« AnteriorContinuar »
TO THE REV. WILLIAM MASON No sound of the harp, from the rock!
Come, thou huntress of Lutha, Malvina, Dear Mason-Though I very well know
call back his soul to the bard. I look 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 catcher to his Majesty, with a salary of
winds. 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 remempublic once a year, yet to you, sir, we will
bered the past, and all his rage arose. not stand upon these things,” I can- (10
“Nor Gormal's mossy towers, nor Starno, not say I should jump at it; nay, if they
shall Fingal behold. Deaths wander, like 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, serjeant trumpeter or pinmaker to the
dweller of battle's wing! Cormar, whose 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
Fingal rushed, in all his arms, wideenvy even a poet-laureate....
bounding 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 hid, in mist, their many-colored sides?
OSSIAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN 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! 170 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 [30 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 been foes; we are not foes, O Salgar!
Now mirk December's dowie? face Cease a little while, ó wind! stream,
Glowrs owr the rigs? wi' sour grimace, be thou silent a while! let my voice be
While, thro' his minimum of space, heard around. Let my wanderer hear
The bleer-eyed sun,
Wi' blinkin light and stealing pace, me! Salgar! it is Colma who calls. Here is the tree, and the rock. Salgar, my
His race doth run. 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;
10 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.
Mankind but scanty pleasure glean
Wi' frozen spear,
And guides! the weir.?
Let mirth abound; let social cheer
To crown our joy:
Our bliss destroy.
Auld Reikie!3 thou’rt the canty4 hole,
And thou, great god of aqua vita!
When fou24 we're sometimes capernoity25_
Be thou prepared While round they gar the bicker10 roll | To hedge us frae that black banditti, 65 To weet their mouth.
The City Guard.
When merry Yule-day comes, I trow,
THOMAS CHATTERTON (1762-1770)
BRISTOWE TRAGEDIE; And kickshaws, 4 strangers to our view,
:OR, THE DETHE OF SYR CHARLES Sin' fairn-year. 15
BAWDIN Ye browster16 wives! now busk 17 ye bra, 18
The feathered songster chaunticleer And fling your sorrows far awa';
Han26 wounde hys bugle horne,
And tolde the earlie villager
The commynge of the morne:
Kynge Edwarde sawe the ruddie streakes 5
Of lyghte eclypse the greie; Then, tho' at odds wi' a' the warl',
And herde the raven's crokynge throte Amang oursells we'll never quarrel;
Proclayme the fated daie.
40 | “Thou’rt righte," quod hee, “for, by the As lang's there's pithal into the barrel
That syttes enthroned on hyghe! 10
Charles Bawdin, and hys fellowes twaine, Fiddlers! your pins in temper fix,
To-daie shall surelie die.”
45 Thenne wythe a jugge of nappy ale
Hys knyghtes dydd onne hymm waite; Nor forles wi' pianos mix
“Goe tell the traytour, thatt to-daie 15 Gie's Tullochgorum.
Hee leaves thys mortall state.”
For nought can cheer the heart sae weel
50 It even vivifies the heel
To skip and dance: Lifeless is he wha canna feel
Sir Canterlone thenne bendedd lowe,
With harte brymm-fulle of woe;
And to Syr Charles dydd goe.
Butt whenne hee came, hys children
"O goode Syr Charles!” sayd Canterlone, “Justice does loudlie for hym calle, 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,
“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; “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 no “Lett mercie rule thyne infante reigne, I'de sooner die to-daie
'Twylle faste4 thye crowne fulle sure; Thanne lyve hys slave, as manie are, From race to race thye familie Though I shoulde lyve for aie.”
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,
“Canynge, awaie! thys traytour vile 85 And felle down onne hys knee;
Has scorned my power and mee; “I'm come,” quod hee, "unto your grace Howe canst thou then for such a manne To move your clemencye.”
Entreate my clemencye?”
Wylle val'rous actions prize;
Although ynne enemies."
“Canynge, awaie! By Godde ynne Heav'n “My nobile leige! alle my request, . Thatt dydd mee beinge gyve, Ys for a nobile knyghte,
I wylle nott taste a bitt of breade 95 Who, though may hap hee has donne Whilst thys Syr Charles dothe lyve.
wronge, 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 rewyned? are for aie;
Thenne Canynge dropt a brinie teare, Yff that you are resolved to lett
And from the presence paste. 100 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,3 | And sat hymm downe uponne a stoole, Bawdin shall loose hys hedde:
And teares beganne to flowe. * secure.
“Wee all must die,” quod brave Syr | “My honest friende, my faulte has beene Charles;
To serve Godde and mye prynce; 146 “Whatte bootes ytte howe or whenne; And thatt I no tyme-server am, Dethe ys the sure, the certaine fate
My dethe wylle soone convynce. Of all wee mortall menne.
“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, 153 And leave thy sonnes and helpless
From oute the reech of woe. wyfe;
“Hee taughte mee justice and the laws 'Tys thys thatt wettes myne eye.”
Wyth pitie to unite; “Thenne drie the tears thatt out thyne eye
And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe
The wrong cause fromm the ryghte: 160 From godlie fountaines sprynge; 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:
means I shall resigne my lyfe,
“And none can saye butt alle mye lyfe 165 The Godde I serve wylle soone provyde I have hys wordyes kept; For bothe mye sonnes and wyfe.
And summed the actyonns of the daie
Eche nyghte before I slept. “Before I sawe the lyghtsome sunne, 125 Thys was appointed mee;
“I have a spouse, goe aske of her Shall mortall manne repyne or grudge Yff I defyled her bedde? What Godde ordeynes to bee?
I have a kynge, and none can laie
Black treason onne my hedde. “Howe oft ynne battaile have I stoode, · Whan thousands dyed arounde; 130
“Ynne Lent, and onne the holie eve,
Fromm fleshe I dydd refrayne: Whan smokynge streemes of crimson
Whie should I thenne appeare dismayed bloode Imbrewed the fattened ground:
To leave thys worlde of payne? 176
“Ne, hapless Henrie! I rejoyce, “Howe dydd I knowe thatt ev'ry darte,
I shall ne see thye dethe; That cutte the airie waie,
Moste willinglie ynne thye just cause Myghte nott fynde passage toe my harte,
Doe I resign my brethe. And close myne eyes for aie? 136
“Oh, fickle people! rewyned londe! “And shall I nowe, forr feere of dethe, Thou wylt kenne' peace ne moe;?
Looke wanne and bee dysmayde? Whyle Richard's sonnes exalt themselves, Ne! fromm my herte flie childyshe feere, Thye brookes wythe bloude wylle flowe. Bee alle the manne displayed. 140
“Saie, were ye tyred of godlie peace, 185 “Ah! goddelyke Henrie! Godde forefende, And godlie Henrie's reigne,
And guarde thee and thye sonne, Thatt you dyd choppeyoure easie daies Yff 'tis hys wylle; but yff 'tis nott,
For those of bloude and peyne? Why thenne hys wylle bee donne.