He set the trumpet to his lips, and lo!
The clash of waves, the roar of winds that blow,
The strife and stress of Nature's warring things,
Rose like a storm-cloud, upon angry wings.

He set the reed-pipe to his lips, and lo!
The wreck of landscape took a rosy glow,
And Life, and Love, and gladness that Love brings
Laughed in the music, like a child that sings.

Master of each, Arch-Master! We that still
Wait in the verge and outskirt of the Hill
Look upward lonely — lonely to the height
Where thou has climbed, for ever, out of sight!

O you there weeping alone so bitterly,
What is it you weep for, paying bitterly
The price in tears and darkened sunless eyes?
Only your youth? — yet always late or soon
Age scatters dust for gold and, late or soon,
Darkens and then calms the desiring eyes.

But I am weeping my age which was so fair.
Nothing, not even death, was quite so fair
Mine was that wisdom in which the seraphs love,
And in my age agelessly I had been
Rose in the cherubs' rose-flame love — have been
A golden mirror for the sun of love!

An alley of dark cypresses
Hides an enrondured pool of light;
And there the young musicians come
With instruments for her delight.
Silk-clad, their brown cropped locks are bowed
Over dim lutes that sigh aloud;
Or else with heads thrown back they tease
Reverberate echoes from the drum.

The stiff folds of her rich brocade
Crush with faint sound the first dead leaves,
As her page lets slips the lustrous train.
Her eyes are sad, and her bosom heaves;
For the poet walking with her lays bare
That Love which moves the starrier air,

Ladies, I keep a Rhyme-shop; mine's a trade;
I sell to old and young, to man and maid:
All customers must be obliged; and no man
Wishes more universally to please.
I'd really crawl upon my knees,
I'oblige; particularly, lovely Woman.

Yet some (the Devil take such virtuous times!)

When innocent pastime our pleasure did crown,
Upon a green meadow, or under a tree,
Ere Annie became a fine lady in town,
How lovely, and loving, and bonny was she!
Rouze up thy reason my beautifu' Annie,
Let ne'er a new whim ding thy fancy a-jee;
O! as thou art bonny, be faithfu' and canny,
And favour thy Jamie, wha doats upon thee.

Does the death of a lintwhite give Annie the spleen?
Can tyning of trifles be uneasy to thee?
Can lap-dogs and monkies draw tears frae these een,
That look with indifference on poor dying me?

Love may be increased by fears,
May be fann'd with sighs,
Nurst by fancies, fed by doubts;
But without Hope it dies!
As in the far Indian isles
Dies the young cocoa-tree,
Unless within the pleasant shade
Of the parent plant it be:
So Love may spring up at first,
Lighted at Beauty's eyes; —
But Beauty is not all its life,
For without Hope it dies.

She press'd her slight hand to her brow, or pain
Or bitter thoughts were passing there. The room
Had no light but that from the fireside,
Which show'd, then hid, her face. How very pale
It look'd, when over it the glimmer shone!
Is not the rose companion of the spring?
Then wherefore has the red-leaf'd flower forgotten
Her cheek? The tears stood in her large dark eyes —
Her beautiful dark eyes — like hyacinth stars,
When shines their shadowy glory through the dew
That summer nights have wept; — she felt them not,

THE LAST TIME I CAME O'ER THE MOOR.

The last time I came o'er the moor,
I left my love behind me:
Ye pow'rs! what pain do I endure,
When soft ideas mind me!
Soon as the ruddy morn display'd
The beaming day ensuing,
I met betimes my lovely maid,
In fit retreats for wooing.

Beneath the cooling shade we lay,
Gazing and chastly sporting;
We kiss'd and promis'd time away,

When the down is on the chin
And the gold-gleam in the hair,
When the birds their sweethearts win
And champagne is in the air,
Love is here, and Love is there,
Love is welcome everywhere.

Summer's cheek too soon turns thin,
Days grow briefer, sunshine rare;
Autumn from his cannekin
Blows the froth to chase Despair:
Love is met with frosty stare,
Cannot house 'neath branches bare.

When new life is in the leaf
And new red is in the rose,
Though Love's Maytime be as brief
As a dragon-fly's repose,

PROLOGUE

I

H E who writ this, not without pains and thought
From French and English theaters has brought
Th' exactest rules by which a play is wrought:

II

The unities of action, place, and time;
The scenes unbroken; and a mingled chime
Of Jonson's humor with Corneille's rhyme.

III

But while dead colors he with care did lay,
He fears his wit or ploThe did not weigh,
Which are the living beauties of a play.

IV

Plays are like towns, which, howe'er fortified