Ir 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;

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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 nap should ended bee.

There come, he steals her shafts away,
And puts his own into their place;

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Nor dares he any longer stay,

But, ere she wakes, hies thence apace.

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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,

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She shot, and shot, but all in vain ;

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The more his wounds, the more his might,
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,

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.

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That breast she pierc'd; and through that breast Love found an entry to her heart;

At feeling of this new-come guest,

Lord! how this gentle nymph did start!

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She runs not now; she shoots no more;
Away she throws both shaft and bow :
She seeks for what she shunn'd before,
She thinks the shepherds haste too slow.

Though mountains meet not, lovers may:
What other lovers do, did they :

The god of love sate on a tree,

And laught that pleasant sight to see.

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XI.

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 Wottonianæ, 1651, 12mo., compared with one or two other copies.

How happy is he born or taught,

That serveth not anothers will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his highest skill:

Whose passions not his masters are;
Whose soul is still prepar'd for death;

Not ty'd unto the world with care

Of princes ear, or vulgar breath :

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

Who envies none, whom chance doth raise,
Or vice: Who never understood

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How deepest wounds are given with praise; 15
Nor rules of state, but rules of good :

Who God doth late and early pray
More of his grace than gifts to lend;
And entertaines the harmless day

With a well-chosen book or friend.

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

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XII.

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:

For cow and ew to me he brought,
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.

Oh! sike twa charming een he had,

A breath as sweet as rose,

He never ware a Highland plaid,

But costly silken clothes;

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