And wastest life's dear torch in ruthful It hath an earth, as hath this world of moans, yours,

She for whose sake thou hat'st the joyful With creatures peopled, stor'd with trees and flow'rs;

light, Court'st solitary shades, and irksome It hath a sea, like sapphire girdle cast, night, Which decketh of harmonious shores the

Doth live? O! if thou canst, through

tears, a space

waste:

It hath pure fire, it hath delicious air,

Lift thy dimm'd lights, and look upon Moon, sun and stars, heavens wonderfully this face,

Look if those eyes which, fool, thou didst adore,

Shine not more bright than they were wont before;

fair:

But there flow'rs do not fade, trees grow

not old,

The creatures do not die through heat nor cold;

Look if those roses death could aught Sea there not tossèd is, nor air made black, impair,

Those roses to thee once which seem'd so

fair;

Fire doth not nurse itself on others' wrack; There heavens be not constrain'd about to range,

And if those locks have lost aught of that For this world hath no need of any change; gold, The minutes grow not hours, hours rise not days,

Which erst they had when thou them didst
behold.

I live, and happy live, but thou art dead,
And still shalt be, till thou be like me made,
Alas! while we are wrapt in gowns of earth,
And blind, here suck the air of woe be-
neath,

Each thing in sense's balances we weigh,
And but with toil and pain the truth descry.

Above this vast and admirable frame,
This temple visible, which world we name,
Within those walls so many lamps do burn,
So many arches opposite do turn,
Where elemental brethren nurse their
strife,

And by intestine wars maintain their life,
There is a world, a world of perfect bliss,
Pure, immaterial, bright, more far from
this

Than that high circle, which the rest en-
spheres,

Is from this dull ignoble vale of tears;
A world, where all is found, that here is
found,

Days make no months but ever-blooming
Mays.

Here I remain, but hitherward do tend
All who their span of days in virtue spend:
Whatever pleasure this low place con-
tains,

It is a glance but of what high remains. Those who, perchance, think there can nothing be

Without this wide expansion which they

see,

And that nought else mounts stars' circumference,

For that nought else is subject to their

sense,

Feel such a case, as one whom some abysm
Of the deep ocean kept had all his time;
Who born and nourish'd there, can
scarcely dream

That aught can live without that briny
stream;

Cannot believe that there be temples,

towers,

But further discrepant than heaven and That go beyond his caves and dampish

Or there be other people, manners, laws, Than them he finds within the roaring waves;

That sweeter flow'rs do spring than grow
on rocks,

Or beasts be which excel the scaly flocks;
That other elements be to be found,
Than is the water, and this ball of ground.
But think that man from those abysms
were brought,

To leave this loathsome jail of care and pain,

But thou who vulgar footsteps dost not trace,

Learn to raise up thy mind unto this place,
And what earth-creeping mortals most
affect,

If not at all to scorn, yet to neglect:
O chase not shadows vain, which, when
obtain'd,

Were better lost, than with such travail
gain'd.

ness call,

And saw what curious nature here hath wrought, Did see the meads, the tall and shady Think that on earth, which humans greatwoods, The hills did see, the clear and ambling Is but a glorious title to live thrall; floods; That sceptres, diadems, and chairs of state The diverse shapes of beasts which kinds Not in themselves, but to small minds are forth bring,

great ;

The feathered troops, that fly and sweetly How those who loftiest mount do hardest

sing;

Did see the palaces, the cities fair,

The form of human life, the fire, the air, The brightness of the sun that dims his sight,

The moon, the ghastly splendours of the night:

What uncouth rapture would his mind surprise!

light,

And deepest falls be from the highest
height;

How fame an echo is, how all renown
Like to a blasted rose, ere night falls

down ;

And though it something were, think how this round

dust,

Is but a little point, which doth it bound. How would he his late dear resort de- O leave that love which reacheth but to spise ! How would he muse how foolish he had And in that love eternal only trust, been And beauty, which, when once it is possest To think nought be, but what he there Can only fill the soul, and make it blest. Pale envy, jealous emulations, fears, Sighs, plaints, remorse, here have no

had seen!

Why did we get this high and vast desire,
Unto immortal things still to aspire?
Why doth our mind extend it beyond
time,

And to that highest happiness even climb,
If we be nought but what to sense we seem,
And dust, as most of worldlings us esteem?
We be not made for earth, though here

we come,

More than the embryon for the mother's womb ;

It weeps to be made free, and we complain

And if a voice, of late which could but wail, Such pow'r had, as through ears thy soul to steal;

If once thou on that only fair couldst gaze,
What flames of love would he within thee
raise?

In what a mazing maze would it thee bring
To hear but once that quire celestial sing?
The fairest shapes on which thy love did
seize,

Which erst did breed delight, then would
displease;

And do not drown them in the must of

sense:

Do not, O do not, by false pleasures' might
Deprive them of that true and sole de-
light.

That happiness ye seek is not below;
Earth's sweetest joy is but disguised woe.
Here did she pause, and with a mild

aspect

Did towards me those lamping twins direct;

The wonted rays I knew, and thrice essay'd Then discords hoarse were earth's entic- To answer make, thrice falt'ring tongue ing sounds,

All music but a noise which sense confounds.

it stay'd;

And while upon that face I fed my sight,
Methought she vanish'd up in Titan's light,

This great and burning glass that clears Who gilding with his rays each hill and

all eyes,

And musters with such glory in the skies;
That silver star which with its sober light
Makes day oft envy the eye-pleasing night;
Those golden letters which so brightly
shine

plain,

Seem'd to have brought the goldsmith's world again.

SONNET.

In Heaven's great volume, gorgeously Dear wood, and you, sweet solitary place,

divine;

The wonders all in sea, in earth, in air,

Be but dark pictures of that sovereign
Fair;

Where from the vulgar I estrangèd live,
Contented more with what your shades

me give,

Than if I had what Thetis doth embrace;

Be tongues, which still thus cry unto your What snaky eye grown jealous of my peace,

ear,

(Could ye amidst worlds' cataracts them hear),

Now from your silent horrors would me

drive,

When sun, progressing in his glorious race From fading things, fond wights, lift your Beyond the Twins, doth near our pole

FRANCIS SEMPLE.

1605 (?)-1680 (?)

FRANCIS SEMPLE is the third in

succession of a family of Renfrewshire

THE BLYTHSOME BRIDAL.

I.

lairds, the Semples of Beltrees, as they Fy, let us a' to the bridal,
are collectively known, who cultivated
Scottish poetry of a humorous vein.

The first was Sir James Semple, the author of the "Packman's Paternoster," a satire on Popery. His son, Robert Semple, revised and enlarged his father's poem, and also wrote the well-known "Elegy on the Piper of Kilbarchan." Francis, the son of Robert, is perhaps the most lively humourist of the three. His "Blythsome Brydal" and "Maggie Lauder" are nowhere surpassed for that thoroughly Scottish combination of description, narrative, dialogue, comic suggestiveness, and natural simplicity, which go to the formation of that difficult to define compound known as Scottish humour. The latter is to be found in almost every collection of Scottish songs. Little is known of his history, and the tenor of it is that he was a Jacobite, and not very prosperous in life.

His claim to the authorship of the poems here placed to his credit is not an undisputed one, yet the rival claims have few supporters. There existed an earlier poet of the name of Semple, who wrote a poem entitled "The Siege of Edinburgh," but whether he was related to the Semples of Beltrees, or what he was, has not been ascertained.

For there will be lilting there;
For Jock's to be married to Maggie,
The lass wi' the gowden hair.
And there will be langkail and parridge,
And bannocks o' barleymeal;
And there will be good saut herring,
To relish a cog o' good ale.

II.

And there will be Sawney the sutor,

And Will wi' the meikle mou';
And there will be Tam the blutter,

With Andrew the tinkler, I trow;
And there will be bow-legged Robie,

With thumbless Katy's goodman;
And there will be blue-cheeked Dobie,
And Laurie, the laird o' the land.

III.

And there will be sow-libber Patie,

And plooky-fac'd Wat i' the mill,
Capper-nosed Francie and Gibbie,

That wins in the how of the hill:
And there will be Alaster Sibbie,
Wha in wi' black Bessie did mool,
Wi' snivelling Lilly, and Tibby,

The lass that stands aft on the stool.

IV.

And Madge that was buckled to Steenie,
And coft him gray breeks to his a—
Who after was hangit for stealing—

Great mercy it happened na warse!
And there will be gleed Geordy Janners,
And Kirsh wi' the lily-white leg,
Wha gade to the south for manners,

And danced the daft dance in Mons

Meg