3 the Cuckoo, that is a quaint law, hai must love or die; but I withdraw, take my leave of all such company, be intent it neither is to die, atever while I live Love's yoke to draw.

users of all folk that be alive, host disquiet have and least do thrive; Let feeling have of sorrow, woe and care, the least welfare cometh to their share; s' need is there against the truth to strive?

at! quoth she, thou art all out of thy mind, an thy churlishness a cause canst find wak of Love's true servants in this mood; on this world no service is so good

every wight that gentle is of kind.

ethereof comes all goodness and all worth; gentless and honour thence come forth;

Fie, quoth she, on thy name, Bird ill beseen'
The God of Love afflict thee with all teen,
For thou art worse than mad a thousand fold;
For many a one hath virtues manifold,
Who had been nought, if Love had never been.

For evermore his servants Love amendeth,
And he from every blemish them defendeth;
And maketh them to burn, as in a fire,

In loyalty, and worshipful desire,

And, when it likes him, joy enough them sendeth.

Thou Nightingale! the Cuckoo said, be still,
For Love no reason hath but his own will; -
For to th' untrue he oft gives ease and joy;
True lovers doth so bitterly annoy,

He lets them perish through that grievous ill.
With such a master would I never be;
For he, in sooth, is blind, and may not see,

*

pleasure,

a fl-assured trust, joy without measure, ty, fresh cheerfulness, and mirth;

inty, lowliness, and courtesy, at seemliness, and faithful company, Gread of shame that will not do amiss; ze that faithfully Love's servant is, er than be disgraced, would choose to die.

that the very truth it is which I say—in such belief I'll live and die; Cockoo, do thou so, by my advice. e quoth she, let me never hope for bliss, with that counsel I do e'er comply.

** Nightingale! thou speakest wondrous fair, all that, the truth is found elsewhere; Love in young folk is but rage, I wis; Love in old folk a great dotage is; at it useth, him 'twill most impair.

thereof come all contraries to gladness; rre sickness comes, and overwhelming sadness, Fast and jealousy, despite, debate, Elour, shame, envy importunate,

, anger, mischief, poverty, and madness.

ng is aye an office of despair, done thing is therein which is not fair; so gets of love a little bliss, Talway stay with him I wis,

ay full soon go with an old man's hair.

therefore, Nightingale! do thou keep nigh, rust me well, in spite of thy quaint cry, time from thy mate thou be, or far, ast be as others that forsaken are; Teen shalt thou raise a clamour as do I.

So diverse in his wilfulness is he.

Then of the Nightingale did I take note,
How from her inmost heart a sigh she brought,
And said, Alas! that ever I was born,
Not one word have I now, I am so forlorn,-
And with that word she into tears burst out.

Alas, alas! my very heart will break,
Quoth she, to hear this churlish bird thus speak
Of Love, and of his holy services;

Now, God of Love! thou help me in some wise,
That vengeance on this Cuckoo I may wreak.

And so methought I started up anon,
And to the brook I ran and got a stone,
Which at the Cuckoo hardily I cast,
And he for dread did fly away full fast;
And glad, in sooth, was I, when he was gone.

And as he flew, the Cuckoo, ever and aye,
Kept crying, "Farewell! - farewell, Popinjay!"
As if in scornful mockery of me;
And on I hunted him from tree to tree,
Till he was far, all out of sight, away.

Then straightway came the Nightingale to me,
And said, Forsooth, my friend, do I thank thee,
That thou wert near to rescue me; and now.
Unto the God of Love I make a vow,
That all this May I will thy songstress be.

Well satisfied, I thanked her, and she said,

With this mishap no longer be dismayed,
Though thou the Cuckoo heard, ere thou heard'st me;
Yet if I live it shall amended be,

When next May comes, if I am not afraid.

* From a manuscript in the Bodleian, as are also stanzas 44 and 45, which are necessary to complete the sense.

Therewith when this true lover 'gan behold,
How shut was every window of the place,
Le frost he thought his heart was icy cold;
For which, with changed, pale, and deadly face,
Whout word uttered forth he 'gan to pace:
And on his purpose bent so fast to ride,
That no wight his continuance espied.

Thes said he thus, -O palace desolate!
() house of houses, once so richly dight!
Opalace empty and disconsolate!

The lamp of which extinguished is the light;
Opace whilom day that now art night,
Thought'st to fall and I to die; since she
Is gone who held us both in sovereignty.

(of all houses once the crowned boast!
Prace illumined with the sun of bliss;
Drag of which the ruby now is lost,
Drause of woe, that cause has been of bliss:
Ye, since I may no better, would I kiss
Tay cold doors; but I dare not for this rout;
Farewell, thou shrine of which the Saint is out!

Therewith be cast on Pandarus an eye,
With changed face, and piteous to behold;
And when he might his time aright espy,
Are as ne rode, to Pandarus he told
Be his new sorrow and his joys of old,
Sop-teously, and with so dead a hue,
Tat every wight might on his sorrow rue.

Fth from the spot he rideth up and down,
And everything to his rememberànce
ane as he rode by places of the town
Where he had felt such perfect pleasure once.
Lynder saw I mine own lady dance,
And in that temple she with her bright eyes,
My lady dear, first bound me captive-wise.

Aud yonder with joy-smitten heart have I

Heard

my own Cresid's laugh; and once at play I under saw her eke full blissfully;

And yonder once she unto me 'gan say
No, my sweet Troilus, love me well, I pray!
And there so graciously did me behold,
That hers unto the death my heart I hold.

And at the corner of that self-same house
dard I my most beloved lady dear,
womanly, with voice melodious
Sag so well, so goodly, and so clear,

at in my soul methinks I yet do hear
The blissful sound; and in that very place
My lady first me took unto her grace.

() a' sal God of Love! then thus he cried,
W1 the process have in memory,
Bw thou hast wearied me on every side,
Men taence a book might make, a history

What need to seek a conquest over me, Since I am wholly at thy will? what joy Hast thou thy own liege subjects to destroy?

Dread Lord! so fearful when provoked, thine ire
Well hast thou wreaked on me by pain and grief;
Now mercy, Lord! thou know'st well I desire
Thy grace above all pleasures first and chief;
And live and die I will in thy belief;
For which I ask for guerdon but one boon,
That Cresida again thou send me soon.

Constrain her heart as quickly to return,
As thou dost mine with longing her to see,
Then know I well that she would not sojourn.
Now, blissful Lord, so cruel do not be
Unto the blood of Troy, I pray of thee,

As Juno was unto the Theban blood,

From whence to Thebes came griefs in multitude.

And after this he to the gate did go
Whence Cresid rode, as if in haste she was;
And up and down there went, and to and fro,
And to himself full oft he said, Alas!
From hence my hope, and solace forth did pass.
O would the blissful God now for his joy,
I might her see again coming to Troy!

And up to yonder hill was I her guide;
Alas, and there I took of her my leave;
Yonder I saw her to her father ride,
For very grief of which my heart shall cleave;-
And hither home I came when it was eve;
And here I dwell an outcast from all joy,
And shall, unless I see her soon in Troy.

And of himself did he imagine oft,
That he was blighted, pale, and waxen less
Than he was wont; and that in whispers soft
Men said, What may it be, can no one guess
Why Troilus hath all this heaviness?
All which he of himself conceited wholly
Out of his weakness and his melancholy.

Another time he took into his head,

That every wight, who in the way passed by,
Had of him ruth, and fancied that they said,
I am right sorry Troilus will die:
And thus a day or two drove wearily;

As ye have heard; such life 'gan he to lead
As one that standeth betwixt hope and dread.

For which it pleased him in his songs to show
The occasion of his woe, as best he might;
And made a fitting song, of words but few,
Somewhat his woeful heart to make more light;
And when he was removed from all men's sight,
With a soft night voice, he of his lady dear,
That absent was, 'gan sing as ye may hear.

O star, of which I lost have all the light,
With a sore heart well ought I to bewail,
That ever dark in torment, night by night,
Toward my death with wind I steer my sail;
Far which upon the tenth night if thou fail
With thy bright beams to guide me but one hour
My ship and me Charybdis will devour.

As soon as he this song had thus sung through,
He fell again into his sorrows old;
And every night as was his wont to do,
Troilus stood the bright moon to behold;
And all his trouble to the moon he told,
And said; I wis, when thou art horn'd anew,
I shall be glad if all the world be true.

And said, I am in constant dread I trow,
That Phaeton his son is yet alive,
His too fond father's car amiss to drive.

Upon the walls fast also would he walk,
To the end that he the Grecian host might see;
And ever thus he to himself would talk:-
Lo! yonder is my own bright lady free;

Or yonder is it that the tents must be;

And thence does come this air which is so sweet, That in my soul I feel the joy of it.

And certainly this wind that more and more
By moments thus increaseth in my face,
Is of my lady's sighs heavy and sore;

I prove it thus; for in no other space
Of all this town, save only in this place,
Feel I a wind, that soundeth so like pain;
It saith, Alas, why severed are we twain?

A weary while in pain he tosseth thus,
Till fully past and gone was the ninth night;
And ever at his side stood Pandarus,
Who busily made use of all his might
To comfort him, and make his heart more light;
Giving him always hope, that she the morrow
Of the tenth day will come, and end his sorrow.

I.

IN THE GROUNDS OF COLEORTON, THE SEAT OF SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT, BART. LEICESTERSHIRE.

THE embowering Rose, the Acacia, and the Pine, Will not unwillingly their place resign;

If but the Cedar thrive that near them stands,
Planted by Beaumont's and by Wordsworth's hands.
One wooed the silent Art with studious pains, -
These Groves have heard the Other's pensive strains;
Devoted thus, their spirits did unite

By interchange of knowledge and delight.
May Nature's kindliest powers sustain the Tree,
And Love protect it from all injury!

And when its potent branches, wide out-thrown,
Darken the brow of this memorial Stone,
Here may some Painter sit in future days,
Some future Poet meditate his lays;
Not mindless of that distant age renowned
When Inspiration hovered o'er this ground,
The haunt of him who sang how spear and shield
In civil conflict met on Bosworth Field;
And of that famous Youth, full soon removed
From earth, perhaps by Shakspeare's self approved,
Fletcher's Associate, Jonson's Friend beloved.

III

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT,
BART. AND IN HIS NAME, FOR AN URN, PLACED BY
HIM AT THE TERMINATION OF A NEWLY-PLANTED
AVENUE, IN THE SAME GROUNDS.

YE Lime-trees, ranged before this hallowed Urn,
Shoot forth with lively power at Spring's return;
And be not slow a stately growth to rear
Of Pillars, branching off from year to year,
Till they have learned to frame a darksome Aisle;
That may recall to mind that awful Pile
Where Reynolds, 'mid our Country's noblest Dead,
In the last sanctity of fame is laid.

- There, though by right the excelling Painter sleep
Where Death and Glory a joint sabbath keep,
Yet not the less his Spirit would hold dear
Self-hidden praise, and Friendship's private tear:
Hence, on my patrimonial Grounds, have I
Raised this frail tribute to his memory;
From youth a zealous follower of the Art
That he professed, attached to him in heart;
Admiring, loving, and with grief and pride
Feeling what England lost when Reynolds died.

II.

IN A GARDEN OF THE SAME.

Or is the Medal faithful to its trust
When Temples, Columns, Towers, are laid in dust;
And 't is a common ordinance of fate

That things obscure and small outlive the great:
Hence, when yon Mansion and the flowery trim
Of this fair Garden, and its alleys dim,
And all its stately trees, are passed away,
This little Niche, unconscious of decay,
Perchance may still survive. — And be it known
That it was scooped within the living stone, -
Not by the sluggish and ungrateful pains
Of labourer plodding for his daily gains,
But by an industry that wrought in love;
With help from female hands, that proudly strove
To ad the work, what time these walks and bowers
Were shaped to cheer dark winter's lonely hours.

IV.

FOR A SEAT IN THE GROVES OF COLEORTON BENEATH yon eastern Ridge, the craggy Bound, Rugged and high, of Charnwood's forest ground, Stand yet, but, Stranger! hidden from thy view, The ivied Ruins of forlorn GRACE DIEU; Erst a religious house, which day and night With hymns resounded, and the chanted rite: And when those rites had ceased, the Spot gave birth To honourable Men of various worth: There, on the margin of a Streamlet wild, Did Francis Beaumont sport, an eager Child There, under shadow of the neighbouring rocks, Sang youthful tales of shepherds and their flocks; Unconscious prelude to heroic themes, Heart-breaking tears, and melancholy dreams Of slighted love, and scorn, and jealous rage, With which his genius shook the buskined Stage. Communities are lost, and Empires die, And things of holy use unhallowed lie; They perish; but the Intellect can raise, From airy words alone, a Pile that ne'er decays

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