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With twice five thousand horse, to thank
The Count for his uncourteous ride.
They play'd me then a bitter prank,
When, with the wild horse for my guide,
They bound me to his foaming flank :
At length I play'd them one as frank-
For time at last sets all things even-
And if we do but watch the hour,
There never yet was human power
Which could evade, if unforgiven,
The patient search and vigil long
Of him who treasures up a wrong.
12. THE SCORPION-REMORSE.
The mind that broods o'er guilty woes,
Is like the scorpion girt by fire';
In circle narrowing as it glows,
The flames around their captive close,
Till inly searched by thousand throes,
And maddening in her ire,
One sad and sole relief she knows,
The sting she nourished for her foes,
Whose venom never yet was vain,
Gives but one pang, and cures all pain,
And darts into her desperate brain :
So do the dark in soul expire,
Or live like Scorpion girt by fire ;
So writhes the mind Remorse hath riven,
Unfit for earth, undoomed for heaven,
Darkness above, despair beneath,
Around it flame, within it death.
CCCXII. CAROLINE SYMMONS, 1788-18**
In spring's green lap there blooms a flower,
Whose cup imbibes each vernal shower;
That sips fresh nature's balmy dew,
Clad in her sweetest, purest blue;
Yet shuns the ruddy eye of morning,
The shaggy wood's brown shades adorning.
Simple flow'ret! child of May !
Though hid from the broad gaze of day,
Doom'd in the shade thy sweets to shed,
Unnotic'd droops thy languid head;
Still nature's darling thou'lt remain,
She feeds thee with her softest rain;
Fills each sweet bud with honeyed tears,
With genial gales thy bosom cheers.
Ah, then unfold thy simple charms,
In yon deep thicket’s circling arms,
Far from the fierce and sultry glare,
No heedless hand shall harm thee there;
Still, then, avoid the gaudy scene,
The flaunting sun, th' embroider'd green,
And bloom, and fade, with chaste reserve, unseeu.
CCCXIII. RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM,
Two large potatoes passed through kitchen sieve,
Unwonted softness to the salad give;
Of ardent mustard add a single spoon,
Distrust the condiment which bites so soon;
But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault
To add a double quantity of salt;
Three times the spoon with oil of Lucca crown,
And onci vith vinegar, procured from town:
True flavour needs it, and your poet begs
The pounded yellow of two well-boiled eggs;
Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl,
And, scarce suspected, animate the whole;
And lastly, on the flavoured compound toss
A magic teaspoon of anchovy sauce.
Then, though green turtle fail, though venison's tough
And ham and turkey are not boiled enough,
Serenely full, the epicure may say, -
“Fate cannot harm me,-I have dined to-day !"
CCCXIV. MARY RUSSEL MITFORD, 1786–1855.
There is a voice of magic power
To charm the old, delight the young
In lordly hall, in rustic bower,
In every clime, in every tongue,
Howe'er its sweet vibration rung.
In whispers low, in poets' lays,
There lives not one who has not hung
Enraptured on the voice of praise.
The timid child, at that soft voice,
Lifts, for a moment's
eye ; It bids the fluttering heart rejoice,
And stays the step prepared to fly :
'Tis pleasure breathes that short, quick sigh, And flushes o'er that rosy face;
Whilst shame and infant modesty
Shrink back with hesitating grace.
The hero, when a people's voice
Proclaims their darling victor near,
Feels he not then his soul rejoice,
Their shouts of love, of praise to hear ?
Yes ! fame to generous minds is dear;
It pierces to their in most core ;
He weeps, who never shed a tear,
He trembles, who ne'er shook before.
The sun is careering in glory and might,
'Mid the deep blue sky and the cloudlets white;
The bright wave is tossing its foam on high,
And the summer breezes go lightly by;
The air and the water dance, glitter, and play,
And why should not I be as merry as they ?
The linnet is singing the wild wood through :
The fawn's bounding footstep skims over the dew :
The butterfly flits round the flowering tree,
And the cowslip and blue-bell are bent by the bee;
All the creatures that dwell in the forest are gay,
And why should not I be as merry as they ?
CCCXV. WILLIAM KNOX, 1789–1825.
The sun of the morning looked forth from his throne,
And beamed on the face of the dead and the dying:
For the yell of the strife like the thunder had flown,
And red on Gilboa the carnage was lying.
And there lay the husband that lately was pressed
To the beautiful cheek that was tearless and ruddyNow the claws of the vulture were fixed in his breast,
And the beak of the vulture was busy and bloody. And there lay the son of the widowed and sad,
Who yesterday went from her dwelling for everNow the wolf of the hills a sweet carnival had
On the delicate limb that had ceased not to quiver. And there came the daughter, the desolate child,
To hold up the head that was breathless and hoary ; And there came the maiden, all frantic and wild,
To kiss the loved lips that were gasping and gory. And there came the consort, that struggled in vain
To stem the red tide of a spouse that bereft her; And there came the mother, that sunk ’mid the slain, To
weep o'er the last human stay that was left her. O bloody Gilboa! a curse ever lie
[together! Where the king and his people were slaughtered May the dew and the rain leave thy herbage to die, Thy flocks to decay, and thy forests to wither! CCCXVI. THOMAS PRINGLE, 1789—1834.
'Twas noontide; and breathless beneath the hot ray
The far winding vales of the wilderness lay;
By the Koonap's lone brink, with the cool shadow o'er me,
I slept—and a dream spread its visions before me.
Methought, among scenes which I loved when a boy,
I was walking again with fresh feelings of joy;
For my soul, like the landscape, seemed softened and
From what it was once-when, in childhood, I ranged
Through Cheviot's valleys, to pluck the bright flowers,
Or chase, with young rapture, the birds through the
bowers. On my dreaming ear waters were murmuring still, But the wild foreign river had shrunk to a rill ;
And Kaha's dark mountains had melted away ;
And the brown thorny desert, where antelopes stray:
Had become a sweet glen, where the young lambs were
racing And yellow-haired children the butterflies chasing ; And the meadows were gemmed with the primrose and
gowan, And the ferny braes fringed with the hazel and rowan; The foxglove looked out from the osiers dank, And the wild-thyme and violet breathed from the bank. With the lowing of herds from the brooin-blossomed lea; The cuckoo's soft note from the old beechen-tree; The waving of woods in the health-breathing gale; The dash of the mill-wheel afar down the dale ;All these were around me: and with them there came Sweet voices that called me aloud by my name, And looks of affection with innocent eyes,And light-hearted laughter,—and shrill joyous cries : And I saw the mild features of all that were there, U'naltered by years, and unclouded by care!
CCCXVII. JOHN PRINGLE,
Come, tell me now, sweet little bird,
Who decked thy wings with gold ?
Who fashioned so thy tiny form,
And bade thy wings unfold ?
Who taught thee such enchanting power,
To soothe this aching heart;
And, with thy note of harmony,
To mock the reach of art ?
Thou fly'st away! who bade thee soar ?
Who bade thee seek the sky,
And wander through yon silver cloud,
A speck to mortal eye ?
Oh, had I but thy wings, sweet bird !
I'd mount where angels be,
And leave behind this world of sin,
A little thing like thee;