English

The heavenly hills of Holland,—
How wondrously they rise
Above the smooth green pastures
Into the azure skies!
With blue and purple hollows,
With peaks of dazzling snow,
Along the far horizon
The clouds are marching slow.

No mortal foot has trodden
The summits of that range,
Nor walked those mystic valleys
Whose colours ever change;
Yet we possess their beauty,
And visit them in dreams,
While ruddy gold of sunset
From cliff and canyon gleams.

In days of cloudless weather

Inpride of Wit, when high desire of Fame
Gave Life and Courage to my lab'ring Pen,
And first the sound and vertue of my Name
Wonne grace and credit in the Eares of Men;
With those the thronged Theaters that presse,
I in the Circuit for the Lawrell strove:
Where, the full Prayse I freely must confesse,
In heat of Bloud, a modest Mind might move.
With Showts and Claps at ev'ry little pawse,
When the proud Round on ev'ry side hath rung,
Sadly I sit, unmov'd with the Applause,
As though to me it nothing did belong:

Cat! who hast pass'd thy grand climacteric,
How many mice and rats hast in thy days
Destroy'd?--How many tit bits stolen? Gaze
With those bright languid segments green, and prick
Those velvet ears--but pr'ythee do not stick
Thy latent talons in me--and upraise
Thy gentle mew--and tell me all thy frays
Of fish and mice, and rats and tender chick.
Nay, look not down, nor lick thy dainty wrists--
For all the wheezy asthma,--and for all
Thy tail's tip is nick'd off--and though the fists
Of many a maid have give thee many a maul,

A witlesse Gallant, a young Wench that woo'd,
(Yet his dull Spirit her not one jot could move)
Intreated me, as e'r I wish'd his good,
To write him but one Sonnet to his Love:
When I, as fast as e'r my Penne could trot,
Powr'd out what first from quicke Invention came;
Nor never stood one word thereof to blot,
Much like his Wit, that was to use the same:
But with my Verses he his Mistres wonne,
Who doted on the Dolt beyond all measure.
But see, for you to Heav'n for Phraze I runne,
And ransacke all A POLLO'S golden Treasure;

Yes , in that dainty ivory shrine,
With those three pallid buds, I twine
And fold away a dream divine!

One night they lay upon a breast
Where Love hath made his fragrant nest,
And throned me as a life-long guest.

Near that chaste heart they seemed to me
Types of far fairer flowers to be—
The rosebuds of a human tree!

Buds that shall bloom beside my hearth,
And there be held of richer worth
Than all the kingliest gems of earth.

Ah me! the pathos of the thought!
I had not deemed she wanted aught;

The shivering native who, by Tenglio's side,
Beholds with fond regret the parting light
Sink far away, beneath the darkening tide,
And leave him to long months of dreary night,
Yet knows, that springing from the eastern wave
The sun's glad beams shall re-illume his way,
And from the snows secured—within his cave
He waits in patient hope—returning day.
Not so the sufferer feels, who, o'er the waste
Of joyless life, is destin'd to deplore
Fond love forgotten, tender friendship past,
Which, once extinguish'd, can revive no more!

An evill spirit your beautie haunts Me still,
Where with (alas) I have beene long possest,
Which ceaseth not to tempt Me to each Ill,
Nor gives Me once, but one poore minutes rest:
In Me it speakes, whether I Sleepe or Wake,
And when by Meanes, to drive it out I try,
With greater Torments, then it Me doth take,
And tortures Me in most extremity;
Before my Face, it layes downe my Despaires,
And hastes Me on unto a sudden Death;
Now tempting Me, to drowne my Selfe in teares,
And then in sighing, to give up my breath;

Love banish'd Heav'n, in Earth was held in scorne,
Wand'ring abroad in Need and Beggerie;
And wanting Friends, though of a Goddesse borne,
Yet crav'd the Almes of such as passed by:
I, like a Man devout, and charitable,
Clothed the Naked, lodg'd this wand'ring Ghest,
With Sighes and Teares still furnishing his Table,
With what might make the Miserable blest.
But this ungratefull, for my good desert,
Intic'd my Thoughts, against me to conspire,
Who gave consent to steale away my Heart,
And set my Brest, his Lodging, on a fire.

“D ID they dare, did they dare, to slay Eoghan Ruadh O'Neill?”
“Yes, they slew with poison him they feared to meet with steel.”
“May God wither up their hearts! May their blood cease to flow,
May they walk in living death, who poisoned Eoghan Ruadh.”

“Though it break my heart to hear, say again the bitter words.
From Derry, against Cromwell, he marched to measure swords:
But the weapon of the Sassanach met him on his way.
And he died at Cloch Uachtar, upon St. Leonard's day.

“Wail, wail ye for the Mighty One. Wail, wail ye for the Dead,

To such as say, Thy Love I over-prize,
And doe not sticke to terme my Prayses folly;
Against these Folkes, that thinke themselves so wise,
I thus oppose my Reasons forces wholly:
Though I give more then well affords my state,
In which expence, the most suppose me vaine,
Which yeelds them nothing, at the easiest rate,
Yet at this price returnes me treble gaine.
They value not, unskilfull how to use,
And I give much, because I gaine thereby:
I that thus take, or they that thus refuse,
Whether are these deceived then, or I?