English

As I was walking in my lunar dream
Up those dim stairs that lead to break of day,
My soul's chimera barred the starry way,
And broke the thread-like hope, the glimmering beam;

Methought my spirit pealed a stifled scream, —
So hideous-fair the monster, loud and gay,
So turbulent and blithe, in riotous play.
It called upon me, shouting, to blaspheme:

And my weak flesh, pledg'd to God's work and word,
Discreet and mild, subdued to yearn and learn,
Almost redeemed, a blanching miracle, —

Great King, since first this Isle by Jove's own hand,
Was set apart within great Ocean's arms;
And was appointed by her self to stand,
Fenced round about with rocks from foreign harms;
She into sundry parts hath oft been torn,
And greatest wounds by her own blows hath borne.

But all the fractions now which man did make,
Since it in one whole number Nature gave,
Are added up, and brought to one great stake,
And being all summed up, one total have;
For Britain now to all the dividend,

How many fops in gay attire.
The croud ill judging still admire,
With superficial florid phrase
Tortering plain sense a thousand ways;
While self conceit each word supplies,
And folly thinks them wonderous wise;
Let real merit come in view,
Conspicuous to the knowing few,
Tho' poorly clad, the coxcomb kind,
Shall fly like chaff before the wind,
Their trim conceits and vague discourse,
Must yield to Truth's energic force,
And every vain conceited elf,
Become a victim to himself.

Divers rare gems in thee, Oh Union! shine:
First seven Margarets in thy jewel stand;
Matildas three, three Janes of regal line,
Two royal Marys, two Elizas, and
One Is'bell, Anne, Sybill, and Margery,
All royal gems, set princely shine in thee.

But first in it doth Agasia shine,
Who first with Durstus it began to make;
Then Marg'ret next, of our king Edgar's line,
Whom Malcolm, King of Scots, to wife did take;
Whose grandchild Maud, our Emp'ress, did conjoin,
Scots, Saxon, Norman blood in our King's line.

What is this world, Avarus cried,
But noise and nonsense, pomp and pride?
Search all the universe around,
No perfect goodness can be found;
Sorrow, and indigence and pain,
On earth have fix'd their lasting reign,
The bad man thrives, the good declines,
Beset with poverty he pines.
Palsy'd with age, the rev'rend head,
Is number'd but as one that's dead:
While striplings, who but just can crawl,
Their fires push rudely from the wall;
And every fool, and every knave,
Conceited, hiss them to the grave.

A year ago I had a child,
A little daughter fair and mild;
More precious than my life to me,
She sleeps beneath the churchyard tree.
Oh! she was good as she was fair,
Her presence was like balmy air;
She was a radiance in my room,
She was sunlight in my gloom.

She loved thee well, thou little bird,
Her voice and thine were ever heard;
They roused me when the morning shone,
But now I hear thy voice alone.
She called me gently to her side,
Gave me her bird, and, smiling, died.

Late or early home returning,
In the starlight or the rain,
I beheld that lonely candle
Shining from his window-pane.
Ever o'er his tattered curtain,
Nightly looking, I could scan,
Aye inditing,
Writing — writing,
The pale figure of a man;
Still discern behind him fall
The same shadow on the wall.

Far beyond the murky midnight,
By dim burning of my oil,
Filling aye his rapid leaflets,
I have watched him at his toil;
Watched his broad and seamy forehead,
Watched his white industrious hand,

Whene'er through Gray's Inn porch I stray,
I meet a spirit by the way;
He wanders with me all alone,
And talks with me in under-tone.

The crowd is busy seeking gold,
It cannot see what I behold;
I and the spirit pass along
Unknown, unnoticed, in the throng.

While on the grass the children run,
And maids go loitering in the sun,
I roam beneath the ancient trees,
And talk with him of mysteries.

The dull brick houses of the square,
The bustle of the thoroughfare,

The critics, who have long thought fit
To rule o'er all the land of wit,
Declare, when to a friend you're writing,
All art is useless in inditing;
Familiarly the verse should flow,
Like conversation — so and so.
That friendship sets all forms apart,
And speaks immediate from the heart.

My Lords, the critics, here are right,
Their power I cannot, dare not flight;
Yet lowly to their worships bending,
(I hope in this I'm not offending)
'Twou'd well become those gentlemen,

THE WATER-DRINKERS .

As long as there are wells and springs,
And clear, refreshing fountains,
As long as mighty rivers run
To ocean, from the mountains,
As long as seas give back to clouds
The rains that form the river,
We'll drink our draughts of water pure,
And bless the bounteous Giver.

THE WINE-DRINKERS .

As long as vineyards yield the grape,