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Britannia needs no bulwarks, The meteor flag of England
No towers along the steep ; Shall yet terrific burn,
Her march is o'er the mountain Till danger's troubled night
waves,

depart Her home is on the deep.

And the star of peace return. With thunders from her native Then, then, ye ocean warriors ! oak

Our song and feast shall flow She quells the floods below, To the fame of your name, As they roar on the shore,

When the storm has ceased to When the stormy winds do

blow,blow,

When the fiery fight is heard no When the battle rages loud and more, long

And the storm has ceased to blow. And the stormy winds do blow.

T. CAMPBELL. 167. FOLLOW THY FAIR SUN FOLLOW thy fair sun, unhappy | Follow those pure beams, whose shadow,

beauty burneth ! Though thou be black as night, That so have scorchèd thee ;

And she made all of light; As thou still black must be, Yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy Till her kind beams thy black to shadow!

brightness turneth! Follow her, whose light thy light depriveth!

Follow her, while yet her glory Though here thou livest dis shineth ! graced,

There comes a luckless night And she in heaven is placed ; That will dim all her light; Yet follow her whose light the And this the black unhappy shade world reviveth !

divineth. Follow still, since so thy Fates ordained !

The sun must have his shade,

Till both at once do fade ;
The sun still proved, the shadow still disdainèd !

T. CAMPION.
168. FOLLOW YOUR SAINT
FOLLOW your saint. Follow, with accents sweet !
Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet !
There, wrapped in cloud of sorrow, pity move,
And tell the ravisher of my soul I perish for her love.
But if she scorns my never-ceasing pain,
Then burst with sighing in her sight, and ne'er return again!
All that I sang, still to her praise did tend.
Still she was first, still she my songs did end ;
Yet she my love and music both doth fly,
The music that her echo is, and beauty's sympathy :
Then let my notes pursue her scornful flight !
It shall suffice that they were breathed and died for her delight.

T. CAMPION.

169. MY SWEETEST LESBIA
My sweetest Lesbia, let us live and love,
And though the sager sort our deeds reprove,
Let us not weigh them. Heaven's great lamps do dive
Into their west, and straight again revive ;
But, soon as once set is our little light,
Then must we sleep one ever-during night.
If all would lead their lives in love like me,
Then bloody swords and armour should not be ;
No drum nor trumpet peaceful sleeps should move,
Unless alarm came from the Camp of Love.
But fools do live and waste their little light,
And seek with pain their ever-during night.
When timely death my life and fortune ends,
Let not my hearse be vext with mourning friends ;
But let all lovers, rich in triumph, come
And with sweet pastimes grace my happy tomb:
And, Lesbia, close up thou my little light,
And crown with love my ever-during night.

T. CAMPION.
170. LAURA
ROSE-CHEEKED Laura, come ; These dull notes we sing
Sing thou smoothly with thy Discords need for helps to grace

beauty's
Silent music, either other

Only beauty purely loving
Sweetly gracing

Knows no discord,

But still moves delight, Lovely forms do flow

Like clear springs renewed by From concent divinely framèd ; flowing, Heaven is music, and thy beauty's Ever perfect, ever in themBirth is heavenly.

Selves eternal.

T. CAMPION.

them ;

171. THE MAN UPRIGHT OF LIFE
The man upright of life, whose guiltless heart is free
From all dishonest deeds, or thought of vanity ;
The man whose silent days in harmless joys are spent,
Whom hopes cannot delude, nor sorrow discontent;
That man needs neither towers nor armour for defence,
Nor secret vaults, to flay from thunder's violence :
He, only, can behold with unaffrighted eyes
The horrors of the deep, and terrors of the skies.

Thus, scorning all the cares that fate or fortune brings,
He makes the heaven his book; his wisdom, heavenly things ;
Good thoughts, his only friends ; his wealth, a well-spent age ;
The earth his sober inn, and quiet pilgrimage.

T. CAMPION.

172. THINK'ST THOU TO SEDUCE ME THINK'st thou to seduce me then with words that have no meaning ? Parrots so can learn to prate, our speech by pieces gleaning : Nurses teach their children so about the time of weaning. Learn to speak first, then to woo : to wooing much pertaineth : He that courts us, wanting art, soon falters when he feigneth, Looks asquint on his discourse and smiles when he complaineth. Skilful anglers hide their hooks, fit baits for every season, But with crooked pins fish'st thou, as babes do that want reason. Gudgeons only can be caught with such poor tricks of treason.

T. CAMPION.
173. THOU ART NOT FAIR
Thou art not fair, for all thy red and white,

For all those rosy ornaments in thee ;
Thou art not sweet, though made of mere delight,

Nor fair, nor sweet-unless thou pity me.
I will not soothe thy fancies : thou shalt prove
That beauty is no beauty without love.
Yet love not me, nor seek thou to allure

My thoughts with beauty, were it more divine ;
Thy smiles and kisses I cannot endure,

I'll not be wrapped up in those arms of thine :
Now show it, if thou be a woman right,-
Embrace and kiss and love me in despite !

T. CAMPION.

174. TURN ALL THY THOUGHTS TO EYES TURN all thy thoughts to eyes,

Turn darkness into day, Turn all thy hairs to ears, Conjectures into truth, Change all thy friends to spies

Believe what th' envious say, And all thy joys to fears :

Let age interpret youth : True love will yet be free

True love will yet be free
In spite of jealousy.

In spite of jealousy.
Wrest every word and look,
Rack every hidden thought,
Or fish with golden hook ;
True love cannot be caught:

For that will still be free
In spite of jealousy.

7. CAMPION.

175. WERE MY HEART AS SOME MEN'S ARE WERE my heart as some men's are, thy errors would not move me; But thy faults I curious find, and speak because I love thee : Patience is a thing divine, and far, I grant, above me. Foes sometimes befriend us more, our blacker deeds objecting, Than the obsequious bosom-guest with false respect affecting : Friendship is the Glass of Truth, our hidden stains detecting. When I use of eyes enjoy, and inward light of reason, Thy observer will be and censor, but in season : Hidden mischief to conceal in state and love is treason.

T. CAMPION.

176. WHEN TO HER LUTE CORINNA SINGS WHEN to her lute Corinna sings, And as her lute doth live or die, Her voice revives the leaden Led by her passion, so must I; strings,

For when of pleasure she doth And doth in highest notes appear, sing, As any challenged echo clear : My thoughts enjoy a sudden But when she doth of mourning spring, speak,

But if she doth of sorrow speak, E’en with her sighs, the strings | E'en from my heart the strings do break.

do break.

T. CAMPION.

177. THE PILOT THAT WEATHERED THE STORM
IF hushed the loud whirlwind that ruffled the deep,

The sky if no longer loud tempests deform;
When our perils are past, shall our gratitude sleep ?

No! Here's to the Pilot that weathered the storm!

And shall not his memory to Britain be dear,

Whose example, with envy, all nations behold;
A statesman unbiased by interest or fear,

By power uncorrupted, untainted by gold ?
Who, when terror and doubt through the universe reigned,

While rapine and treason their standards unfurled,
The heart and the hopes of his country maintained,

And one kingdom preserved ’midst the wreck of the world.

L?! Pitt, when the course of thy greatness is o'er,

Thy talents, thy virtues, we fondly recall !
Now justly we prize thee, when lost we deplore ;
Admired in thy zenith, but loved in thy fall.

G. CANNING.

178. A POLITICAL DISPATCH
In matters of commerce the fault of the Dutch
Is offering too little and asking too much.
The French are with equal advantage content,
So we clap on Dutch bottoms just 20 per cent.

20 per cent, 20 per cent,
We clap on Dutch bottoms just 20 per cent.
Vous frapperez Falck avec 20 per cent.

G. CANNING.

179. SAPPHICS

THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER

Friend of Humanity.
NEEDY Knife-grinder ! whither are you going ?
Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order-
Bleak blows the blast ;-your hat has got a hole in't,

So have your breeches.
Weary Knife-grinder ! little think the proud ones
Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike-
Road, what hard work 'tis crying all day, Knives and

Scissors to grind O!'
Tell me, Knife-grinder, how you came to grind knives :
Did some rich man tyrannically use you ?
Was it the 'Squire ? or Parson of the Parish ?

Or the Attorney ?
Was it the 'Squire, for killing of his game ? or
Covetous Parson, for his tithes distraining ?
Or roguish Lawyer, made you lose your little

All in a lawsuit ?
(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine ?)
Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids,
Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your

Pitiful story.

Knife-grinder.
Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, Sir,
Only last night a-drinking at the 'Chequers’,
This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were

Torn in a scuffle.
Constables came up for to take me into
Custody ; they took me before the justice ;
Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish-

Stocks for a vagrant.

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