Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall,
Shook off my jack-boots, let go belt and all,

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,
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

And all I remember is, friends flocking round

As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground,
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,

Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)

Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.

SIR HENRY WOTTON: 1568—1639.
The Happy Life.

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
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill!

Whose passions not his masters are,
Whose soul is still * prepared for death,
Not tied unto the world with care

Of public fame, or private breath;

Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Or vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise;
Nor rules of state, but rules of good :

Who hath his life from rumours freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make oppressors great ;

* Ever.

Who God doth late and early pray
More of His grace than gifts to lend;
And entertains * the harmless day
With a religious book or friend.

This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands;
And having nothing, yet hath all.

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,
The light in the dust lies dead—
When the cloud is scatter'd,
The rainbow's glory is shed.
When the lute is broken,
Sweet tones are remember'd not;
When the lips have spoken,
Loved accents are soon forgot.

As music and splendour
Survive not the lamp and the lute,
The heart's echoes render

No song when the spirit is mute ;—
No song but sad dirges,

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,
Love first leaves the well-built nest;
The weak one is singled

To endure what it once possest.

O Love! who bewailest
The frailty of all things here,

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;
The bats are flitting fast in the grey air;
The slow soft toads out of damp corners creep;
And evening's breath, wandering here and there
Over the quivering surface of the stream,
Wakes not one ripple from its summer dream.

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,
Immovably unquiet, and for ever
It trembles, but it never fades away.*

* This verse was never finished.

The chasm, in which the sun has sunk, is shut
By darkest barriers of enormous cloud,
Like mountain over mountain huddled-but
Growing and moving upwards in a crowd;
And over it a space of watery blue,

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,
The thunders breaking at her feet :
Above her shook the starry lights:
She heard the torrents meet.

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
The fulness of her face-

Grave mother of majestic works,
From her isle-altar gazing down,
Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks,† ·
And, King-like, wears the crown :

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 ‡
Thy slender stem :

To spare thee now is past my power,
Thou bonnie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neibor § sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet,
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, ||
Wi' spreckled breast,

When upward-springing, blithe, to greet
The purpling east.

Cauld¶ blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth;

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.
|| Wheat.

Rubble.
¶ Cold.

§ Neighbour. ** Glanced.