abandon'd todarknesgand woe, They tell me, my favorite maid, Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad The pride of that valley, is flown ; strain?

Alas! where with her I have stray'd, For spring shall return, and a lover bestow ; I could wander with pleasure alone. And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain.

When forc'd the fair nymph to forego, Yet, if pity inspire thee, O cease not thy lay!

What anguish I felt at my

heart! Mourn, sweetest companion! man calls thee

Yet I thought, but it might not be so, O soothe him whose pleasures, like thine, pass she gaz'd, as I slowly withdrew;

'Twas with pain when she saw me depart. away! Full quickly they pass, but they never return!

My path I could hardly discern;

So sweetly she bade me adieu, “ Now gliding, remote on the verge of the sky, I thought that she bade me return. The moon, balf extinct, a dim crescent displays;

The pilgrim that journeys all day But lately' I mark'd, when majestic on high

To visit some far-distant shrine, She shone, and the planets were lost in her If he bear but a relique away, blaze.

Is happy, nor heard to repine. Roll on then, fair orb, and with gladness pursue

Thus, widely remov'd from the fair, The path that conduets thee to splendor again: soft hope is the relique I bear,

Where my vows, my devotion, I owe, But man's faded glory no change shall renew;

And my solace wherever I go.
Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain !
“'Tisnight, and the landscape is lovely no more:
I mourn ; but, ye woodlands, I mourn not

2. HOPE. For mornis approaching, your charms to restore, My banks they are furnish'd with bees, Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glitt'ring Whose murmur invites one to sleep; with dew.

My grottoes are shaded with trees, Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn; And my hills are white over with sheep.

Kind Nature the embryo-blossom shall save: I seldom have met with a loss, But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn? Such health do my fountains bestow; O when shall it dawn on the night of the My fountains, all border'd with moss, grave?”

Where the hare-bell and violet grow,

to mourn:

for you;

Not a pine in my grove is there seen,

With her mien she enamours the brave ; But with tendrils of woodbine is bound; With her wit she engages the free; Not a beech's more beautiful green,

With her modesty pleases the grave; But a sweet-brier twines it around.

She is every way pleasing to me, Not my

fields in the prime of the year O you that have been of her train, More charms than my cattle unfold:

Come and join in my amorous lays ! Not a brook that is limpid and clear,

I could lay down my life for the swain But it'glitters with fishes of gold.

That will sing but a song in her praise. One would think she might like to retire When he sings, may the nymphs of the tow To the bow'r I have labor'd to rear;

Come trooping, and listen the while ; Not a shrub that I heard her admire,

Nay, on him let not Phillida frown; But I hasted and planted it there.

-But I cannot allow her to smile. O how sudden the jessamine strove

For when Paridel tries in the dance With the lilac to render it gay!

Any favor with Phillis to find, Already it calls for my love,

O how, with one trivial glance, To prune the wild branches away.

Might she ruin the peace of my mind ! From the plains, from the woodlands, and In ringlers he dresses his hair, groves,

And his erook is bestudded around; What strains of wild melody flow!

And his pipe- may Phillis beware How the nightingales warble their loves Of a magic there is in the sound !

From thickets of roses that blow! And when her bright form shall appear,

'Tis his with mock passion to glow;

'Tis his in smooth tales to unfold, Each bird shall harmoniously join

« How her face is as bright as the snow, In a concert so soft and so clear,

And her bosom, be sure, is as cold; As she may not be fond to resign

How the nightingales labor the strain,
I have found out a gift for my fair,

With the notes of his charner to vie;
I have found where the wood-pigeons breed; How they vary their accents in vain,
But let me that plunder forbear,

Repine at her triumphs, and die."
She will say 'twas a barbarous deed.

To the grove or the garden he strays, For he ne'er could be true, she averr'd,

And pillages every sweet; Who could rob a poor bird of its young;

Then, suiting the wreath to his lays, And I lov'd her the more when I heard

He throws it at Phillis's feet. Such tenderness fall from her tongue.

“O Phillis," he whispers, “ more fair, I have heard her with sweetness unfold

More sweet, than the jessamine's flow'r! How that pity was due to a dove,

What are pinks in a morn, to compare?
That it ever attended the bold;

What is eglantine after a shower?
And she call'd it the sister of love.
But her words such a pleasure convey,

“Then the lily no longer is white ;

Then the rose is depriv'd of its bloom; So much I her accents adore,

Then the violets die with despite, Let her speak, and whatever she say,

And the woodbines give up their perfume." Methinks, I should love her the more.

Thus glide the soft numbers along,
Can a bosom so gentle remain

And he fancies no shepherd his peer;
Unmov'd, when her Corydon sighs ?) Yet I never should envy the song,
Will a nymph that is fond of the plain,

Were pot Phillis to lend it an ear.
These plains and this valley despise ?

Let his crook be with hyacinths bound, Dear regions of silence and shade!

So Phillis the trophy despise ; Soft scenes of contentment and ease!

Let his forehead with laurels be crown'd, Where I could have pleasingly stray'd,

So they shine not in Phillis's eyes. If aught in her absence could please.

The language that Aows from the heart But where does my Phillida stray?

Is a stranger to Paridel's tongue i And where are her grots and her bowers? Yet

may she beware of his art ! Are the groves and the valleys as gay,

Or sure I must envy the song.
And the shepherds as gentle, as ours?
The groves may perhaps be as fair,

And the face of the valleys as fine ;
The swains may in manners compare,

4. DISAPPOINTMENT. But their love is not equal to mine.

Ye shepherds, give ear to my lay,

And take no more heed of my sheep: 3. SOLICITUDE.

They have nothing to do but to stray,

I have nothing to do but to weep. Why will you my passion reprove,

Yet do not ny folly reprove : Why term it a folly to grieve,

She was fair, and my passion begun; Ere I show you the charios of my love? She smild, and I could not but lore; She is fairer than you can believe.

She is faithless, and I am undonc.

my crook :

Perhaps I was void of all thought;

And Phæbe was pleas'd too, and to my dog said, Perhaps it was plain to foresee,

“ Come hither, poor fellow !" and patted his That a nymph so complete would be sought

head :

[look, By a swain more engaging than me. But now, when he's fawning, I, with a sour Ah! love ev'ry hope can inspire :

Cry, “Sirrah!” and give him a blow with It banishes wisdom the while; And the lip of the nymph we admire

And i'll give him another; for why should Seems for ever adornd with a smile!

not Tray

Be dull as his master, when Phæbe's away? She is faithless, and I am undone ; Ye that witness the woes I endure,

Sweet music went with us both all the wood Let reason instruct you to shun


[too ; What it cannot ipstruct you to cure.

The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale Beware how you loiter in vain

Winds over us whisper’d, flocks by us did bleat, Amid nymphs of a higher degree:

And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet. It is not for me to explain

But now she is absent, though still they sing on, How fair and how fickle they be.

The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone!

Her voice in the concert, as now I have found, Alas! from the day that we met,

Gives every thing else its agreeable sound.
What hope of an end to my woes,
When I cannot endure to forget

Will no pitying Power that hears me comThe glance that undid my repose ?

plain, Yet time may dimmish the pain :

Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain? The flow'r, and the shrub, and the tree,

To be cur'd, thou must, Colin, thy passion reWhich I rear'd for her pleasure in vain,

move, In time may have comfort for me.

But what swain is so silly to live without love?

No, deity, bid the dear nymph to return; The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose,

For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn. The sound of a murinuring stream,

Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair: The peace which from solitude fows, Take heed, all ye swains, how ye love one so fair.

Henceforth shall be Corydon's theme. High transports are shown to the sight,

But we are not to find them our own: Fate never bestow'd such delight,

$ 131. A Pastoral Ballad. RowĒ. As I with my Phillis had known.

DesPAIRING beside a clear stream, ( ye woods, spread your branches apace; A shepherd forsaken was laid; To your deepest recesses I Ay;

And, while a false nymph was his theme, I would hide with the beasts of the chase, A willow supported his head. I would vanish froin every eye,

The wind that blew over the plain, Yet my reed shall resound through the grove To his sighs with a sigh did reply ;

With the same sad complaint it begun; And the brook, in return to his pain, How she smil'd, and I could not but love; Ran mournfully murmuring by. Was faithless, and I am undone!

Alas! silly swain that I was !

(Thus sadly complaining, he cried ;)

When first I beheld that fair face, $ 130. Phæle. A Pastoral. BYROM. "Twere better by far I had died.

She talk'd, and I bless'd her dear tongue;
My time, O ye muses! was happily spent, When she smil'd, it was pleasure too great;
When Phæbe went with me wherever I went: I listen'd, and cried, when she sung,
Ten thousand soft pleasures I felt in my breast: Was nightingale ever so sweet!
Sure never fopd shepherd like Colin was blest.
But now she is gone, and has left me behind, How foolish was ļ to believe

She could doat on so lowly a clown,
What a marvellous change on a sudden I find!
When things were as fine as could possibly be, Or that her fond heart would not grieve

To forsake the fine folk of the town!
I thought it was spring ; but alas! it was she.

To think that a beauty so gay
The fountain that wont to run sweetly along, So kind and so constant would

And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among, Or go clad, like our maidens, in grey,
Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phæbe was there, Or live in a cottage on love!
It was pleasant to look at, 'twas music to hear!

What though I have skill to complain,
But now she is absent, I walk by its side,

Though the muses my temples have crown'd; And, still as it murmurs, do nothing but chide: Must you be so cheerful, whilst I go in pain? What though, when they hear my saft strain, Peace there with your bubbling, and hear une

The virgins sit weeping around; complain.

Ah, Colin! thy hopes are in vain,

Thy pipe and thy laurel resign;
My dog I was ever well pleased to see Thy fair one inclines to a swain
Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me; Whose music is sweeter than thine.

All you, my companions so dear,

And now the sounds increase : Who sorrow to see me betray'd,

And, from the corner where he lay, Whatever I suffer, forbear,

He sees a train, profusely gay, Forbear to accuse the false maid.

Come prankling o'er the place. Though through the wide world I should range, But (trust me, gentles) nerer yet 'Tis in vain from my fortune to fly;

Was dight a masquing half so neat, "Twas hers to be false, and to change ;

Or half so rich, before; 'Tis mine to be constant, and die.

The country lent the sweet perfumes, If, while my hard fate l sustain,

The sea the pearl, the sky the plumes,
In her breast any pity is found;

The town its silken store.
Let her come, with the nymphs of the plain, Now, whilst he gaz'd, a gallant, drest

And see me laid low in the ground: In flaunting robes above the rest,
The last humble boon that I crave

With awful accent cried :
Is, to shade me with cypress and yew; " What mortal, of a wretched mind,
And, when she looks down on my grave, Whose sighs infect the balmy wind,

Let her own that her shepherd was true. Has here presum'd to hide ?"
Then to her new love let her go,

At this the swain, whose vent'rous soul And deck her in golden array;

No fears of magic art control, Be finest at ev'ry fine show,

Advanc'd ju open sight;. And frolic it all the long day:

" Nor have I cause of dread," he said, While Colin, forgotten and gone,

“ Who view, by no presumption led, No more shall be talk'd of or seen,

Your revels of the night.
Unless when, beneath the pale moon,
His ghost shall glide over the green.

“ 'Twas grief, for scorn of faithful love,
Which made my steps unweeting rore

Amid the nightly dew." $ 132. A Fairy Tale. ParneLL.

« 'Tis well," the gallant cries again, In Britain's isle, and Arthur's days,

“ We fairies never injure men When midnight fairies daunc'd the maze,

Who dare to tell us true. Liv'd Edwin of the Green ;

“ Exalt thy love-dejected heart; Edwin, I wis, a gentle youth,

Be mine the task, or ere we part, Endow'd with courage, sense, and truth,

To make thee grief resign; Though badly shap'd he bien.

Now take the pleasure of thy chaunce; His mountain back mote well be said

Whilst I with Mab, my partner, daunce, To measure height against his head,

Be little Mable thine.” And lift itself above;

He spoke, and, all a sudden, there Yet, spite of all that Nature did

Light music floats in wanton air; To make his uncouth form forbid,

The Monarch leads the Queen : This creature dar'd to love.

The rest their fairie partners found: He felt the charms of Edith's eyes,

And Mable trimly tript the ground Nor wanted hope to gain the prize,

With Edwin of ihe Green. Could ladies look within

The dauncing past, the board was laid, But one Sir Topaz dress'd with art,

And siker such a feast was made And, if a shape could win a heart,

As heart and lip desire : He had a shape to win.

Withouten hands the dishes fly, Edwin, if right I read my song,

The glasses with a wish come nigh, With slighted passion paced along

And with a wish retire. All in the moony light;

But now, to please the fairie king, Twas near an old enchanted court,

Full every deal they laugh and sing, Where sportive fairies made resort,

And aptic feats devise; To revel out the night.

Some wind and tumble like an ape, His heart was drear, his hope was cross'd, And other some transmute their shape, 'Twas late, 'twas far, the path was lost

In Edwin's wond’ring eyes. That reach'd the neighbour town: Till one, at last, that Robin hight, With weary steps he quits the shades,

Renown’d for pinching maids at night, Resolv'd, the darkling dome he treads,

Has bent him up aloof; And drops his linbs adown.

And full against the beam he fung, But scant he lays him on the floor,

Where by the back the youth he hung, When hollow winds remove the door,

To sprawl unneath the roof. A trembling rocks the ground:

From thence, “Reverse my charm," he cries, And, well I ween to count aright,

“ And let it fairly now suffice, At once an hundred tapers light

The gambol has been shown." On all the walls around.

But Oberon answers, with a smile, Now sounding tongues assail his ear,

“ Content thee, Edwin, for a while, Now sounding feet approachen near,

The vantage is thine own."

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