Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall, Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without peer; Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, And all I remember is, friends flocking round As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground, Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent. SIR HENRY WOTTON: 1568—1639. Sir Henry Wotton, born in Kent, was a learned scholar and a skilful statesman. His poems, with the exception of the following, are for the most part pedantic and trite, but always graceful. How happy is he born and taught Whose passions not his masters are, Of public fame, or private breath; Who envies none that chance doth raise, Who hath his life from rumours freed, * Ever. Who God doth late and early pray This man is freed from servile bands PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY: 1792—1822. Lines, and Evening. See p. 145. Two of Shelley's most perfectly melodious poems: the first of saddest beauty, full of heart-break; the second full of the soft noises of the evening, and the dim still air of the twilight. Both are quiet, but in one the quiet is that of sorrow, in the other that of sweetest reverie. Lines. WHEN the lamp is shatter'd, As music and splendour No song when the spirit is mute ;— Like the wind through a ruin'd cell, Or the mournful surges That ring the dead seaman's knell. * Occupies. When hearts have once mingled, To endure what it once possest. O Love! who bewailest Why choose you the frailest For your cradle, your home, and your bier? Its passions will rock thee, As the storms rock the ravens on high; Bright seasons will mock thee, Like sun from a wintry sky. From thy nest every rafter Will rot, and thine eagle home Leave thee naked to laughter, When leaves fall and cold winds come. Evening. PONTE A MARE, PISA. THE sun is set; the swallows are asleep; There is no dew on the dry grass to-night, Nor damp within the shadow of the trees; The wind is intermitting, dry, and light; And in the inconstant motion of the breeze The dust and straws are driven up and down, And whirled about the pavement of the town. Within the surface of the fleeting river The wrinkled image of the city lay, * This verse was never finished. The chasm, in which the sun has sunk, is shut Which the keen evening star is shining through. ALFRED TENNYSON: 1809— Of old sat Freedom on the Heights. See p. 132. OF old sat Freedom on the heights, There in her place she did rejoice, Self-gather'd in her prophet-mind,* But fragments of her mighty voice Came rolling on the wind. Then stept she down thro' town and field To mingle with the human race, And part by part to men reveal'd Grave mother of majestic works, Her open eyes desire the truth. The wisdom of a thousand years Is in them. May perpetual youth Keep dry their light from tears; That her fair form may stand and shine, Make bright our days, and light our dreams, Turning to scorn with lips divine The falsehood of extremes ! * With thought concentrated in her prophetic mind. A reference to the well-known figure of Britannia. (39) ROBERT BURNS: 1759-1796. To a Mountain Daisy, on turning one down with the plough. Robert Burns, born near Ayr, educated by nature, and almost ruined by man, as a lyric poet ranks high amongst the highest; for genuine passion, either of joy or pain, his songs are matchless, or at least have never been surpassed by any singer in our islands. His education was scant, and the troubles of his life great, but he never failed to recognize and love true manliness, and to keep his heart fresh and open to all the impulses of nature. But it is only as a lyric poet, and whilst he writes in the language he spoke, that he is great; outside this he is prone to fall into barren conventionalisms, and to stumble grievously. The following poem, written in 1786, is one of his best known and best-exquisitely simple and touching. WEE, modest crimson-tippit flower, Thou's met me in an evil hour; For I maun † crush amang the stoure ‡ To spare thee now is past my power, Alas! it's no thy neibor § sweet, When upward-springing, blithe, to greet Cauld¶ blew the bitter-biting north Yet cheerfully thou glinted ** forth Amid the storm, Scarce reared above the parent earth Thy tender form. * Has = hast; s and not st was the regular inflexion of the 2nd person singular of the northern dialects in the 14th century, and is still used in Scotch dialects. + Must. Rubble. § Neighbour. ** Glanced. |