Can this be he who hither came
In secret, like a smother'd flame?
O'er whom such thankful tears were shed
For shelter, and a poor man's bread!
God loves the child, and God hath will'd
That those dear words should be fulfill'd,
The lady's words, when forced away,
The last she to her babe did say,
'My own, my own, thy fellow-guest
I may not be; but rest thee, rest,
For lowly shepherd's life is best!'

"Alas! when evil men are strong
No life is good, no pleasure long.
The boy must part from Mosedale's groves
And leave Blencathara's rugged coves,
And quit the flowers that summer brings
To Glenderamakin's lofty springs;
Must vanish, and his careless cheer
Be turn'd to heaviness and fear.
-Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise!
Hear it, good man, old in days!
Thou free of covert and of rest
For this young bird that is distrest;
Among the branches safe he lay,
And he was free to sport and play
When falcons were abroad for prey.

"A recreant harp, that sings of fear
And heaviness in Clifford's ear!
I said, when evil men are strong,
No life is good, no pleasure long,-
A weak and cowardly untruth!
Our Clifford was a happy youth,
And thankful through a weary time
That brought him up to manhood's prime.
-Again he wanders forth at will
And tends a flock from hill to hill:
His garb is humble: ne'er was seen
Such garb with such a noble mien:
Among the Shepherd-grooms no mate
Hath he, a child of strength and state !
Yet lacks not friends for solemn glee,
And a cheerful company,
That learn'd of him submissive ways,
And comforted his private days.
To his side the fallow-deer
Came, and rested without fear;
The eagle, lord of land and sea,
Stoop'd down to pay him fealty;
And both the undying fish that swim
Through Bowscale Tarn did wait on him,

The pair were servants of his eye
In their immortality;

They moved about in open sight,
To and fro, for his delight.

He knew the rocks which angels haunt
On the mountains visitant;

He hath kenn'd them taking wing:
And the caves where faëries sing
He hath enter'd;-and been told
By voices how men lived of old.
Among the heavens his eye can see
Face of thing that is to be;
And, if men report him right,
He could whisper words of might.
-Now another day is come,
Fitter hope, and nobler doom:
He hath thrown aside his crook,
And hath buried deep his book;
Armor rusting in his halls

On the blood of Clifford calls;--
'Quell the Scot,' exclaims the lance-
Bear me to the heart of France,
Is the longing of the shield—
Tell thy name, thou trembling field;
Field of death, where'er thou be,
Groan thou with our victory!
Happy day, and mighty hour,
When our Shepherd, in his power,
Mail'd and horsed, with lance and sword,
To his ancestors restored,
Like a re-appearing star,
Like a glory from afar,

First shall head the flock of war!"

Alas! the fervent harper did not know

That for a tranquil soul the lay was

framed,

Who, long compell'd in humble walks to go, Was soften'd into feeling, soothed, and

tamed.

Love had he found in huts where poor men lie;

His daily teachers had been woods and rills,

The silence that is in the starry sky,

The sleep that is among the lonely hills. In him the savage virtue of the race, Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were dead:

Nor did he change; but kept in lofty place

The wisdom which adversity had bred.

INSCRIPTION FOR A STATUE OF

CHAUCER AT WOODSTOCK.

SUCH was old Chaucer: such the placid mien

Of him who first with harmony inform'd The language of our fathers. Here he dwelt For many a cheerful day. These ancient walls

Have often heard him, while his legends blithe

He sang; of love, or knighthood, or the wiles

Of homely life; through each estate and age,

The fashions and the follies of the world With cunning hand portraying. Though perchance

From Blenheim's towers, O stranger, thou art come

Glowing with Churchill's trophies; yet in vain

Dost thou applaud them, if thy breast be cold

To him, this other hero; who in times Dark and untaught, began with charming

verse

To tame the rudeness of his native land. MARK AKENSIDE.

TO MISTRESS MARGARET HUSSEY.

MERRY Margaret,

As midsummer flower,

Gentle as falcon,

Or hawk of the tower;
With solace and gladness,
Much mirth and no madness,
All good and no badness;

So joyously,

So maidenly,

So womanly

Her demeaning,

In everything
Far, far passing

That I can indite,

Or suffice to write,
Of merry Margaret,
As midsummer flower;
Gentle as falcon

Or hawk of the tower;
As patient and as still,
And as full of good-will,
As fair Isiphil,
Coliander,

Sweet Pomander,

Good Cassander;
Steadfast of thought,
Well made, well wrought;
Far may be sought
Ere you can find

So courteous, so kind,
As merry Margaret,
This midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon,

Or hawk of the tower.

JOHN SKELTON.

EPIGRAM ON SIR FRANCIS DRAKE.
THE stars above will make thee known,
If man were silent here:
The sun himself cannot forget
His fellow-traveller.

BEN JONSON

AN ODE TO HIMSELF. WHERE dost thou careless lie

Buried in ease and sloth? Knowledge that sleeps, doth die:

And this security,

It is the common moth,

That eats on wits and arts, and so destroys them both.

Are all the Aonian springs

Dried up? lies Thespia waste? Doth Clarius' harp want strings,

That not a nymph now sings?

Or droop they as disgraced

To see their seats and bowers by chatter ing pies defaced?

If hence thy silence be,

As 'tis too just a cause

Let this thought quicken thee;
Minds that are great and free
Should not on fortune pause?

'Tis crown enough to virtue still, her own applause.

What hath he lost that such great grace hath won?

Yoong yeeres for endless yeeres, and hope unsure

Of fortunes gifts for wealth that still shall dure:

fell!

Scipio, Cicero, and Petrarch of our time! Whose vertues, wounded by my worthlesse rime,

Let Angels speake, and heaven thy praises tell.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

soul,

Freed now from Nature's and from For

tune's trust,

While on this fluent globe my glass shall roll,

And run the rest of my remaining dust.

SIR HENRY WOTTON.

TEARS WEPT AT THE GRAVE OF

SIR ALBERTUS MORTON. SILENCE, in truth, would speak my sorrow best,

For deepest wounds can least their feelings tell;

Yet let me borrow from mine own unrest But time to bid him, whom I loved, farewell.

O my unhappy lines! you that before

Have served my youth to vent some wanton cries,

And now, congeal'd with grief, can scarce implore

MEMORY OF MY BELOVED, THE AUTHOR, MR. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, AND WHAT HE HATH LEFT US.

To draw no envy (Shakespeare) on thy name,

Am I thus ample to thy book, and fame;

lies!"

This is the sable stone, this is the cave

And womb of earth, that doth his corpse embrace:

While others sing his praise, let me engrave

These bleeding numbers to adorn the place.

Here will I paint the characters of woe;

Here will I pay my tribute to the dead; And here my faithful tears in showers shall flow,

To humanize the flints whereon I tread.

As neither man, nor muse, can praise too much;

'Tis true, and all men's suffrage; but these ways

Were not the path I meant unto thy praise: For seeliest ignorance on these may light, Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes

right,

Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by

chance;

Or crafty malice might pretend this praise, And think to ruin, where it seem'd to

raise: