« ՆախորդըՇարունակել »
It chanc'd of late a shepherd swain,
That went to seek his straying sheep, Within a thicket on a plain
Espied a dainty nymph asleep.
Her golden hair o'erspred her face;
Her careless arms abroad were cast; Her quiver had her pillows place;
Her breast lay bare to every blast.
The shepherd stood and gaz'd his fill;
Nought durst he do; nought durst he say; 10 Whilst chance, or else perhaps his will,
Did guide the god of love that way.
The crafty boy thus sees her sleep,
Whom if she wak'd he durst not see; Behind her closely seeks to creep, Before her
should ended bee.
There come, he steals her shafts away,
And puts his own into their place; Nor dares he any longer stay,
But, ere she wakes, hies thence apace.
Scarce was he gone, but she awakes,
And spies the shepherd standing by: Her bended bow in haste she takes,
And at the simple swain lets flye.
Forth flew the shaft, and pierc'd his heart,
That to the ground he fell with pain : Yet up again forthwith he start,
And to the nymph he ran amain.
Amazed to see so strange a sight,
She shot, and shot, but all in vain;
Love yielded strength amidst his pain.
Her angry eyes were great with tears,
She blames her hand, she blames her skill; The bluntness of her shafts she fears,
35 And try them on herself she will.
Take heed, sweet nymph, trye not thy shaft,
Each little touch will pierce thy heart : Alas! thou know'st not Cupids craft;
Revenge is joy: the end is smart.
Yet try she will, and pierce some bare;
Her hands were glov’d, but next to hand Was that fair breast, that breast so rare,
That made the shepherd senseless stand.
That breast she pierc'd; and through that breast Love found an entry to her heart;
46 At feeling of this new-come guest,
Lord ! how this gentle nymph did start!
She runs not now ; she shoots no more;
Away she throws both shaft and bow :
She thinks the shepherds haste too slow.
Though mountains meet not, lovers may:
The god of love sate on a tree,
The Character of a Happy Life. This little moral poem was writ by Sir Henry Wotton, who died Provost of Eaton, in 1639. Æt. 72. It is printed from a little collection of his pieces, entitled Reliquiæ Wottoniane, 1651, 12mo., compared with one or two other copies.
How happy is he born or taught,
That serveth not anothers will;
And simple truth his highest skill:
Whose passions not his masters are ;
Whose soul is still prepar'd for death ;
Of princes ear, or vulgar breath :
Who hath his life from rumours freed;
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Nor ruine make oppressors great:
Who envies none, whom chance doth raise,
Or vice: Who never understood
Nor rules of state, but rules of good :
Who God doth late and early pray
More of his grace than gifts to lend ;
With a well-chosen book or friend.
This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise, or feare to fall;
And having nothing, yet hath all.
Gilderoy. Was a famous robber, who lived about the middle of the last century, if we may credit the histories and story-books of highwaymen, which relate many improbable feats of him, as his robbing Cardinal Richlieu, Oliver Cromwell, &c. But these stories have probably no other authority
than the records of Grub-street; at least the Gilderoy, who is the hero of Scottish songsters, seems to have lived in an earlier age; for, in Thompson's Orpheus Caledonius, vol. ii., 1733, 8vo. is a copy of this ballad, which, though corrupt and interpolated, contains some lines that appear to be of genuine antiquity : in these he is represented as contemporary with Mary Queen of Scots : ex. gr.
“ The Queen of Scots possessed nought,
That my love let me want :
And ein whan they were scant.” These lines, perhaps, might safely have been inserted among the following stanzas, which are given from a written copy, that seems to have received some modern corrections. Indeed the common popular ballad contained some indecent luxuriances that required the pruninghook.
GILDEROY was a bonnie boy,
Had roses tull his shoone,
Wi' garters hanging doune:
To see sae trim a boy;
My handsome Gilderoy.
Oh! sike twa charming een he had,
A breath as sweet as rose,
But costly silken clothes;