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CCLXXX. M. G. LEWIS, 1773-1818.

CRAZY JANE.

Why, fair maid, in every feature
Are such signs of fear express'd ?
Can a wandering, wretched creature
With such terror fill thy breast?
Do my phrensied looks alarm thee?
Trust me, sweet, thy fears are vain :
Not for kingdoms would I harm thee;
Shun not then poor Crazy Jane.
Dost thou weep to see my anguish ?
Mark me, and avoid my woe;
When men flatter, sigh, and languish,
Think them false; I found them so :
For I loved; Oh! so sincerely
None could ever love again;
But the youth I loved so dearly,
Stole the wits of Crazy Jane.
Fondly my young heart received him,
Which was doom'd to love but one;
He sigh'd, he vow'd, and I believed him ;
He was false, and I undone.

From that hour has Reason never
Held her empire o'er my brain;
Henry fled with him for ever
Fled the wits of Crazy Jane.

:

Now forlorn and broken-hearted,
And with phrensied thoughts beset,
On that spot where last we parted,
On that spot where first we met,
Still I sing my love-lorn ditty.
Still I slowly pace the plain;

While each passer-by, in pity,

Cries, " God help thee, Crazy Jane!"

CCLXXXI. ROB. TANNAHILL, 1774-1810.

THE FLOWER OF DUMBLANE.

The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond,
And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene,

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While lanely I stray in the calm summer gloamin',
To muse on sweet Jessie the flower o' Dumblane.
How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft fauldin' blossom,
And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green;
Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom,
Is lovely young Jessie the flower o' Dumblane.
She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonny;
For guileless simplicity marks her its ain:
And far be the villain, divested of feeling,

[blane Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet flower o' DumSing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the evening; Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen; Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning,

Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane
How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie!
The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain;
I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie,
Till charmed wi' sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.
Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur,
Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain,

And reckon as naething the height o' its splendour,
If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

CCLXXXII. ROBERT SOUTHEY, 1774–1843. 1. THE MYSTIC GLADE.

Yea, all around was hallowed! Danger, fear,
Nor thought of evil ever entered here.
A charm was on the leopard when he came
Within the circle of that mystic glade;
Submiss he crouch'd before the heavenly maid,
And offered to her touch his speckled side;
Or with arch'd back erect, and bending head,
And eyes half closed for pleasure, would he stand,
Courting the pressure of her gentle hand.
Trampling his path through wood and brake,
And canes which crackling fall before his way,
And tassal grass, whose silvery feathers play
O'ertopping the young trees,

On comes the elephant, to slake

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His thirst at noon in yon pellucid springs;
Lo! from his trunk upturn'd, aloft he flings
The grateful shower, and now

Plucking the broad-leaved bough

Of yonder plane, with waving motion slow,
Fanning the languid air,

He moves it to and fro;

But when that form of beauty meets his sight,
The trunk its undulating motion stops,
From his forgetful hold the plane branch drops,
Reverent he kneels, and lifts his rational eyes
To her as if in prayer ;

And when she pours her angel voice in song,
Entranced he listens to the thrilling notes,
Till his strong temples, bath'd with sudden dews,
Their fragrance of delight and love diffuse.

2. LINES WRITTEN UPON THE DEATH OF THE
PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.

'Tis not the public loss which hath imprest
This general grief upon the multitude,
And made its way at once to every breast,

The young, the old, the gentle, and the rude;
'Tis not that in the hour which might have crown'd
The prayers preferred by every honest tongue,
The very hour which should have sent around
Tidings wherewith all steeples would have rung,
And all our cities blazed with festal fire,

And all our echoing streets have peal'd with gladness;
That then we saw the high-raised hope expire,
And England's expectation quench'd in sadness.

It is to think of what thou wert of late,
O thou who now liest cold upon thy bier!
So young, and so beloved so richly blest
Beyond the common lot of royalty;

The object of thy worthy choice possest;
And in thy prime, and in thy wedded bliss,
And in the genial bed,—the cradle drest,
Hope standing by, and Joy, a bidden guest!

'Tis this that from the heart of private life
Makes unsophisticated sorrow flow;
We mourn thee as a daughter and a wife,
And in our human nature feel the blow.

3. THE STORM.

To hear

The roaring of the raging elements,

To know all human skill, all human strength
Avail not; to look round and only see
The mountain wave, incumbent with its weight
Of bursting waters o'er the reeling bark ;-
Oh God, this is indeed a dreadful thing!
And he who hath endured the horror once
Of such an hour, doth never hear the storm
Howl round his house, but he remembers it,
And thinks upon the suffering mariner.
CCLXXXIII. W. S. LANDOR, 1775-1862.
1. FATHERS AND MOTHERS.

Children are what their mothers are:
No fondest father's wisest care

Can fashion to the infant heart,
As those creative beams that dart,
With all their hopes and fears, upon
The cradle of a sleeping son.
His startled eyes with wonder see
A father near him on his knee,
Who wishes all the while to trace
The mother in his future face;
But 'tis to her alone uprise

His wakening arms, to her those eyes
Open with joy and not surprise.

2. THE DRAGON-FLY.

Life (priest and poet say) is but a dream;
I wish no happier one than to be laid
Beneath some cool syringa's scented shade;
Or wavy willow, by the running stream,
Brimful of moral, where the dragon-fly
Wanders as careless and content as I.

Thanks for this fancy, insect king,
Of purple crest and meshy wing,
Who, with indifference givest up
The water-lily's golden cup,
To come again and overlook
What I am writing in my book.
Believe me, most who read the line
Will read with hornier eyes than thine;
And yet their souls shall live for ever,
And thine drop dead into the river!
God pardon them, O insect king,
Who fancy so unjust a thing!

CCLXXXIV. CHARLES LAMB, 1775-1834. 1. HESTER.

When maidens such as Hester die,
Their place ye may not well supply,
Though ye among a thousand try,
With vain endeavour;

A month or more hath she been dead,
Yet cannot I by force be led
To think upon the wormy bed
And her together.

A springy motion in her gait,
A rising step did indicate

Of pride and joy no common rate,
That flush'd her spirit;

I know not by what name beside
I shall it call:-if 'twas not pride,
It was a joy to that allied,

She did inherit.

Her parents held the Quaker rule,
Which doth the human feeling cool,
But she was trained in Nature's school,
Nature had blest her;

A waking eye, a prying mind,

A heart that stirs, is hard to bind,
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind,
Ye could not Hester.

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