Page images
PDF
EPUB

GREEK SUPERSTITIONS.

THE lively Grecian, in a land of hills,

Rivers, and fertile plains, and sounding shores,
Under a cope of variegated sky,

Could find commodious place for every god,
Promptly received, as prodigally brought,
From the surrounding countries, at the choice
Of all adventurers. With unrivalled skill,
As nicest observation furnished hints
For studious fancy, did his hand bestow

On fluent operations a fixed shape;
Metal or stone, idolatrously served.

And yet, triumphant o'er this pompous show
Of Art, this palpable array of sense,

On every side encountered; in despite
Of the gross fictions chanted in the streets
By wandering Rhapsodists; and in contempt
Of doubt and bold denials hourly urged
Amid the wrangling schools-a "spirit" hung,
Beautiful region! o'er thy towns and farms,
Statues and temples, and memorial tombs;
And emanations were perceived, and acts
Of immortality, in Nature's course,
Exemplified by myst'ries that were felt
As bonds, on grave philosopher imposed,
And armed warrior; and in every grove
A gay or pensive tenderness prevailed,
When piety more awful had relaxed.

"Take, running River, take these locks of mine,"

1

Thus would the Votary say,-"This severed hair,
My vow fulfilling, do I here present,

Thankful for my beloved child's return.

Thy banks, Cephisus, he again hath trod,

Thy murmurs heard, and drunk the crystal lymph
With which thou dost refresh the thirsty lip,
And moisten all day long these flowery fields."

In that fair clime the lonely herdsman, stretched On the soft grass through half a summer's day, With music lulled his indolent repose :

And, in some fit of weariness, if he,

When his own breath was silent, chanced to hear
A distant strain, far sweeter than the sounds
Which his poor skill could make, his fancy fetched,
Even from the blazing chariot of the Sun,

A beardless Youth, who touched a golden lute,
And filled the illumined groves with ravishment.
The nightly hunter, lifting up his eyes

Towards the crescent Moon, with grateful heart
Called on the lovely wanderer who bestowed
That timely light, to share his joyous sport;
And hence, a beaming Goddess, with her nymphs,
Across the lawn and through the darksome grove
(Not unaccompanied with tuneful notes

By echo multiplied from rock or cave)

Swept in the storm of chase, as moon and stars
Glance rapidly along the clouded heavens,

When winds are blowing strong. The traveller slaked
His thirst from rill or gushing fount, and thanked
The Naiad. Sunbeams upon distant hills

Gliding apace, with shadows in their train,
Might, with small help from fancy, be transformed
Into fleet Oreads, sporting visibly.

The Zephyrs fanning, as they passed, their wings,
Lacked not, for love, fair objects, whom they woo'd
With gentle whisper. Withered boughs grotesque,

Stripped of their leaves and twigs by hoary age,
From depth of shaggy covert peeping forth
In the low vale, or on steep mountain-side-
And sometimes, intermixed with stirring horns
Of the live deer, or goat's depending beard—
These were the lurking Satyrs, a wild brood
Of gamesome deities-or Pan himself,
The simple shepherd's awe-inspiring god !

GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL.

A TRUE STORY.

OH! what's the matter-what's the matter?

What is't that ails young Harry Gill?
That evermore his teeth they chatter,
Chatter, chatter, chatter still!
Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,
Good duffle grey, and flannel fine ;
He has a blanket on his back,
And coats enough to smother nine.

In March, December, and in July,
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
The neighbours tell, and tell you truly,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.

At night, at morning, and at noon,
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
Beneath the sun, beneath the moon,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still!

Young Harry was a lusty drover,
And who so stout of limb as he?
His cheeks were red as ruddy clover;
His voice was like the voice of three.
Old Goody Blake was old and poor;
Ill fed she was, and thinly clad ;
And any man who passed her door
Might see how poor a hut she had.

All day she spun in her poor dwelling;
And then her three hours' work at night,
Alas! 't was hardly worth the telling,
It would not pay for candle-light.
This woman dwelt in Dorsetshire,-
Her hut was on a cold hill-side,
And in that country coals are dear,
For they come far by wind and tide.

By the same fire to boil their pottage,
Two poor old dames, as I have known,
Will often live in one small cottage;
But she, poor woman! dwelt alone.
'T was well enough when summer came,
The long, warm, lightsome summer day,
Then at her door the canty dame
Would sit, as any linnet gay.

But when the ice our streams did fetter,
Oh! then how her old bones would shake!
You would have said, if you had met her,
'T was a hard time for Goody Blake.

H

GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL.

Her evenings then were dull and dead!
Sad case it was, as you may think,
For very cold to go to bed;
And then for cold not sleep a wink.

Oh joy for her! whene'er in winter
The winds at night had made a rout;
And scattered many a lusty splinter
And many a rotten bough about.
Yet never had she, well or sick,
As every man who knew her says,
A pile beforehand, wood or stick,
Enough to warm her for three days.

Now, when the frost was past enduring,
And made her poor old bones to ache,
Could anything be more alluring
Than an old hedge to Goody Blake?
And, now and then, it must be said,
When her old bones were cold and chill,

She left her fire, or left her bed,
To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.

Now Harry he had long suspected
This trespass of old Goody Blake;
And vowed that she should be detected,
And he on her would vengeance take;
And oft from his warm fire he'd go,
And to the fields his road would take;
And there, at night, in frost and snow,
He watched to seize old Goody Blake.

And once, behind a rick of barley,
Thus looking out did Harry stand:
The moon was full and shining clearly
And crisp with frost the stubble land.

« ՆախորդըՇարունակել »