The annals of the human race,
Their ruins, since the world began,
Of him afford no other trace
Than this-there lived a man!
JAMES MONTGOMERY, 1771-1854.
YE field flowers! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true,
Yet, wildlings of nature, I doat upon you;
For ye waft me to summers of old,
When the earth teemed around me with fairy delight,
And when daisies and buttercups gladdened my sight,
Like treasures of silver and gold.
I love you for lulling me back into dreams
Of the blue Highland mountains and echoing streams,
And of broken blades breathing their balm,
While the deer was seen glancing in sunshine remote,
And the deep mellow crush of the woodpigeon's note
Made music that sweetened the calm.
Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune
Than ye speak to my heart, little wildlings of June:
Of old ruinous castles
Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find,
When the magic of nature first breathed on my mind,
And your blossoms were part of her spell.
Even now what affections the violet awakes;
What loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes,
Can the wild water-lily restore;
What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks,
And what pictures of pebbled and minnowy brooks
In the vetches that tangled their shore.
Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear,
Ere the fever of passion or ague of fear
Had scathed my existence's bloom;
Once I welcome you more, in life's passionless stage,
With the visions of youth to revisit my age,
And I wish you to grow on my tomb.
THOMAS CAMPBELL, 1777-1844.
FITZJAMES AND RODERICK DHU.
THEN each at once his falchion* drew,
Each on the ground his scabbard threw,
Each looked to sun, and stream, and plain,
As what they ne'er might see again.
Then foot, and point, and eye opposed,
In dubious strife they darkly closed.
Ill fared it then with Roderick Dhu,
That on the field his targe he threw,
Whose brazen studs and tough bull-hide
Had death so often dashed aside;
For trained abroad his arms to wield,
Fitzjames's blade was sword and shield.
He practised every pass and ward,
To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard;
While less expert, though stronger far,
The Gael maintained unequal war.
Three times in closing strife they stood,
And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood;
No stinted draught, no scanty tide;
The gushing flood the tartan dyed.
Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain,
And showered his blows like wintry rain;
And as firm rock, or castle roof,
Against the winter's shower is proof,
The foe, invulnerable still,
Foiled his wild rage with steady skill,
Till at advantage ta'en, his brand
Forced Roderick's weapon from his hand,
And backwards borne upon the lea,
Brought the proud chieftain to his knee.
"Now, yield ye, or by Him who made
The world, thy heart's blood dyes my blade!" "Thy threats, thy mercy I defy!
Let recreant yield who fears to die."
Like adder darting from his coil,
Like wolf that dashes through the toil,
Like mountain-cat who guards her young,
Full at Fitzjames's throat he sprung!
Received, but recked not of a wound,
And locked his arms his foemen round.
Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own!
No maiden's hand is round thee thrown!
That desperate grasp thy frame might feel,
Through bars of brass and triple steel!
They tug, they strain! down, down they go,
The Gael above, Fitzjames below,
The chieftain's gripe his throat compressed,
His knee was planted in his breast,
His clotted locks he backward threw,
Across his brow his hand he drew,
From blood and mist to clear his sight,
Then gleamed aloft his dagger bright.
But hate and fury ill supplied
The stream of life's exhausted tide,
And all too late the advantage came,
To turn the odds of deadly game.
For while the dagger gleamed on high,
Reeled soul and sense, reeled brain and eye;
Down came the blow, but in the heath
The erring blade found bloodless sheath.
The struggling foe may now unclasp
The fainting chief's relaxing grasp.
Unwounded from the dreadful close,
But breathless all, Fitzjames arose.
WALTER SCOTT, 1771-1832.
THE wisest of us all, when woe
Darkens our narrow path below,
Are childish to the last degree,
And think what is must always be.
It rains, and there is gloom around,
Slippery and sullen is the ground,
And slow the step; within our sight
Nothing is cheerful, nothing bright.
Meanwhile, the sun on high, although
We will not think it can be so,
Is shining at this very hour,
In all his glory, all his power;
And when the cloud is past, again
Will dry up every drop of rain.
W. S. LANDOR, 1775-1864.
TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER.
THY fruit full well the schoolboy knows,
Wild bramble of the brake!
So put thou forth thy small white rose;
I love it for his sake.
Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow
O'er all the fragrant bowers,
Thou need'st not be ashamed to show
Thy satin-threaded flowers;
For dull the eye, the heart is dull,
That cannot feel how fair,
Amid all beauty beautiful,
Thy tender blossoms are!
How delicate thy gauzy frill!
How rich thy branchy stem!
How soft thy voice when woods are still,
And thou sing'st hymns to them!
While silent showers are falling slow,
And 'mid the general hush,
A sweet air lifts the little bough,
Lone whispering through the bush!
The primrose to the grave is gone;
The hawthorn flower is dead;
The violet by the moss'd grey stone
Hath laid her weary head;
But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring,
In all their beauteous power,
The fresh green days of life's fair spring,
And boyhood's blossomy hour.
Scorn'd bramble of the brake! once more
Thou bidd'st me be a boy,
To gad with thee the woodlands o'er,
In freedom and in joy.
EBENEZER ELLIOTT, 1781-1849.
To have a giant's strength; but tyrannous
J. AND W. RIDER, PRINTERS, LONDON.
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SELECT ENGLISH POETRY,
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This work contains extracts from the Poems of Addison, Dr. Armstrong, Bloomfield, Burns, Byron, Campbell, Coleridge, Collins, Crabbe, Croxall, Dr. E. D. Clarke (the traveller), Darwin, Dryden, Goldsmith, Gray, Bishop Heber, Mrs. Hemans, Home, Dr. Johnson, Ben Jonson, Keble, Lamb, Milton, Moore, James Montgomery, Mickle, Mrs. H. More, Mair, Pope, Shakespeare, Spenser, Scott, Southey, Hon. W. B. Spencer, Thomson, Wolfe, Wordsworth, and several others.
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English Journal of Education.
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