Pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed:
Or like the snow-falls in the river,
A moment white-then melts for ever.
8. SELF-KNOWLEDGE.
O wad some power the giftie gie us,
To see oursels as others see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us,
An' foolish notion.
CCLIX. JOHN MAYNE, 1761—1836.
HELEN OF KIRKCONNEL.
I wish I was where Helen lies,
For night and day on me she cries;
And like an angel to the skies
Still seems to beckon me!
For me she lived, for me she sighed,
For me she wished to be a bride;
For me in life's sweet morn she died
On fair Kirkconnel lea.
Where Kirtle waters gently wind,
As Helen on my arm reclined,
A rival with a ruthless mind
Took deadly aim at me.
My love, to disappoint the foe,
Rush'd in between me and the blow;
And now her corse is lying low
On fair Kirkconnel lea.
Though heaven forbids my wrath to swell,
I curse the hand by which she fell-
The fiend who made my heaven a hell,
And tore my love from me!
For if, where all the graces shine
O! if on earth there's aught divine,
My Helen! all these charms were thineThey centred all in thee!
Ah! what avails it that amain
I clove the assassin's head in twain ?
No peace of mind, my Helen slain,
No resting-place for me :
I see her spirit in the air
I hear the shriek of wild despair,
When murder laid her bosom bare
On fair Kirkconnel lea!
Oh, when I'm sleeping in my grave,
And o'er my head the rank weeds wave,
May he who life and spirit gave
Unite my love and me!
Then from this world of doubt and sighs,
My soul on wings of peace shall rise;
And, joining Helen in the skies,
Forget Kirkconnel lea!
CCLX. HILDEBRAND JACOB, 1762-18**.
As bees extract their sweets from every flower,
So you your joys, from all things in your power,
With industry and management produce;
The meanest trifles sometimes are of use.
As Thracian winds the Euxine sea molest,
So wrath and envy from a human breast
Drive Halcyon peace, and banish kindly rest:
And no security for joy is found,
But in a mind that's tractable and sound.
CCLXI. WILL. LISLE BOWLES, 1762-1850.
SUN-DIAL IN A CHURCHYARD.
So passes silent o'er the dead thy shade,
Brief time! and hour by hour, and day by day,
The pleasing pictures of the present fade,
And like a summer vapour steal away.
And have not they, who here forgotten lie
(Say, hoary chronicler of ages past),
Once mark'd thy shadow with delighted eye.
Nor thought it fled,-how certain and how fast ?
Since thou hast stood, and thus thy vigil kept,
Noting each hour, o'er mould'ring stones beneath;
The pastor and his flock alike have slept,
And "dust to dust" proclaim'd the stride of death.
Another race succeeds, and counts the hour,
Careless alike; the hour still seems to smile,
As hope, and youth, and life, were in our pow'r ;
So smiling and so perishing the while.
I heard the village-bells, with gladsome sound
(When to these scenes a stranger I drew near),
Proclaim the tidings to the village round,
While mem'ry wept upon the good man's bier.
E'en so, when I am dead, shall the same bells
Ring merrily, when my brief days are gone;
While still the lapse of time thy shadow tells,
And strangers gaze upon my humble stone!
CCLXII. G. COLMAN THE YOUNGER, 1762-1794
1. THE FALL.
If woman had not work'd our fall,
How many, who have trades and avocations,
Would shut up shop, in these our polish'd nations,
And have no business to transact, at all!
In such an instance, what, pray, would become
Of all our reverend clergy?
They would be thought uncommonly humdrum,
And banish'd, in a trice,
Who zealously, for pay, should urge ye
Not to be vicious, if there were no vice.
What would become of all the fie! fie! ladies ?
And all proprietors of paw-paw houses?
And all the learned proctors, whose grave trade is
Parting from bed and board the paw-paw spouses?
What would become of heirs at law, alas!
However lawyers ferretted,
If relatives to death would never pass,
And heirs at law never inherited?
What would become of all ('tis hard to say)
Who thrive ou vice, but in a various way ?
Those who maintain themselves by still maintaining it, And those who live by scourging and restraining it? Again. if we should never die, nor dress, But walk immortally in nakedness, 'Twould be a very losing game for those Who furnish us with funerals and clothes. 2. MODEST MEN.
On their own merits modest men are dumb.
CCLXIII. SAMUEL ROGERS, 1762-1856.
1. THE BOY OF EGREMOND.*
Say, what remains when hope is fled ? "
She answer'd," Endless weeping!"
For in the herdsman's eye she read
Who in his shroud lay sleeping.
At Embsay rung the matin-bell,
The stag was roused on Barden-fell;
The mingled sounds were swelling, dying,
And down the Wharfe a hern was flying;
When near the cabin in the wood,
In tartan clad and forest green,
With hound in leash, and hawk in hood,
The Boy of Egremond was seen.
Blithe was his song, a song of yore;
But where the rock is rent in two,
And the river rushes through,
His voice was heard no more!
'Twas but a step! the gulf he pass'd;
But that step-it was his last!
As through the mist he winged his
(A cloud that hovers night and day)
The hound hung back, and back he drew
The master and his merlin too.
That narrow place of noise and strife
Received their little all of life!
* In the twelfth century William Fitz-Duncan laid waste the valleys of Craven with fire and sword; and was afterwards established there by his uncle, David, king of Scotland. He was the last of his race, his son commonly called the Boy of Egremond, dying before him in the manner here related; when a priory was removed from Embsay to Bolton, that it might be as near as possible to the place where the accident happened. That place is still known by the name of the Strid; and the mother's answer, as given in the last stanza, is to this day often repeated in Wharfedale.-See Whitaker's Hist. of Craven.
There now the matin-bell is rung;
The "Miserere!" duly sung;
And holy men in cowl and hood
Are wandering up and down the wood.
But what avail they? Ruthless lord,
Thou didst not shudder when the sword
Here on the young its fury spent,
The helpless and the innocent.
Sit now and answer groan for groan,
The child before thee is thy own.
And she who wildly wanders there,
The mother in her long despair,
Shall oft remind thee, waking, sleeping,
Of those who by the Wharfe were weeping;
Of those who would not be consoled,
When red with blood the river rolled.
The hour arrives, the moment wish'd and fear'd;
The child is born, by many a pang endear'd.
And now the mother's ear has caught his cry;
Oh, grant the cherub to her asking eye!
He comes-she clasps him. To her bosom press'd,
He drinks the balm of life, and drops to rest.
Her by her smile how soon the stranger knows;
How soon by his the glad discovery shows!
As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy,
What answering looks of sympathy and joy!
He walks, he speaks. In many a broken word
His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard.
And ever, ever to her lap he flies,
When rosy sleep comes on with sweet surprise.
Lock'd in her arms, his arms across her flung,
(That name most dear for ever on his tongue)
As with soft accents round her neck he clings,
And cheek to cheek, her lulling song she sings,
How blest to feel the beatings of his heart,
Breathe his sweet breath, and kiss for kiss impart;
Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove,
And, if she can, exhaust a mother's love!
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