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He should, or he should not: for he made me mad,
To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,
And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman,
Ofguns, and drums, and wounds (God save the mark !)
And telling me the sovereign'st thing on earth
Was parmaceti for an inward bruise;
And that it was great pity, so it was,
That villanous saltpetre should be digg'd
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed
So cowardly; and, but for these vile guns,
He would himself have been a soldier.




O Lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress tree !
Too lively glow the lilies light,
The varnish'd holly's all too bright,
The May-flower and the eglantine
May shade a brow less sad than mine;
But, Lady, weave no wreath for me,
Or weave it of the cypress tree !

Let dimpled Mirth his temples twine
With tendrils of the laughing vine;
The manly oak, the pensive yew,
To patriot and to sage be due;
The myrtle bough bids lovers live,
But that Matilda will not give,
Then, Lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the


tree !

Let merry England proudly rear
Her blended roses, bought so dear;

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Let Albin bind her bonnet blue
With heath and harebell dipp'd in dew;
On favour'd Erin's crest be seen
The flower she loves of emerald green-
But, Lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress tree.
Strike the wild harp, while maids prepare
The ivy meet for minstrel's hair;
And, while his crown of laurel leaves
With bloody hand the victor weaves,
Let the loud trump his triumph tell:
But when


hear the passing bell,
Then, Lady, twine a wreath for me,
And twine it of the cypress tree.
Yes ! twine for me the cypress bough;
But, O Matilda, twine not now!
Stay till a few brief months are past,
And I have look'd and lov'd my

When villagers my shroud bestrew
With pansies, rosemary, and rue
Then, Lady, weave a wreath for me,
And weave it of the cypress tree.

Sir W. Scott.



The lovely young Lavinia once had friends;
And fortune smil'd deceitful, on her birth ;
For, in her helpless years, depriv'd of all,
Of every stay, save innocence and Heaven,
She, with her widowed mother, feeble, old,
And poor, liv'd in a cottage, far retir'd
Among the windings of a woody vale;
By solitude and deep surrounding shades,
But more by bashful modesty, conceald.



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,
young Lavinia.


A native grace


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:



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.



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.



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.


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
Disturbid, 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.

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