936.-A LAWYER'S FAREWELL TO HIS

MUSE.

As, by some tyrant's stern command,
A wretch forsakes his native land,
In foreign climes condemn'd to roam
An endless exile from his home;
Pensive he treads the destined way,
And dreads to go; nor dares to stay;
Till on some neighbouring mountain's brow
He stops, and turns his eyes below;
There, melting at the well-known view,
Drops a last tear, and bids adieu :
So I, thus doom'd from thee to part,
Gay queen of fancy and of art,
Reluctant move, with doubtful mind,
Oft stop, and often look behind.
Companion of my tender age,
Serenely gay, and sweetly sage,
How blithesome we were wont to rove,
By verdant hill or shady grove,
Where fervent bees, with humming voice,
Around the honied oak rejoice,
And aged elms, with awful bend,
In long cathedral walks extend!
Lull'd by the lapse of gliding floods,
Cheer'd by the warbling of the woods,
How blest my days, my thoughts how free,
In sweet society with thee!

Then all was joyous, all was young,
And years unheeded roll'd along :
But now the pleasing dream is o'er,

These scenes must charm me now no more;
Lost to the fields, and torn from you-
Farewell!-a long, a last adieu.
Me wrangling courts, and stubborn law,
To smoke, and crowds, and cities draw :
There selfish faction rules the day,
And pride and avarice throng the way!
Diseases taint the murky air,
And midnight conflagrations glare;
Loose Revelry, and Riot bold,
In frighted streets their orgies hold;
Or, where in silence all is drown'd,
Fell Murder walks his lonely round ;
No room for peace, no room for you;
Adieu, celestial nymph, adieu!
Shakspere, no more thy sylvan son,
Nor all the art of Addison,

Pope's heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller's

ease,

Nor Milton's mighty self must please:
Instead of these, a formal band
In furs and coifs around me stand;
With sounds uncouth and accents dry,
That grate the soul of harmony,
Each pedant sage unlocks his store
Of mystic, dark, discordant lore,
And points with tottering hand the ways
That lead me to the thorny maze.
There, in a winding close retreat,
Is justice doom'd to fix her seat;
There, fenced by bulwarks of the law,
She keeps the wondering world in awe;
And there, from vulgar sight retired,
Like eastern queen, is more admired.

Oh let me pierce the secret shade
Where dwells the venerable maid!
There humbly mark, with reverend awe,
The guardian of Britannia's law;
Unfold with joy her sacred page,
The united boast of many an age;
Where, mix'd, yet uniform, appears
The wisdom of a thousand years.
In that pure spring the bottom view,
Clear, deep, and regularly true;
And other doctrines thence imbibe
Than lurk within the sordid scribe;
Observe how parts with parts unite
In one harmonious rule of right;
See countless wheels distinctly tend
By various laws to one great end;
While mighty Alfred's piercing soul
Pervades and regulates the whole.
Then welcome business, welcome strife,
Welcome the cares, the thorns of life,
The visage wan, the pore-blind sight,
The toil by day, the lamp at night,
The tedious forms, the solemn prate,
The pert dispute, the dull debate,
The drowsy bench, the babbling hall,
For thee, fair Justice, welcome all!
Thus, though my noon of life be past,
Yet let my setting sun, at last,
Find out the still, the rural cell,
Where sage retirement loves to dwell!
There let me taste the homefelt bliss
Of innocence and inward peace;
Untainted by the guilty bribe,
Uncursed amid the harpy tribe;
No orphan's cry to wound my ear;
My honour and my conscience clear.
Thus may I calmly meet my end,
Thus to the grave in peace descend.

Sir William Blackstone.-
Born 1723, Died 1780.

937.-0, NANNY, WILT THOU GANG WI' ME.

O, Nanny, wilt thou gang wi' me,

Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town? Can silent glens have charms for thee, The lowly cot and russet gown? Nae langer drest in silken sheen,

Nae langer deck'd wi' jewels rare, Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene, Where thou wert fairest of the fair ?

O, Nanny, when thou'rt far awa,

Wilt thou not cast a look behind? Say, canst thou face the flaky snaw, Nor shrink before the winter wind? O can that soft and gentle mien

Severest hardships learn to bear, Nor, sad, regret each courtly scene, Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

O, Nanny, canst thou love so true,
Through perils keen wi' me to gae ?
Or, when thy swain mishap shall rue,

To share with him the pang of wae?
Say, should disease or pain befall,

Wilt thou assume the nurse's care, Nor, wishful, those gay scenes recall, Where thou wert fairest of the fair? And when at last thy love shall die,

Wilt thou receive his parting breath? Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh,

And cheer with smiles the bed of death? And wilt thou o'er his much-loved clay Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear? Nor then regret those scenes so gay,

Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

Dr. Thomas Percy.-Born 1728, Died 1811.

938. THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY.

It was a friar of orders gray

Walk'd forth to tell his beads, And he met with a lady fair,

Clad in a pilgrim's weeds.

"Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar! I pray thee tell to me,

If ever at yon holy shrine

My true love thou didst see."

"And how should I know your true love
From many another one?"
"Oh! by his cockle hat and staff,
And by his sandal shoon :

But chiefly by his face and mien,
That were so fair to view,

His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd,
And eyes of lovely blue."

"O lady, he is dead and gone!
Lady, he's dead and gone!
At his head a green grass turf,
And at his heels a stone.
Within these holy cloisters long
He languish'd, and he died,
Lamenting of a lady's love,

And 'plaining of her pride.

Here bore him barefaced on his bier
Six proper youths and tall;
And many a tear bedew'd his grave
Within yon kirkyard wall."

"And art thou dead, thou gentle youth-
And art thou dead and gone?
And didst thou die for love of me?
Break, cruel heart of stone!"

"O weep not, lady, weep not so,
Some ghostly comfort seek:
Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart,
Nor tears bedew thy cheek."

"O do not, do not, holy friar,

My sorrow now reprove;
For I have lost the sweetest youth
That e'er won lady's love.

And now, alas! for thy sad loss
I'll evermore weep and sigh;
For thee I only wish'd to live,
For thee I wish to die."

"Weep no more, lady, weep no more;
Thy sorrow is in vain :

For violets pluck'd, the sweetest shower
Will ne'er make grow again.

Our joys as winged dreams do fly;
Why then should sorrow last?
Since grief but aggravates thy loss,
Grieve not for what is past."

"O say not so, thou holy friar!
I pray thee say not so;
For since my true love died for me,
'Tis meet my tears should flow.
And will he never come again-

Will he ne'er come again?
Ah, no! he is dead, and laid in his grave,
For ever to remain.

His cheek was redder than the rose-
The comeliest youth was he;
But he is dead and laid in his grave,
Alas! and woe is me."

"Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever;
One foot on sea, and one on land,
To one thing constant never.

Hadst thou been fond, he had been false,
And left thee sad and heavy;

For young men ever were fickle found,
Since summer trees were leafy."

"Yet stay, fair lady, turn again,

And dry those pearly tears;
For see, beneath this gown of gray,
Thy own true love appears.

Here, forced by grief and hopeless love,
These holy weeds I sought;

And here, amid these lonely walls,
To end my days I thought.

But haply, for my year of grace
Is not yet pass'd away,

Might I still hope to win thy love,

No longer would I stay."

"Now farewell grief, and welcome joy

Once more unto my heart;

For since I've found thee, lovely youth, We never more will part."

Dr. Thomas Percy.-Born 1728, Died 1811.

939. THE CAVE.

The wind is up, the field is bare,

Some hermit lead me to his cell,

Where Contemplation, lonely fair,
With bless'd content has chose to dwell.

Behold! it opens to my sight,

Dark in the rock, beside the flood; Dry fern around obstructs the light; The winds above it move the wood.

Reflected in the lake, I see

The downward mountains and the skies, The flying bird, the waving tree,

The goats that on the hill arise.

The gray-cloak'd herd drives on the cow, The slow-paced fowler walks the heath; A freckled pointer scours the brow;

A musing shepherd stands beneath.
Curved o'er the ruin of an oak,

The woodman lifts his axe on high;
The hills re-echo to the stroke;
I see I see the shivers fly!

Some rural maid, with apron full,

Brings fuel to the homely flame;

I see the smoky columns roll,

And, through the chinky hut, the beam.

Beside a stone o'ergrown with moss,

Two well-met hunters talk at ease; Three panting dogs beside repose;

One bleeding deer is stretch'd on grass.

A lake at distance spreads to sight,

Skirted with shady forests round; In midst, an island's rocky height Sustains a ruin, once renown'd.

One tree bends o'er the naked walls; Two broad-wing'd eagles hover nigh; By intervals a fragment falls,

As blows the blast along the sky.

The rough-spun hinds the pinnace guide
With labouring oars along the flood;
An angler, bending o'er the tide,

Hangs from the boat the insidious wood.
Beside the flood, beneath the rocks,
On grassy bank, two lovers lean;
Bend on each other amorous looks,
And seem to laugh and kiss between.

The wind is rustling in the oak;

They seem to hear the tread of feet; They start, they rise, look round the rock; Again they smile, again they meet.

But see! the grey mist from the lake
Ascends upon the shady hills;
Dark storms the murmuring forests shake,
Rain beats around a hundred rills.

To Damon's homely hut I fly;

I see it smoking on the plain;

When storms are past and fair the sky,
I'll often seek my cave again.

James Macpherson.-Born 1738, Died 1796.

940.-MORNING.

Bright sun had in his ruddy robes been dight,

From the red east he flitted with his train ;

The Houris draw away the gate of Night,
Her sable tapestry was rent in twain:
The dancing streaks bedecked heaven's plain,
And on the dew did smile with skimmering
eye,

Like gouts of blood which do black armour stain,

Shining upon the bourn which standeth by ; The soldier stood upon the hillis side,

Like young enleaved trees which in a forest bide.

Chatterton.-Born 1752, Died 1770.

941.-SPRING.

The budding floweret blushes at the light, The meads be sprinkled with the yellow hue,

In daisied mantles is the mountain dight, The fresh young cowslip bendeth with the dew;

The trees enleafed, into heaven straight,

When gentle winds do blow, to whistling din is brought.

The evening comes, and brings the dews along,

The ruddy welkin shineth to the eyne, Around the ale-stake minstrels sing the song, Young ivy round the door-post doth entwine;

I lay me on the grass, yet to my will Albeit all is fair, there lacketh something still.

Then is your time to strike the blow,
And let the slaves of Mammon know,
Britain's true sons a bribe can scorn,
And die as free as they were born.
Virtue again shall take her seat,
And your redemption stand complete.

Chatterton.-Born 1752, Died 1770.

Chatterton.-Born 1752, Died 1770.

942. THE PROPHECY.

This truth of old was sorrow's friend-
"Times at the worst will surely mend."
The difficulty's then to know
How long Oppression's clock can go;
When Britain's sons may cease to sigh,
And hope that their redemption 's nigh.

When vile Corruption's brazen face
At council-board shall take her place;
And lords-commissioners resort
To welcome her at Britain's court;
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.
See Pension's harbour, large and clear,
Defended by St. Stephen's pier!
The entrance safe, by current led,
Tiding round G- 's jetty head;
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.
When civil power shall snore at ease;
While soldiers fire-to keep the peace;
When murders sanctuary find,
And petticoats can Justice blind;
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.
Commerce o'er Bondage will prevail,
Free as the wind that fills her sail.
When she complains of vile restraint,
And Power is deaf to her complaint;
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.
When at Bute's feet poor Freedom lies,
Mark'd by the priest for sacrifice,
And doom'd a victim for the sins
Of half the outs and all the ins;
Look up, ye Britons! cease to sigh,
For your redemption draweth nigh.

When time shall bring your wish about,
Or, seven-years' lease, you sold, is out;
No future contract to fulfil ;
Your tenants holding at your will;
Raise up your heads! your right demand-
For your redemption 's in your hand.

Then Canterlone he did go out,

To tell the mayor straight To get all things in readiness For good Sir Charles's fate.

Then Mr. Canynge sought the king, And fell down on his knee;

"I'm come," quoth he, "unto your grace,
To move your clemency."

"Then," quoth the king, "your tale speak out,
You have been much our friend;
Whatever your request may be,
We will to it attend."

My noble liege! all my request

Is for a noble knight,

Who, though mayhap he has done wrong,

He thought it still was right.

He has a spouse and children twain;
All ruin'd are for aye,

If that you are resolved to let

Charles Bawdin die to-day."

Let mercy rule thine infant reign, "Twill fix thy crown full sure; From race to race thy family

All sovereigns shall endure:

But if with blood and slaughter thou Begin thy infant reign,

Thy crown upon thy children's brows Will never long remain."

"Canynge, away! this traitor vile

Has scorn'd my power and me; How canst thou then for such a man Entreat my clemency ?"

"My noble liege! the truly brave
Will valorous actions prize;
Respect a brave and noble mind,
Although in enemies."

"Canynge, away! By God in heaven That did me being give,

I will not taste a bit of bread

Whilst this Sir Charles doth live!

By Mary, and all saints in heaven,
This sun shall be his last!"
Then Canynge dropp'd a briny tear,
And from the presence pass'd.

With heart brimful of gnawing grief,
He to Sir Charles did go,

And sat him down upon a stool,

And tears began to flow.

"We all must die," said brave Sir Charles; "What boots it how or when?

Death is the sure, the certain fate,

Of all we mortal men.

Say why, my friend, thy honest soul
Runs over at thine eye;

Is it for my most welcome doom
That thou dost child-like cry?

Saith godly Canynge, "I do weep,
That thou so soon must die,
And leave thy sons and helpless wife;
"Tis this that wets mine eye."

"Then dry the tears that out thine eye
From godly fountains spring;

Death I despise, and all the power

Of Edward, traitor-king.

When through the tyrant's welcome means
I shall resign my life,

The God I serve will soon provide
For both my sons and wife.

Before I saw the lightsome sun,
This was appointed me;
Shall mortal man repine or grudge
What God ordains to be?

How oft in battle have I stood,

When thousands died around;
When smoking streams of crimson blood
Imbrued the fatten'd ground.

How did I know that every dart
That cut the airy way,
Might not find passage to my heart,
And close mine eyes for aye ?

And shall I now, for fear of death,
Look wan and be dismay'd?
No! from my heart fly childish fear;
Be all the man display'd.

Ah, godlike Henry! God forefend,
And guard thee and thy son,
If 'tis his will; but if 'tis not,
Why, then his will be done.

My honest friend, my fault has been
To serve God and my prince;
And that I no time-server am,
My death will soon convince.

In London city was I born,

Of parents of great note; My father did a noble arms Emblazon on his coat: