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How he who lone in Patmos banished,

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand;

And heard great Bablon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command.

Then kneeling down to heaven's eternal King,
The saint, the father, and the husband prays:
Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing,"
That thus they all shall meet in future days ;
There ever bask in uncreated rays,

No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear,
Together hymning their Creator's praise,
In such society, yet still more dear;


While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere.
Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride,
In all the pomp of method, and of art,
When men display to congregations wide
Devotion's every grace, except the heart!
The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert,
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;
But haply, in some cottage far apart,

May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul,
And in his book of life the inmates poor enrol.

Then homeward all take off their several way;
The youngling cottagers retire to rest;
The parent-pair their secret homage pay,
And proffer up to Heaven the warm request,
That He who stills the raven's clamorous nest,
And decks the lily fair in flowery pride,

Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best,

*Pope's Windsor Forest.

For them and for their little ones provide;

But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside.

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs,
That makes her loved at home, revered abroad:
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,
"An honest man 's the noblest work of God!"
And certes, in fair Virtue's heavenly road,
The cottage leaves the palace far behind;
What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load,
Disguising oft the wretch of human kind,
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined!

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent!
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil

Be blessed with health, and peace, and sweet content!

And O! may Heaven their simple lives prevent

From luxury's contagion, weak and vile!

Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent,

A virtuous populace may rise the while,

And stand a wall of fire around their much loved Isle.

O Thou, who poured the patriotic tide

That streamed through Wallace's undaunted heart!
Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride,
Or nobly die, the second glorious part,
(The patriot's God peculiarly thou art,
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!)
Oh, never, never, Scotia's realm desert;
But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard,

In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard !




CARE-CHARMING Sleep, thou easer of all woes,
Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose
On this afflicted prince; fall like a cloud,
In gentle showers; give nothing that is loud,
Or painful to his slumbers; easy, sweet,
And as a purling stream, thou son of Night,
Pass by his troubled senses, sing his pain
Like hollow murmuring wind, or silver rain.
Into this prince, gently, oh, gently slide,
And kiss him into slumbers like a bride!


To the Water Nymphs, drinking at the Fountain.

REACH, with your whiter hands, to me,

Some crystal of the spring;

And I, about the cup shall see
Fresh lilies flourishing.

Or else, sweet Nymphs, do you but this;
To the glass your lips incline;

And I shall see, by that one kiss,

The water turned to wine.



COMUS, THE star that bids the shepherd fold,
Now the top of heaven doth hold,
And the gilded car of day

His glowing axle doth allay
In the steep Atlantic stream,

And the slope sun his upward beam
Shoots against the dusky pole,

Pacing toward the other goal
Of his chamber in the east.
Meanwhile welcome Joy, and Feast,
Midnight shout, and revelry,
Tipsy dance, and jollity.

Braid your locks with rosy twine,
Dropping odours, dropping wine.
Rigour now is gone to bed,

And Advice with scrupulous head,

Strict Age and sour Severity

With their grave saws in slumber lie.

We that are of purer fire

Imitate the starry quire,

Who, in their nightly watchful spheres,

Lead in swift round the months and years.

The sounds and seas, with all their finny drove,
Now to the moon in wavering morrice move;
And on the tawny sands and shelves

Trip the pert faeries and the dapper elves.
By dimpled brook, and fountain brim,
The Wood-Nymphs decked with daisies trim,
Their merry wakes and pastime keep.

[blocks in formation]

Come, knit hands, and beat the ground
In a light fantastic round.

MILTON. [From "Comus."]

The Shepherd's Life.

THRICE, oh, thrice happy shepherd's life and state,
When courts are happiness, unhappy pawns!
His cottage low, and safely humble gate,

Shuts out proud Fortune, with her scorns and fawns;
No feared treason breaks his quiet sleep;
Singing all day, his flocks he learns to keep;
Himself as innocent as are his simple sheep.

No Syrian worms he knows, that with their thread
Draw out their silken lives:-nor silken pride :
His lambs' warm fleece well fits his little need,
Not in that proud Sidonian tincture dyed:

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