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252

THE THREE FISHERS.

Together thus they shunn'd the cruel scorn
Which virtue, sunk to poverty, would meet
From giddy passion, and low-minded pride;
Almost on nature's common bounty fed,
Like the gay birds that sung them to repose,
Content and careless of to-morrow's fate.
Her form was fresher than the morning rose,
When the dew wets its leaves: unstained and pure
As is the lily, or the mountain snow:
The modest virtues mingled in her eyes,
Still on the ground dejected, darting all
Their humid beams into the blooming flowers :
Or when the mournful tale her mother told,
Of what her faithless fortune promis'd once,
Thrill'd in her thought, they, like the dewy star
Of evening, shone in tears.
Sat fair proportion'd on her polished limbs,
Veil'd in a simple robe; their best attire,
Beyond the pomp of dress; for loveliness
Needs not the foreign aid of ornament,
But is, when unadorn'd, adorn'd the most.
Thoughtless of beauty, she was beauty's self,
Recluse amid the close embowering woods.
As in the hollow breast of Apennine,
Beneath the shelter of encircling hills,
A myrtle rises far from human eye,
And breathes its balmy fragrance o'er the wild;
So flourish’d, blooming, and unseen by all,
The young Lavinia.

Thomson.

A native grace

THE THREE FISHERS.

THREE fishers went sailing down to the West,
Away to the West as the sun went down;
Each thought of the woman who loved him the best,
And the children stood watching them out of the town:

HYMN TO THE MOON.

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For men must work, and women must weep,

And here's little to earn, and many to keep, Though the harbour-bar be moaning. Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; And they looked at the squall, and they looked at the

shower, While the night-rack came rolling up, ragged and brown;

But men must work, and women must weep,

Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, And the harbour-bar be moaning.

Three corpses lie out on the shining sands,
In the morning gleam as the tide went down,
And the women are weeping and wringing their hands,
For those who will never come home to the town.

But men must work, and women must weep,

And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep, And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.

Kingsley.

HYMN TO THE MOON.

QUEEN and huntress, chaste and fair,
Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair,
State in wonted manner keep:

Hesperus entreats thy light,

Goddess, excellently bright.
Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose ;
Cynthia's shining orb was made
Heav'n to clear, when day did close :

Bless us, then, with wished sight,
Goddess, excellently bright.

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ODE ON THE PASSIONS.

Lay thy bow of pearl apart,
And thy crystal shining quiver ;
Give unto the flying hart
Space to breathe, how short soever:

Thou that mak'st a day of night,
Goddess, excellently bright.

Ben Jor.son.

ODE ON THE PASSIONS.

WHEN Music, heavenly maid! was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Throng'd around her magic cell
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possess'd beyond the Muses' painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturb’d, delighted, raised, refined;
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatch'd her instruments of sound;
And as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each, for Madness ruled the hour,
Would prove his own expressive power.

First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords, bewilder'd laid,
And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
E'en at the sound himself had made.

Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,
In lightnings own’d his secret stings;
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.

ODE ON THE PASSIONS.

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With woeful measures wan Despair
Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled ;
A solemn, strange, and mingled air ;
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hopel with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure ?

Still it whisper'd promised pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail.

Still would her touch the strain prolong;

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She callid on Echo still through all the song;

And where her sweetest theme she chose,
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close;
And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair;
And longer had she sung—but with a frown

Revenge impatient rose :
He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down,

And, with a withering look,
The war-denouncing trumpet took,

And blew a blast so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe;

And ever and anon he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat;
And though sometimes, each dreary pause between,

Dejected Pity at his side,

Her soul-subduing voice applied,
Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien,
While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from

his head.
Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd;

Sad proof of thy distressful state;
Of difforing themes the veering song was mix'd,
And now it courted Love, now raving callid on Hate.

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial :

He, with viny crown advancing,
First to the lively pipe his hand address'd;

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ODE ON THE PASSIONS.

But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best.

They would have thought who heard the strain, They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids,

Amidst the festal sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing :
While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,
Love framed with mirth a gay fantastic round,
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound :

And he, amidst his frolic play,
As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

O Music! sphere-descended maid,
Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid,
Why, goddess ! why, to us denied,
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside ?
As in that loved Athenian bower,

learn'd an all-commanding power ;
Thy mimic soul, O nymph endeard,
Can well recall what then it heard,
Where is thy native simple heart,
Devote to virtue, fancy, art ?
Arise, as in that elder time,
Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime !
Thy wonders in that godlike age
Fill thy recording sister's page
'Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
Had more of strength, diviner rage,
Than all that charms this laggard age;
Ev'n all at once together found,
Cecilia's mingled world of sound.
Oh, bid our vain endeavours cease,
Revive the just designs of Greece;
Return in all thy simple state;
Confirm the tales her sons relate!

Collins.

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