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.
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,
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.
My sprightly neighbour, gone before
To that unknown and silent shore,
Shall we not meet, as heretofore,
Some summer morning;
When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
Hath struck a bliss upon the day,
A bliss that would not go away,
A sweet fore-warning?
I have had playmates, I have had companions,
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school days,
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have been laughing, I have been carousing,
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies,
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I loved a love once, fairest among women;
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her-
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man;
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly ;-
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.
Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood;
Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse,
Seeking to find the old familiar faces.
Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother
Why wert thou not born in my father's dwelling?
So might we talk of the old familiar faces ;-
How some they have died, and some they have left me,
And some are taken from me; all are departed;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
CCLXXXV. CHARLES LLOYD, 1775–1839.
THE FIRST OF may, 1795.
'Tis May! once more the laughing meads rejoice,
Once more the salutary zephyrs play,
Once more the grove's gay tenants tune their voice
To hail the lustre of the vernal day.
The quivering wave in gay meander flows,
The silken insect skims the silver stream,
The azure violet, and the pale primrose,
On every green bank negligently gleam.
Brighter the lustre of the glowing skies,
And brighter still as noon-tide hours advance;
The painted landscape beams with deeper dies,
And rays more potent thro' light æther glance.
But what, alas! avails the jocund day?
To uniform distress-'tis never May!
CCLXXXVI. DERMODY, 1775-1802.
To pleasure's wiles an easy prey,
Beneath this sod a bosom lies;
Yet spare the meek offender's clay,
Nor part with dry averted eyes.
O stranger! if thy wayward lot
Through folly's heedless maze has led,
Here nurse the true, the tender thought,
And fling the wild flower on his head.
For he, by this cold hillock clad,
Where tall grass twines the pointed stone,
Each gentlest balm of feeling had,
To soothe all sorrows but his own.
For he by tuneful fancy rear'd,
(Though ever dumb he sleeps below,) The stillest sigh of anguish heard,
And gave a tear to every woe.
Oh! place his dear harp by his side,
(His harp, alas! his only hoard ;)
The fairy breeze at even tide
Will trembling kiss each weeping chord.
CCLXXXVII. SIR A. BOSWELL, 1775-1822.
Good night and joy be wi' ye a'
Your harmless mirth has charmed my heart; May life's fell blasts out owre ye blaw!
In sorrow may ye never part!
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