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In orange groves, and myrtle bowers,

That breathe a gale of fragrance round,
I charm the fairy-footed hours

With my lov'd lute's romantic sound;
Or crowns of living laurel weave
For those that win the race at eve.

The shepherd's horn at break of day,

The ballet danc'd in twilight glade;
The canzonet and roundelay,

Sung in the silent greenwood shade:
These simple joys that never fail,
Shall bind me to my native vale.

Rogers.

EPITAPH.

Though short thy span, God's unimpeach'd decrees,
Which made that shorten'd span one long disease,
Yet, merciful in chastising, gave thee

scope
For mild, redeeming virtues, faith and hope:
Meek resignation ; pious charity ;
And, since this world was not the world for thee,
Far from thy path removed, with partial care,
Strife, glory, gain, and pleasure's flowery snare,
Bade earth's temptations pass thee harmless by,
And fix'd on heaven thine unreverted eye!

Oh! mark'd from birth, and nurtured from the skies !
In youth with more than learning's wisdom wise !
As sainted martyrs, patient to endure !
Simple as unwean'd infancy and pure !
Pure from all stain! (save that of human clay,
Which Christ's atoning blood hath wash'd away !)
By mortal sufferings now no more oppress'd,
Mount, sinless spirit, to thy destined rest !
While I, reversed our nature's kindlier doom,
Pour forth a father's sorrows on thy tomb.

Canning.

THE WORLD'S VANITY.

LOOKING far foorth into the ocean wide,

A goodly ship, with banners bravely dight, And flag in her top-gallant, I espide,

Through the maine sea making her merry flight; Faire blew the wind into her bosome right,

And th' heavens looked lovely all the while, That she did seeme to daunce, as in delight,

And at her owne felicitie did smile.
All sodainely there clove unto her keele
A little fish, that men call Remora,

her
course,

and held her by the heele, That winde nor tide could move her thence away. Straunge thing, me seemeth, that so small a thing Should able be so great an one to wring !

Spenser.

Which stopt

BRACKENBURY AND CLARENCE.

Brack. What was your dream, my lord ? I pray you

tell me.

Clar. Methought that I had broken from the

Tower, And was embark'd to cross to Burgundy; And, in my company, my brother Glo'ster, Who from my cabin tempted me to walk Upon the hatches; thence we look’d toward England, And cited up a thousand heavy times, During the.wars of York and Lancaster, That had befallen us. As we paced along Upon the giddy footing of the hatches, Methought that Glo'ster stumbled; and in falling Strook me (that thought to stay him) overboard, Into the tumbling billows of the main. O Lord ! methought, what pain it was to drown!

134

BRACKENBURY AND CLARENCE.

What dreadful noise of water in mine ears!
What sights of ugly deaths within mine eyes !
Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks;
A thousand men that fishes gnawed upon;
Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearls,
Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels,
All scattered in the bottom of the sea :
Some lay in dead men's skulls; and, in those holes
Where

eyes

did once inhabit, there were crept (As 'twere in scorn of eyes) reflecting gems, That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep, And mock’d the dead bones that lay scatter'd by.

Brack. Had you such leisure in the time of death, To gaze upon these secrets of the deep ?

Clar. Methought I had; and often did I strive
To yield the ghost : but still the envious flood
Stopt-in my soul, and would not let it forth
To find the empty vast, and wand'ring air,
But smother'd it within my panting bulk.

THE SAME CONTINUED.

Brack. Awak'd you not with sore agony?

Clar. O, no, my dream was lengthen'd after life!
0, then began the tempest to my soul,
I pass'd, methought, the melancholy flood
With that sour ferry-man which poets write of,
Unto the kingdom of perpetual night.
The first that there did greet my stranger soul
Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick;
Who cried aloud, What scourge for perjury
Can this dark monarchy afford

false Clarence ?
And so he vanish'd. Then came wand'ring by
A shadow like an angel, with bright hair,
Dabbled in blood; and he shrieked out aloud,
Clarence is come! false, fleeting, perjur'd Clarence,

MELROSE ABBEY.

135

That stabb'd me in the field by Tewkesbury:
Seize on him, Furies, take him unto torment.
With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends
Environ'd

me,

and howled in mine ears
Such hideous cries, that, with the very noise,
I trembling wak’d, and, for a season after,
Could not believe but that I was in hell;
Such terrible impression made my

dream. Brack. No marvel, lord, though it affrighted you; I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it.

Clar. O, Brackenbury, I have done these things,
That now give evidence against my soul-
For Edward's sake; and see how he requites me!
I pray thee, gentle keeper, stay by me;

(retiring to a chair.) My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep. Brack. I will, my lord; God give your grace good

rest!
Sorrow breaks seasons, and reposing hours,
Makes the night morning, and the noon-tide night.
Princes have but their titles for their glories,
An outward honour for an inward toil;
And for unfelt imaginations
They often feel a world of restless cares :
So that, between their titles and low name,
There's nothing differs but the outward fame.

Shakspeare.

MELROSE ABBEY.

If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright,
Go visit it by the pale moon-light;
For the gay beams of lightsome day
Gild but to flout the ruins grey.
When the broken arches are black in night,
And each shafted oriel glimmers white;

136

'TIS TIME THIS HEART SHOULD BE UNMOVED.

When the cold light's uncertain shower
Streams on the ruined central tower;
When buttress and buttress alternately
Seem framed of ebon and ivory;
When silver edges the imagery,
And the scrolls that teach me to live and die;
When distant Tweed is heard to rave,
And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's

grave:
Then go—but go alone the while-
Then view St. David's ruined pile;
And, home returning, soothly swear,
Was never scene so sad and fair!

Sir W. Scott.

'TIS TIME THIS HEART SHOULD BE UNMOVED.

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved,

Since others it hath ceased to move;
Yet though I cannot be beloved,

Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf;

The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
The worm, the canker, and the grief

Are mine alone!

The fire that on my

bosom preys Is lone as some volcanic isle; No torch is kindled at its blaze

A funeral pile!

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,

The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share,

But wear the chain.

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