Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true, William, who, high upon the yard, Rocked with the billow to and fro, Soon as her well-known voice he heard, He sighed, and cast his eyes below: The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands, And quick as lightning on the deck he stands. So the sweet lark, high poised in air, Shuts close his pinions to his breast, If chance his mate's shrill call he hear, And drops at once into her nest: The noblest captain in the British fleet Might envy William's lips those kisses sweet. "O Susan, Susan, lovely dear! My vows shall ever true remain; Let me kiss off that falling tear; We only part to meet again. Change as ye list, ye winds; my heart shall be The faithful compass that still points to thee. "Believe not what the landsmen say, Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind. They'll tell thee sailors, when away, In every port a mistress find: Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, "If to fair India's coast we sail, Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright; Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale, Thy skin is ivory so white. Thus every beauteous object that I view Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. "Though battle call me from thy arms, Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, The boatswain gave the dreadful word, They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head. Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land: "Adieu!" she cries, and waved her lily hand. THE HARE AND MANY FRIENDS. "FABLES." FROM THE Friendship, like love, is but a name, A Hare, who, in a civil way, As forth she went at early dawn, What transport in her bosom grew The Horse replied, "Poor honest Puss, She next the stately Bull implored, The Goat remarked her pulse was high, Said he was slow; confessed his fears, JOHN BYROM. How strong are those! how weak am I! John Byrom. Byrom (1691-1763) was born near Manchester, was educated at Cambridge, and studied medicine in France. His poetical reputation seems to have originated in a pastoral poem, "My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent," published in the Spectator, October 6th, 1714, and mildly commended by Addison. In reading it now, one is surprised to find that so slender a literary investment could have produced such returns of fame. Byrom, however, proved himself capable of better things. He invented a system of stenography, in teaching which he had Gibbon and Horace Walpole for pupils. By the death of a brother he at last became heir to the family property in Manchester, where he lived much respected. His poems were included by Chalmers in his edition of the poets. MY SPIRIT LONGETH FOR THEE. My spirit longeth for thee Within my troubled breast, Although I be unworthy Of so divine a Guest. Of so divine a Guest Unless it come from thee. Unless it come from thee, In vain I look around; In all that I can see No rest is to be found. No rest is to be found But in thy blessed love: Oh, let my wish be crowned, And send it from above! THE ANSWER. Cheer up, desponding soul! Thy longing pleased I see; 'Tis part of that great whole Wherewith I longed for thee. Wherewith I longed for thee, And left my Father's throne, From death to set thee free, To claim thee for my own. To claim thee for my own I suffered on the cross. Oh, were my love but known, No soul could fear its loss. No soul could fear its loss, But, filled with love divine, Would die on its own cross, And rise forever mine. 153 Youth. Why, then, for aught I know, Spleen" is: "Orandum est ut sit mens sana in corpore sano." It is "inscribed by the author to his particular friend, Mr. C. J." I may be made a bishop. St. P. N. What then? Youth. Be it so, Why, cardinal's a high degree, And yet my lot it possibly may be. St. P. N. Suppose it was,-what then? Youth. Why, who can say But I've a chance of being pope one day? St. P. N. Well, having worn the mitre, and red hat, And triple crown, what follows after that? Youth. Nay, there is nothing further, to be sure, Upon this earth that wishing can procure: When I've enjoyed a diguity so high As long as God shall please, then I must die. But wish, and hope, and maybe all the rest? JACOBITE TOAST. God bless the king!-I mean the Faith's Defender; Matthew Green. Little is known of Matthew Green (1696-1737) except that he had his education among the Dissenters, and his employment in the London Custom-house. He is remembered by his poem of "The Spleen;" less known than it deserves to be to modern readers. It contains less than nine hundred lines; is full of happy expressions, and evidently the production of a profound, original, and independent thinker. Gray recognized his genius, and said of him, "Even his wood-notes often break out into strains of real poetry and music." Aikin, while naively objecting to Green's speculating "very freely on religious topics," remarks: "It is further attested that he was a man of great probity and sweetness of disposition, and that his conversation abounded with wit, but of the most inoffensive kind. *** He passed his life in celibacy. Few poems will bear more repeated perusals than his; and with those who can fully enter into them, they do not fail to become favorites." The motto on the title page of the original edition (1737) of "The FROM "THE SPLEEN." The want of method pray excuse, The child is genuine, you may traco Such thoughts as love the gloom of night, I close examine by the light; For who, though bribed by gain to lie, Dare sunbeam-written truths deny, That superstition mayn't create, O Entium Ens! divinely great!" 1 Gildon published (1718) a "Complete Art of Poetry." He seems to have been a literary pretender. Macaulay spenks of him as “a bad writer," and as pestering the public "with doggerel and slander." Pope mentions him contemptuously. MATTHEW GREEN.-ROBERT BLAIR. 155 Hold, Muse, nor melting pinions try, Through fields unknown, nor madly stray, On quicksands swallowing shipwrecked thought; Hence, I no auxious thoughts bestow Through life's foul way, like vagrant, passed, And with sweet ease the wearied crown, If doomed to dance the eternal round Like sponge, wipes out life's present sum, Curious to try, what 'tis to hate: 'Cause lameness halts, or blindness errs. At helm I make my reason sit, I make (may Heaven propitious send Robert Blair. Blair (1699–1746) was a native of Edinburgh, became a clergyman, and wrote a poem, vigorous in execution, entitled "The Grave." In it he ignores the poetical aspects of his subject, and revels much in the physically repulsive. It was written before the "Night Thoughts" of Young, but has little of the condensed force of that remarkable work. There are, however, occasional flashes of poetic fire in Blair's sombre production. He died young, of a fever, leaving a numerous family. DEATH OF THE STRONG MAN. Strength, too! thou surly, and less gentle boast See how he tugs for life, and lays about him, CYCLOPEDIA OF BRITISH AND AMERICAN POETRY. Just like a creature drowning. Hideous sight! Oh, how his eyes stand out, and stare full ghastly! While the distemper's rank and deadly venom Shoots like a burning arrow 'cross his bowels, And drinks his marrow up.-Heard you that groan? It was his last.-See how the great Goliath, Just like a child that brawled itself to rest, Lies still. Anonymous and Miscellaneous. THE LINCOLNSHIRE POACHER. This old ditty was a favorite with George IV., and it is said that he often had it sung for his amusement by a band of Berkshire ploughmen. It was once a favorite also at American theatres, where Henry J. Finn, the estimable comedian, used to sing it with great applause. When I was bound apprentice In famous Lincolnsheer, As you shall quickly hear:- As me and my comrades Were setting of a snare, 'Twas then we seed the game-keeper— For him we did not care; For we can wrestle and fight, my boys, Oh! 'tis my delight of a shiny night As me and my comrades Were setting four or five, And taking on him up again, We caught the hare alive; We caught the hare alive, my boys, And through the woods did steer:Oh! 'tis my delight of a shiny night In the season of the year. Bad luck to every magistrate That lives in Lincolnsheer; Success to every poacher That wants to sell a hare; Bad luck to every game-keeper That will not sell his deer: Oh! 'tis my delight of a shiny night In the season of the year. |