But there of that he was denied, which she had promised late,
For, once refusing, he should not come after to her gate.
Thus, 'twixt his daughters, for relief he wander'd up and down
Being glad to feed on beggar's food, that lately wore a crown.
And calling to remembrance then his youngest daughter's words,
That said—the duty of a child was all that love affords ;
But doubting to repair to her whom he had banish'd so,
Grew frantic mad; for in his mind he bore the wounds of woe:

Which made him rend his milkwhite locks and tresses from his head,
And all with blood bestain his cheeks, with age and honour spread.
To hills, and woods, and watery founts he made his hourly moan—
Till hills, and woods, and senseless things, did seem to sigh and groan.
Even thus possess'd with discontents, he passèd o'er to France,
In hopes from fair Cordelia there to find some gentler chance;
Most virtuous dame! for when she heard of this her father's grief,
As duty bound, she quickly sent him comfort and relief:

And by a train of noble peers, in brave and gallant sort,
She gave in charge he should be brought to Aganippus' court;
Whose royal king with noble mind so freely gave consent
To muster up his knights-at-arms, to fame and courage bent.
And so to England came with speed, to re-possess King Lear,
And drive his daughters from their thrones, by his Cordelia dear-
Where she, true-hearted noble queen, was in the battle slain;
Yet he, good king, in his old days, possess'd his crown again.
But, when he heard Cordelia's death, who died indeed for love
Of her dear father, in whose cause she did this battle move,
He swooning fell upon her breast, from whence he never parted:
But on her bosom left his life, that was so truly hearted.

2. THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET.-Wordsworth

2

I Where art thou, my beloved Son? Where art thou? —worse to me than dead! O find me, prosperous or undone! Or, if the grave be now thy bed, why am I ignorant of the same that I may rest; and neither blame nor sorrow may attend thy name? Seven years, alas! to have received no tidings of an only child to have despair'd, have hoped, believed, and be for evermore beguiled-sometimes with thoughts of very bliss! I catch at them, and then I miss ;—was ever darkness like to this?

'He was among the prime in worth, an object beauteous to behold; well born, well bred; I sent him forth ingenuous, innocent, and bold: if things ensued that wanted grace, (as hath been said!) they were not base; and never blush was on my face. Ah! little doth the young one dream, when full of play and childish cares, what power is in his wildest scream heard by his mother unawares! He knows it not, he cannot guess; years to a mother bring distress, but do not make her love the less. 5 Neglect me! no, I suffer'd long from that ill thought; and, being blind, said, "Pride shall help me in my wrong: kind mother have I been, as kind as ever breathed:" and that is true; I've wet my path with tears like dew, weeping for him when no one knew. 6 My Son, if thou be humbled, poor, hopeless of honour and of gain, O! do not dread thy mother's door; think not of me with grief and pain :-I now can see with better eyes; and worldly Grandeur I despise, and Fortune with her gifts and lies. 7 Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings, and blasts of heaven will aid their flight; they mount-how short a voyage brings the wanderers back to their delight! Chains tie us down by land and sea; and wishes, vain as mine, may be all that is left to comfort thee. Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan, maim'd, mangled by inhuman men; or thou upon a desert thrown inheritest the lion's den; or hast been summon'd to the deep, thou, thou, and all thy mates, to keep an incommunicable sleep. I look for ghosts: but none will force their way to me; 'tis falsely said that there was ever intercourse between the living and the dead; for surely then I should have sight of him I wait for, day and night, with love and longings infinite. 10 My apprehensions come in crowds; I dread the rustling of the grass; the very shadows of the clouds have power to shake me as they pass; I question things, and do not find one that will answer to my mind; and all the world appears unkind. Beyond participation lie my troubles, and beyond relief: if any chance to heave a sigh, they pity me, and not my grief. Then come to me, my Son, or send some tidings that my woes may end! I have no other earthly friend.

11

3.-EDWIN AND ANGELINA.-Goldsmith.

"Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale, and guide my lonely way, To where yon taper cheers the vale with hospitable ray.

For here forlorn and lost I tread, with fainting steps and slow;
Where wilds, immeasurably spread, seem lengthening as I go."

ΤΟ

"Forbear, my son,” the Hermit cries, "to tempt the dangerous gloom; For yonder phantom only flies to lure thee to thy doom.

Here, to the houseless child of want, my door is open still;
And though my portion is but scant, I give it with good will.
Then turn to-night, and freely share whate'er my cell bestows-
My rushy couch and frugal fare, my blessing and repose.
No flocks that range the valley free to slaughter I condemn;
Taught by that Power that pities me, I learn to pity them :
But from the mountain's grassy side a guiltless feast I bring;
A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, and water from the spring.
Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; all earth-born cares are wrong,
Man wants but little here below, nor wants that little long."

Soft as the dew from heaven descends, his gentle accents fell:
The modest stranger lowly bends, and follows to the cell...
Far in a wilderness obscure, the lonely mansion lay;
A refuge to the neighbouring poor, and strangers led astray.
No stores beneath its humble thatch required a master's care;
The wicket opening with a latch, received the harmless pair.

And now when busy crowds retire to take their evening rest,
The Hermit trimmed his little fire, and cheered his pensive guest;
And spread his vegetable store, and gaily pressed and smiled;
And, skilled in legendary lore, the lingering hours beguiled.
Around, in sympathetic mirth, its tricks the kitten tries;
The cricket chirrups on the hearth, the crackling fagot flies.
But nothing could a charm impart, to soothe the stranger's woe;
For grief was heavy at his heart, and tears began to flow.

His rising cares the Hermit spied, with answering care oppress'd:
"And whence, unhappy youth," he cried, "the sorrows of thy breast?
From better habitations spurned, reluctant dost thou rove?
Or grieve for friendship unreturned, or unregarded love?"

"Alas! the joys that fortune brings are trifling, and decay;

And those who prize the paltry things, more trifling still than they.
And what is friendship but a name? -a charm that lulls to sleep;
A shade that follows wealth or fame, and leaves the wretch to weep!
And love is still an emptier sound, the modern fair-one's jest;

On earth unseen, or only found to warm the turtle's nest.'

"For shame, fond youth! thy sorrows hush, and spurn the sex?" he said: But while he spoke, a rising blush his love-lorn guest betrayed.

Surprised, he sees new beauties rise, swift mantling to the view,
Like colours o'er the morning skies, as bright, as transient too.
The bashful look, the rising breast, alternate spread alarms!
The lovely stranger stands confessed-a Maid in all her charms!
"And, ah! forgive a stranger rude, a wretch forlorn," she cried,
"Whose feet unhallowed thus intrude where heaven and you reside!
But let a maid thy pity share, whom love has taught to stray,
Who seeks for rest, but finds despair companion of her way....
My father lived beside the Tyne, a wealthy lord was he;
And all his wealth was marked as mine: he had but only me.
To win me from his tender arms unnumbered suitors came;
Who praised me for imputed charms, and felt, or feigned, a flame.
Each hour a mercenary crowd with richest proffers strove:
Among the rest, young Edwin bow'd, but never talk'd of love.
In humblest, simplest habit clad, no wealth or power had he;
Wisdom and worth were all he had, but these were all to me.
The blossom opening to the day-the dews of heaven refined,
Could nought of purity display to emulate his mind.

:

The dew, the blossoms of the tree, with charms inconstant shine
Their charms were his; but, woe to me, their constancy was mine!
For still I tried each fickle art, importunate and vain ;
And while his passion touch'd my heart, I triumph'd in his pain:
Till, quite dejected with my scorn, he left me to my pride,
And sought a solitude forlorn, in secret, where he died.

But mine the sorrow, mine the fault! and well my life shall pay;
I'll seek the solitude he sought, and stretch me where he lay!
And there forlorn, despairing, hid, I'll lay me down and die;
'Twas so for me that Edwin did, and so for him will I!"

"Forbid it, heaven!" the Hermit cried, and clasp'd her to his breast: The wondering fair one turn'd to chide-'twas Edwin's self that pressed! "Turn, Angelina, ever dear! my charmer, turn to see

Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, restored to love and thee.
Thus let me hold thee to my heart and every care resign!
And shall we never, never part, my life—my all that's mine?
No, never from this hour to part! we'll live and love so true,

The sigh that rends thy constant heart shall break thy Edwin's too."

4.-FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY.-Dr. Percy.

(Partly collated from Shakespeare, and Beaumont and Fletcher.)

It was a Friar of Orders Gray walk'd forth to tell his beads;
And he met with a Lady fair, clad in a pilgrim's weeds.
"Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar! I pray thee tell to me,
If ever, at yon holy shrine, my true-love thou didst see.'

And how should I your true-love know from many another one?”
"Oh, by his cockle-hat and staff, and by his sandal shoon.
But chiefly by his face and mien, that were so fair to view;
His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd, and eyes of lovely blue."
"O lady, he is dead and gone! lady, he's dead and gone!
And at his head a green grass turf, and at his heels a stone.
Within these holy cloisters, long he languished; and he died
Lamenting of a Lady's love, and 'plaining of her pride."

"And art thou dead, thou gentle youth and art thou dead and gone?
And didst thou die for love of me? Break, cruel heart of stone!"
"Oh, weep not, lady, weep not so, some ghostly comfort seek;
Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, nor tears bedew thy cheek."
66 Oh, do not, do not, holy friar, my sorrow now reprove;
For I have lost the sweetest youth that e'er won lady's love.
And now, alas! for thy sad loss I'll ever weep and sigh;
For thee I only wish'd to live, for thee I wish to die."

"Weep no more, lady, weep no more! thy sorrow is in vain!
For violets pluck'd, the sweetest shower will ne'er make grow again.
Our joys as wingèd dreams do fly,—why then should sorrow last?
Since grief but aggravates thy loss, grieve not for what is past."
"Oh, say not so, thou holy friar, I pray thee say not so;
For since my true-love died for me, 'tis meet my tears should flow.
And will he never come again? Will he ne'er come again?
Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave, for ever to remain !"

"Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more; men were deceivers ever
One foot on sea and one on shore,-to one thing constant never.
Hadst thou been fond, he had been false, and left thee sad and heavy;
For young men ever were fickle found, since summer trees were leafy."

"Now say not so!... Thou much-loved youth, and didst thou die for me? Then, farewell, home; for evermore a pilgrim I will be.