« AnteriorContinuar »
TO THE REV. WILLIAM MASON No sound of the harp, from the rock!
Come, thou huntress of Lutha, Malvina,
call back his soul to the bard. I look Dear Mason-Though I very well know the bland emollient saponaceous qualities forward to Lochlin of lakes, to the dark, both of sack and silver, yet if any great billowy bay of U-thorno, where Fingal [10 man would say to me, “I make you rat
descends from ocean, from the roar of
winds. catcher to his Majesty, with a salary of
Few are the heroes of Morven, in
a land unknown! £300 a year and two butts of the best
Starno sent a dweller of Loda, to bid Malaga; and though it has been usual to catch a mouse or two, for form's sake, in Fingal to the feast; but the king remem
bered the past, and all his rage arose. public once a year, yet to you, sir, we will not stand upon these things,” I can. [10 shall Fingal behold. Deaths wander, like
[", , not say I should jump at it; nay, if they would drop the very name of the office, shadows, over his fiery soul! Do I forget and call me Sinecure to the King's Maj
that beam of light, the white-handed (20 esty, I should still feel a little awkward, daughter of kings? Go, son of Loda; his and think everybody I saw smelt a rat
words are wind to Fingal: wind, that to about me; but I do not pretend to blame
and fro drives the thistle, in autumn's any one else that has not the same sensa
dusky vale. Duth-maruno, arm of death! tions; for my part I would rather be
Cromma-glas, of iron shields! Struthmor,
dweller of battle's wing! Cormar, whose serjeant trumpeter or pinmaker to the palace. Nevertheless I interest my- [20 ships bound on seas, careless as the course self a little in the history of it, and rather of a meteor, on dark-rolling clouds! wish somebody may accept it that will
Arise around me, children of heroes, in a retrieve the credit of the thing, if it be land unknown! Let each look on his 130 retrievable, or ever had any credit. Rowe shield, like Trenmor, the ruler of wars." was, I think, the last man of character that had it.
As to Settle, whom you Around the king they rise in wrath. No mention, he belonged to my lord mayor, words come forth: they seize their spears. not to the king. Eusden was a person of Each soul is rolled into itself. At length great hopes in his youth, though he at the sudden clang is waked, on all their last turned out a drunken parson. [30 echoing shields. Each takes his hill, by Dryden was as disgraceful to the office, night; at intervals, they darkly stand. from his character, as the poorest scribbler Unequal bursts the hum of songs, between could have been from his verses. The the roaring wind! office itself has always humbled the pro- Broad over them rose the moon! [40 fessor hitherto (even in an age when kings In his arms came tall Duth-maruno; were somebody), if he were a poor writer he from Croma of rocks, stern hunter of by making him more conspicuous, and if the boar! In his dark boat he rose on he were a good one by setting him at war waves. with the little fry of his own profession, for there are poets little enough to [40 envy even a poet-laureate. . .
Fingal rushed, in all his arms, widebounding over Turthor's stream, that
sent its sullen roar by night through JAMES MACPHERSON (1736–1796)
Gormal's misty vale. A moon-beam glit
tered on a rock; in the midst, stood a From CATH-LODA
stately form; a form with floating 150
locks, like Lochlin's white-bosomed maids. A Tale of the times of old!
Unequal are her steps, and short. She Why, thou wanderer unseen! Thou throws a broken song on wind. At times bender of the thistle of Lora; why, thou she tosses her white arms: for grief is breeze of the valley, hast thou left mine dwelling in her soul. ear? I hear no distant roar of streams!
Whence is the stream of years? Whither
From CARTHON do they roll along? Where have they
OSSIAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN hid, in mist, their many-colored sides?
I look into the times of old, but they O thou that rollest above, round as the seem dim to Ossian's eyes, like reflected [60 shield of my fathers! Whence are thy moonbeams on a distant lake. Here beams, o sun! thy everlasting light? rise the red beams of war! There, silent, Thou comest forth, in thy awful beauty; dwells a feeble race! They mark no the stars hide themselves in the sky; the years with their deeds, as slow they pass moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western along. Dweller between the shields! thou wave. But thou thyself movest alone: that awakest the failing soul! descend who can be a companion of thy course? from thy wall, harp of Cona, with thy The oaks of the mountains fall: the mounvoices three! Come with that which tains themselves decay with years; (10 kindles the past: rear the forms of old, the ocean shrinks and grows again: the on their own dark-brown years! [70 moon herself is lost in heaven; but thou
art for ever the same; rejoicing in the brightness of thy course. When the
world is dark with tempests; when thunFrom THE SONGS OF SELMA der rolls, and lightning flies; thou lookest
in thy beauty from the clouds, and laughIt is night; I am alone, forlorn on the est at the storm. But to Ossian, thou hill of storms. The wind is heard in lookest in vain; for he beholds thy beams the mountain. The torrent pours down no more; whether thy yellow hair (20 the rock. No hut receives me from the flows on the eastern clouds, or thou rain; forlorn on the hill of winds!
tremblest at the gates of the west. But Rise, moon! from behind thy clouds. thou art, perhaps, like me, for a season; Stars of the night arise! Lead me, some thy years will have an end. Thou shalt light, to the place where my love rests sleep in thy clouds, careless of the voice from the chase alone! his bow near him, of the morning. Exult then, O sun! in unstrung; his dogs panting around (10 the strength of thy youth: Age is dark and him. But here I must sit alone, by the unlovely; it is like the glimmering light rock of the mossy stream. The stream of the moon, when it shines through and the wind roar aloud. I hear not the broken clouds, and the mist is on the 130 voice of my love! Why delays my Salgar, hills; the blast of the north is on the plain; why the chief of the hill his promise the traveller shrinks in the midst of his Here is the rock, and here the tree! here journey. is the roaring stream! Thou didst promise with night to be here. Ah! whither is
ROBERT FERGUSSON (1750-1774) my Salgar gone? With thee I would fly, from my father; with thee from my (20
THE DAFT DAYS brother of pride. Our races have long Now mirk December's dowie' face been foes; we are not foes, O Salgar!
Glowrs owr the rigs2 wi' sour grimace, , o ! be thou silent a while! let my voice be while, thro' his minimum of space,
The bleer-eyed sun, heard around. Let my wanderer hear me! Salgar! it is Colma who calls. Here Wi' blinkin light and stealing pace,
His race doth run. is the tree, and the rock. Salgar, my love! I am here. Why delayest thou thy From naked groves nae birdie sings; coming? Lo! the calm moon comes forth. To shepherd's pipe nae hillock rings; The flood is bright in the vale. The (30 The breeze nae odorous flavor brings rocks are grey on the steep. I see him
From Borean cave; not on the brow. His dogs come not And dwyning Nature droops her wings, before him, with tidings of his near ap
Wi' visage grave. proach. Here I must sit alone.
When merry Yule-day comes, I trow,
THOMAS CHATTERTON (1762-1770) You'll scantlinsll find a hungry mou;' Sma’ are our cares, our stamacks fou
BRISTOWE TRAGEDIE; O'gusty gear, And kickshaws, 4 strangers to our view, OR, THE DETHE OF SYR CHARLES Sin' fairn-year.15
Butt whenne hee came, hys children “O goode Syr Charles!” sayd Canterlone, “Justice does loudlie for hym calle,
16 brewer. 18 finely 19 draught. 21 anything left.
3 Edinburgh ("Old Sooty').
For goode Syr Charleses lyfe.
65 "Badde tydyngs I doe brynge." 26 And hee shalle have hys meede: "Speke boldlie, manne,” sayd brave Syr Speke, Maister Canynge! Whatte thynge Charles,
else "Whatte says the traytor kynge?” Att present doe you neede?”
"I greeve to telle; before yonne sonne “My nobile leige!” goode Canynge sayde, Does fromme the welkin flye, 30 “Leave justice to our Godde,
70 Hee hathe uppon hys honnour sworne, And laye the yronne rule asyde; Thatt thou shalt surelie die.”
Be thyne the olyve rodde. "Wee all must die, quod brave Syr “Was Godde to serche our hertes and Charles;
reines, "Of thatte I'm not affearde;
The best were synners grete; Whatte bootes to lyve a little space? 35
Christ's vycarr only knowes ne synne, 75 Thanke Jesu, I'm prepared;
Ynne alle thys mortall state.
"Butt telle thye kynge, for myne hee's not,
I'de sooner die to-daie
"Lett mercie rule thyne infante reigne,
'Twylle faste thye crowne fulle sure; From race to race thye familie Alle sov'reigns shall endure:
Thenne Canterlone hee dydd goe out, “But yff wythe bloode and slaughter thou To telle the maior straite
Beginne thy infante reigne, To gett all thynges ynne reddyness Thy crowne upponne thy childrennes For goode Syr Charles's fate.
Wylle never long remayne. Thenne Maisterr Canynge saughte the kynge,
45 “Canynge, awaie! thys traytour vile And felle down onne hys knee;
Has scorned my power
mee; “I'm come,” quod hee, “unto your grace Howe canst thou then for such a manne To move your clemencye.”
Entreate my clemencye?” Thenne quod the kynge, “Youre tale “Mie nobile leige! the trulie brave speke out,
Wylle val’rous actions prize;
90 You have been much oure friende; 50 Respect a brave and nobile mynde, Whatever youre request may bee,
Although ynne enemies." Wee wylle to ytte attende."
"Canynge, awaie! By Godde ynne Heav'n "My nobile leige! alle my request,
Thatt dydd mee beinge gyve,
95 Who, though may hap hee has donne Whilst thys Syr Charles dothe lyve. wronge,
55 Hee thoughte yttel stylle was ryghte: “Bie Marie, and alle Seinctes ynne
Heav'n, “He has a spouse and children twaine, Thys sunne shall be hys laste," Alle rewynedd are for aie;
Thenne Canynge dropt a brinie teare, Yff that you are resolved to lett
And from the presence paste. Charles Bawdin die to-dai."
With herte brymm-fulle of gnawynge "Speke not of such a traytour vile,"
grief, The kynge ynne furie sayde;
Hee to Syr Charles dydd goe, “Before the evening starre doth sheene, And sat hymm downe uponne a stoole, Bawdin shall loose hys hedde:
And teares beganne to flowe. Tit. 2 ruined. 3 shine.
“Wee all must die," quod brave Syr“My honest friende, my faulte has beene Charles;
To serve Godde and mye prynce; “Whatte bootes ytte howe or whenne; And thatt I no tyme-server am, Dethe
My dethe wylle soone convynce.
"Ynne Londonne citye was I borne, "Saye why, my friende, thie honest soul Of parents of grete note;
150 Runns overr att thyne eye;
My fadre dydd a nobile armes Is ytte for my most welcome doome
Emblazon onne hys cote: Thatt thou dost child-lyke crye?"
“I make ne doubte butt hee ys gone
Where soone I hope to goe;
Where wee for ever shall bee blest, 155
From oute the reech of woe. And leave thy sonnes and helpless wyfe;
115 'Tys thys thatt wettes myne eye.”
“Hee taughte mee justice and the laws
Wyth pitie to unite;
And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe “Thenne drie the tears thatt out thyne eye From godlie fountaines sprynge;
The wrong cause fromm the ryghte: 100 Dethe I despise, and alle the power
“Hee taughte mee wyth a prudent hande Of Edwarde, traytour kynge.
To feede the hungrie poore,
Ne lett mye sarvants dryve awaie "Whan through the tyrant's welcom The hungrie fromme my doore:
“And none can saye butt alle mye lyfe 165
I have hys wordyes kept;
Eche nyghte before I slept.
170 I have a kynge, and none can laie
Black treason onne my hedde.
Fromm fleshe I dydd refrayne:
To leave thys worlde of payne? 176 "Ne, hapless Henrie! I rejoyce,
I shall ne see thye dethe;
180 “Oh, fickle people! rewyned londe!
Thou wylt kennel peace ne moe;? Whyle Richard's sonnes exalt themselves,
Thye brookes wythe bloude wylle flowe.