And thus unto the youth she said That drove them to the Bell, "This shall be yours, when you bring back My husband safe and well." The youth did ride, and soon did meet But not performing what he meant, And gladly would have done, The frighted steed he frighted more, And made him faster run. Away went Gilpin, and away Went post-boy at his heels, The post-boy's horse right glad to miss The lumbering of the wheels. Six gentlemen upon the road, With post-boy scampering in the rear, "Stop thief! stop thief!-a highwayman!" Not one of them was mute; And all and each that passed that way And now the turnpike gates again And so he did, and won it too, For he got first to town; Nor stopped till where he had got up He did again get down. Now let us sing, Long live the King! William Julius Mickle. Mickle (1734-1788) was the son of the minister of Langholm, in Dumfriesshire. Not succeeding in trade as a brewer, he went to London in 1764. Here he pubished "The Concubine," a moral poem in the Spenserian stanza. He also translated, though not very faithfully, the "Lusiad" of Camoens. Mickle's ballad of "Cumnor Hall," which suggested to Scott the groundwork of his romance of "Kenilworth," is a tame production compared with the charming little poem of The Mariner's Wife," in regard to which doubt has been expressed whether Mickle was really its author. It first appeared as a broad-sheet, sold in the streets of Edinburgh. Mickle did not include it in an edition of his poems, published by himself; but Allan Cunningham claims it for him on the ground that a copy of the poem, with alterations marking the text as in process of formation, was found among Mickle's papers, and in his handwriting; also, that his widow declared that he said the song was his. Beattie added a stanza, which mars its flow, and is omitted in our version. The poem was claimed by Jean Adams, a poor school-mistress, who died in 1765. Chambers thinks that it must, on the whole, be credited to Mickle. Dean Trench does not feel at liberty to disturb the ascription of this "exquisite domestic lyric" to Mickle. Burns, not too strongly, characterized it as "one of the most beautiful songs in the Scotch or any other language." THE MARINER'S WIFE. And are ye sure the news is true, Is this a time to think o' wark? When Colin's at the door? For there's nae luck about the house, There's little pleasure in the house And gie to me my bigonet, My bishop's-satin gown; For I maun tell the bailie's wife For there's nae luck about the house, etc. Rise, lass, and mak' a clean fireside, Gie little Kate her button gown, For there's nae luck about the house, etc. There's twa fat hens upo' the coop, Been fed this month and mair; That Colin weel may fare: And spread the table neat and clean, Gar ilka thing look braw; For who can tell how Colin fared When he was far awa'. For there's nae luck about the house, etc. Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, His very foot has music in't And will I hear him speak? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,- For there's nae luck about the house, etc. If Colin's weel, and weel content, And will I hear him speak? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,— For there's nae luck about the house, etc. John Langhorne. Langhorne (1735-1779) was a native of Westmoreland, and became a preacher in London. Amiable and highly beloved in his day, he is now chiefly known as the translator of "Plutarch's Lives." He seems to have anticipated Crabbe in painting the rural life of England in true colors. He wrote "Owen of Carron," a ballad, praised by Campbell; also, "Country Justice," both giving evidences of a refined poetical taste. The evening star sat in his eye, The sun his golden tresses gave, The north's pure morn her orient dye, To him who rests in yonder grave! Beneath no high, historic stone, Though nobly born, is Owen laid; Stretched on the greenwood's lap alone, He sleeps beneath the waving shade. There many a flowery race hath sprung, Yet still, when May with fragrant feet That dirge I hear so simply sweet James Beattie. The son of a small farmer residing at Laurence-kirk, in Scotland, Beattie (1735-1803) was educated at Marischal College, Aberdeen, where in 1760 he was appointed Professor of Moral Philosophy and Logic. His principal prose work, "The Essay on Truth," made some noise in its day, but is now little esteemed by philosophical critics. George III. conferred on him a pension of £200. Beattie's fame as a poct rests upon "The Minstrel," the first part of which was published in 1771. Written in the Spenserian stanza, it gracefully depicts the opening character of Edwin, a young village poet. Some of the stanzas rise to a strain of true lyric grandeur, but the general level of the poem is not above the commonplace. It gave Beattie, however, a high literary reputation. He had already corresponded with Gray. He now became the associate of Johnson, Reynolds, Goldsmith, and Garrick. In his domestic relations Beattie was unfortunate; his wife becoming insane, and his two sons dying at an early age. Shattered by a train of nervous complaints, the unhappy poet had a stroke of paralysis in 1799, and died in 1803. By nature he had quick and tender sensibilities. A fine landscape or strain of musie would affect him even to tears. FROM "OWEN OF CARRON." On Carron's side the primrose pale, Why stream your eyes with pity's dew? 'Tis all with gentle Owen's blood That purple grows the primrose pale; That pity pours the tender flood From each fair eye in Marlivale. NATURE AND HER VOTARY. FROM "THE MINSTREL." Oh how canst thou renounce the boundless store And all that echoes to the song of even, All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields, Oh how canst thou renounce, and hope to be for- These charms shall work thy soul's eternal health, LIFE AND IMMORTALITY. FROM "THE MINSTREL." Oh ye wild groves, oh where is now your bloom! And be it so. Let those deplore their doom, Shall I be left forgotten in the dust, MORNING MELODIES. FROM "THE MINSTREL." But who the melodies of morn can tell? And the dead foliage flies in many a shapeless The clamorous horn along the cliffs above; Where now the rill, melodious, pure, and cool, Ah! see, the unsightly slime, and sluggish pool, away. Yet such the destiny of all on Earth: The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide; The cottage-curs at early pilgrim bark; O Nature, how in every charm supreme! ARRAIGNMENT OF PROVIDENCE. FROM "THE MINSTREL." Shall he, whose birth, maturity, and age Or shall frail man Heaven's dread decree gainsay, Wide through unnumbered worlds, and ages without end? One part, one little part, we dimly scan Through the dark medium of life's feverish dream; Lady Caroline Keppel. Born in Scotland about the year 1735, Lady Caroline Keppel was a daughter of the second Earl of Albemarle. Robin Adair was an Irish surgeon, whom she married in spite of the opposition of her friends. He became a favorite of George III., and was made surgeon-general. He died at an advanced age, not having married a second time. Lady Caroline's life was short but happy. She left three children, one of them a son, Sir Robert Adair, G.C.B., who died in 1855, aged ninety-two. There is a näiveté in the style of her song which makes credible her authorship. Beautiful as it is, from the unstudied art, it is evidently not the work of a practised writer. It was set to a plaintive Irish air. What made the ball so fine? Robin was there! What, when the play was o'er, But now thou'rt far from me, Robin Adair; But now I never see Robin Adair; Yet he I loved so well Welcome on shore again, Robin Adair! I feel thy trembling hand; Tears in thy eyelids stand, To greet thy native land, Robin Adair. Long I ne'er saw thee, love, Robin Adair; Still I prayed for thee, love, Robin Adair. When thou wert far at sea, Come to my heart again, Robin Adair! And if thou still art true, I will be constant too, And will wed none but you, Robin Adair! ROBIN ADAIR. What's this dull town to me? Robin's not near, He whom I wished to see, Wished for to hear! Where's all the joy and mirth Made life a heaven on earth? Oh, they're all fled with thee, Robin Adair! What made the assembly shine? Robin Adair. John Wolcot. Dr. John Wolcot (1738-1819), who, under the name of Peter Pindar, gained much notoriety as a satirist, was a native of Dodbrooke, in Devonshire, studied medicine, and became a practitioner. While residing at Truro he detected the talents of the self-taught artist, Opie, whom he brought to London in 1780. Wolcot had now recourse to his pen for his support. His "Lyric Odes to the Royal Academicians" took the town by surprise. The justice of many of his criticisms, the daring personalities, and the quaintness of the style, were something so new that the work was highly successful. He now began to launch his ridicule at the king, ministers, opposition leaders, and authors, among which last were Gifford, Boswell, and Johnson. His popularity lasted for nearly forty years. In 1795 he got from his booksellers an annuity of £250, payable half-yearly, for the copyright of his works-a contract which resulted in heavy loss to the booksellers. Ephemeral in their nature, and lacking the vitality of moral purpose, most of his writings have sunk into oblivion. After all his satires on George III. and Pitt, he accepted a pension from the administration of which Pitt was the head. ON DR. JOHNSON. I own I like not Johnson's turgid style, Sets wheels on wheels in motion-such a clatter!— EPIGRAM ON SLEEP. Thomas Warton wrote the following Latin epigram, to be placed under the statue of Somuns, in the garden of Harris, the philologist. In Wolcot's translation, the beauty and felicity of the original are well conveyed. "Somne levis, quanquam certissima mortis imago Come, gentle Sleep! attend thy votary's prayer, THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEASE. A brace of sinners, for no good, And, in a fair white wig, looked wondrous fine. Fifty long miles had these sad rogues to travel, With something in their shoes much worse than gravel; In short, their toes so gentle to amuse, That popish parsons for its powers exalt, Light as a bullet from a gun; The other limped as if he had been shot. One saw the Virgin soon, "Peccavi” cried, Had his soul whitewashed all so clever; When home again he nimbly hied, Made fit with saints above to live forever. In coming back, however, let me say, He met his brother rogue about half-way, Hobbling, with outstretched hams and bending knees, Cursing the souls and bodies of the pease; His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brow in sweat, And sympathizing with his aching feet."How now?" the light-toed, whitewashed pilgrim broke: "You lazy lubber!—" Are now as soft as blubber! How 'tis that you are not in pain; What power hath worked a wonder for your toes, While I just like a snail am crawling, "Why," cried the other, grinning, "you must know, That just before I ventured on my journey, To walk a little more at ease, I took the liberty to boil my pease." |