Not a cloud nor breeze O you most heathen deities! if ever My bones reach home (for, for the flesh upon them That hath resolved itself into a dew), I shall have learnt owl-wisdom. Most vile Phoebus, Upon this turnpike road, and I'll convert him But thy own fires. Now woe be to me, wretch, That I was in a heretic country born! Else might some mass for the poor souls that bleach, And burn away the calx of their offences In that great purgatory crucible, Help me. O Jupiter! my poor complexion! A brook! a brook! Oh what a sweet cool sound! 'Tis very nectar! It runs like life through every strengthen❜d limbNymph of the stream, now take a grateful prayer. SNUFF. A DELICATE pinch! oh how it tingles up 2 Of joy. The summer gale that from the heath, TO A FRIEND EXPRESSING A WISH TO TRAVEL. That half the year the nostrils would keep lent, A plenitude of joy, a tangible smell. What is Peru and those Brazilian mines Think what the general joy the snuff-box gives, Stuff'd up the nostrils, when hat, head, and wig Words that of birch remind not, sounds of praise, 363 TO A FRIEND EXPRESSING A WISH TO Dost thou, then, listening to the traveller's tale Of mountainous wilds, and towns of ancient fame, And spacious bays, and streams renown'd of name That roll their plenty through the freshen'd vale; Dost thou then long to voyage far away, And visit other lands, that thou mayest view LYRICAL PIECES. To see the sun-beam shine on scenes so fair, And when the eve the mountain heights adorning Sinks slow, empurpling the luxurious air. Pleasant it is at times like these to roam, But wouldst thou not at night, confined within Thy foul and comfortless and lonely inn, Remember with a sigh the joys of home? THE DEATH OF WALLACE. Joy, joy in London now! He goes, the rebel Wallace goes to death, He on a sledge is drawn, His strong right arm unweapon'd and in chains, They throng to view him now Yes, they can meet his eye, And that eye did not shrink What though suspended sense Was by their damned cruelty revived; What though ingenious vengeance lengthened life To fell protracted death- What though the hangman's hand He called to mind his deeds Done for his country in the embattled field; Go, Edward, triumph now! Cambria is fallen, and Scotland's strength is crush'd; Unrivalled, unopposed, Go, Edward, full of glory, to thy grave! TO A FRIEND, INQUIRING IF I WOULD LIVE OVER MY YOUTH AGAIN. Do I regret the past? The morning hours of life? Nay, William, nay, not so! In the warm joyaunce of the summer sun The uncertain ocean's wrath. Praise be to him who made me what I am, Why is it pleasant then to sit and talk When in his own dear home The traveller rests at last, And tells how often in his wanderings The thought of those far off Through what fair scenes his charmed feet have trod. His eyes most sparkle, and a readier joy No, William, no, I would not live again The slave of hope and fear; The wisdom by experience hardly taught. To me the past presents To me the present gives The future, it is now the cheerful noon, When the dark night descends, THE OAK OF OUR FATHERS. ALAS for the oak of our fathers that stood It grew and it flourish'd for many an age, But when its strong branches were bent with the blast, Its head tower'd high, and its branches spread round, And the beasts of the forest fed under its shade. |