 | The Hope of the World and other poems |  |
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SONGS FOR MUSIC.
SONG TO THE HARVEST MOON.
In the deep silence of the night,
We come, O Harvest Moon!
To dance beneath thy gentle light,
To many a merry tune:
We come, whilst thou in thoughtful sheen
Art beaming from the blue,
Through wild wood lone and meadow green,
When falls the mellow dew!
To pledge at midnight's solemn noon
A health to thee, O Harvest Moon!
We come, O Harvest Moon!
To dance beneath thy gentle light,
To many a merry tune:
We come, whilst thou in thoughtful sheen
Art beaming from the blue,
Through wild wood lone and meadow green,
When falls the mellow dew!
To pledge at midnight's solemn noon
A health to thee, O Harvest Moon!
Whilst thou alone dost beam on high,
In jolly groups we pass,
Among the sheaves of corn and rye,
To drain the brimming glass;
Or go, when song and dance are o'er,
A-roaming through the wheat,
Or whisper love, in thickets hoar,
To many a maiden sweet,
Calling on thee, at midnight's noon,
To hear our vows, O Harvest Moon!
In jolly groups we pass,
Among the sheaves of corn and rye,
To drain the brimming glass;
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A-roaming through the wheat,
Or whisper love, in thickets hoar,
To many a maiden sweet,
Calling on thee, at midnight's noon,
To hear our vows, O Harvest Moon!
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AMERICAN INDIANS AT THE GRAVES OF THEIR FATHERS.
Far away from the white man's smoke,
In the woods and in silence deep,
Under the shade of the beech and oak,
The bones of the heroes sleep.
And there we go when the sky is grey,
We go, and we shed no tears,
But bend our heads to the earth, and pray
For the men of many years.
In the woods and in silence deep,
Under the shade of the beech and oak,
The bones of the heroes sleep.
And there we go when the sky is grey,
We go, and we shed no tears,
But bend our heads to the earth, and pray
For the men of many years.
Lightly we tread o'er the grassy mounds,
Where the ancient fathers rest;
They are gone to the happy hunting-grounds,
They are gone, and they are blest!
Strong in the battle—fleet in the chase,
And wise when the old men met;
Their spirits dwell in the pleasant place,
But their sons remember yet.
Where the ancient fathers rest;
They are gone to the happy hunting-grounds,
They are gone, and they are blest!
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And wise when the old men met;
Their spirits dwell in the pleasant place,
But their sons remember yet.
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THE ISLE OF TRUTH.
“While the beams of the daylight yet shine from the west,
Sail onwards, my bark, to the isle of the blest,
Where Love blooms for ever in fondness and truth,
And Passion forgets not the vows of its youth;
Where Friendship forsakes not, tho' sorrows subdue,
And the visions of Hope are as lovely as true.
Sail onwards, my bark, to that isle of delight,
Where Joy hath no sting, and Affection no blight!”
Sail onwards, my bark, to the isle of the blest,
Where Love blooms for ever in fondness and truth,
And Passion forgets not the vows of its youth;
Where Friendship forsakes not, tho' sorrows subdue,
And the visions of Hope are as lovely as true.
Sail onwards, my bark, to that isle of delight,
Where Joy hath no sting, and Affection no blight!”
'Twas thus sung the heart in the days of her youth,
As she sail'd to discover the Island of Truth.
The visions of Hope had induced her to stray,
And she knew not the dangers that crowded the way:
The beam that had brighten'd her pathway at morn,
At noon saw her tempest-toss'd, sad, and forlorn;
And trusting too far what the charmer had spoken,
Ere nightfall the lone heart was shipwreck'd and broken.
As she sail'd to discover the Island of Truth.
The visions of Hope had induced her to stray,
And she knew not the dangers that crowded the way:
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At noon saw her tempest-toss'd, sad, and forlorn;
And trusting too far what the charmer had spoken,
Ere nightfall the lone heart was shipwreck'd and broken.
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THE LAY OF AN EXILE.
Oh! sadly, ye dark rolling waves of the ocean,
Oh! sadly ye beat on this desolate shore,
And wake, with the voice of your restless commotion,
Sad thoughts of the home I must visit no more.
From the far distant land which has spurn'd me for ever,
The land for whose glory I've struggled in vain,
Ye come, O ye waves, but, like me ye can never,
Oh! never return to behold it again!
Oh! sadly ye beat on this desolate shore,
And wake, with the voice of your restless commotion,
Sad thoughts of the home I must visit no more.
From the far distant land which has spurn'd me for ever,
The land for whose glory I've struggled in vain,
Ye come, O ye waves, but, like me ye can never,
Oh! never return to behold it again!
Thou, bird, that dost wing thy far course o'er the billow,
How happy, like thee, all unfetter'd to roam!
Each wave-circled rock can afford thee a pillow,
Each isle of the ocean provide thee a home!
But I!—I must wander in sorrow and sadness,
And stifle the thoughts which for ever awake;
Must brood o'er my woes, till they drive me to madness,
And teach my proud spirit to bend or to break!
How happy, like thee, all unfetter'd to roam!
Each wave-circled rock can afford thee a pillow,
Each isle of the ocean provide thee a home!
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And stifle the thoughts which for ever awake;
Must brood o'er my woes, till they drive me to madness,
And teach my proud spirit to bend or to break!
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FAR FROM HOME.
TRANSLATED FROM THE BERNESE DIALECT.
Heart! my heart! why so dejected?
And what means thy constant woe?
Lovely are these foreign regions—
Heart! my heart! what grieves thee so?
And what means thy constant woe?
Lovely are these foreign regions—
Heart! my heart! what grieves thee so?
What doth grieve me?—all around me;
Quite forsaken here I roam;
True, 'tis fair in foreign regions,
But I'm pining for my home!
Quite forsaken here I roam;
True, 'tis fair in foreign regions,
But I'm pining for my home!
Oh, my home! for thee I languish!
Would that I could breathe thine air,
See my father, see my mother,
See thy hills and valleys fair!
Would that I could breathe thine air,
See my father, see my mother,
See thy hills and valleys fair!
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Oh! to see the mountain summits,
Down whose sides the torrents ran!
Crags, that trod by chamois only,
Scorn the foot of mortal man!
Down whose sides the torrents ran!
Crags, that trod by chamois only,
Scorn the foot of mortal man!
Oh! to hear the sweet bells tinkling
As the drover mounts the hill;
With his kine and lambkins browsing,
Or disporting at their will.
As the drover mounts the hill;
With his kine and lambkins browsing,
Or disporting at their will.
Oh! to see my native village
Underneath the mountains blue,
With its green and flowery meadows,
And its lake as clear as dew;
Underneath the mountains blue,
With its green and flowery meadows,
And its lake as clear as dew;
And its many-colour'd houses—
Oh! to see them all once more!
And to greet the friendly neighbours,
Each man standing at his door.
Oh! to see them all once more!
And to greet the friendly neighbours,
Each man standing at his door.
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No one loves us here, or shakes us
Warm and kindly by the hand;
Little children smile not on us
As at home in Switzerland.
Warm and kindly by the hand;
Little children smile not on us
As at home in Switzerland.
Oh! I pine to see the homestead
Where my happy youth flew by—
Up, my limbs, and bear me thither—
Bear me thither ere I die!
Where my happy youth flew by—
Up, my limbs, and bear me thither—
Bear me thither ere I die!
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THIRTEEN AT TABLE; A VISION OF DEATH.
IMITATED PROM BERANGER.
Before my plate the salt was overset,
And thirteen guests around my table met.
“Alas!” I cried, and gazed around the room,
“Omens of sorrow—warnings of the tomb!”
Scarce had I said, when to my wond'ring sight,
Appear'd a spirit beautiful and bright—
Cheer up, my friends, be merry as of yore;
I've look'd on Death, and fear her face no more.
And thirteen guests around my table met.
“Alas!” I cried, and gazed around the room,
“Omens of sorrow—warnings of the tomb!”
Scarce had I said, when to my wond'ring sight,
Appear'd a spirit beautiful and bright—
Cheer up, my friends, be merry as of yore;
I've look'd on Death, and fear her face no more.
There was no terror in her eyes so sweet,
A broken chain was lying at her feet,
And round her brow she wore a chaplet rare,
Twined 'mid the ringlets of her auburn hair;
And her white fingers pointed to her breast,
Where slept an infant in unconscious rest.
Fill, fill the goblet till the wine runs o'er;
I've look'd on Death, and fear her face no more.
A broken chain was lying at her feet,
And round her brow she wore a chaplet rare,
Twined 'mid the ringlets of her auburn hair;
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Where slept an infant in unconscious rest.
Fill, fill the goblet till the wine runs o'er;
I've look'd on Death, and fear her face no more.
“Why,” said the spirit, “why should mortals fear
Their kindest friend, their best protector here?
Why should the weary and the slave complain?—
I send one rest, and break the other's chain;
And give weak man, ungrateful for my love,
Immortal wings to waft his soul above—”
Hush'd be thy fears, O maid whom I adore,
I've look'd on Death, and fear her face no more.
Their kindest friend, their best protector here?
Why should the weary and the slave complain?—
I send one rest, and break the other's chain;
And give weak man, ungrateful for my love,
Immortal wings to waft his soul above—”
Hush'd be thy fears, O maid whom I adore,
I've look'd on Death, and fear her face no more.
“Thy soul, O man! imprison'd here below,
Crawls in the mire, a prey to every woe;
But freed by me, on angel pinions borne,
Shall visit worlds beyond the gates of morn,
Shall soar to spheres where sorrow is unknown,
And see the Godhead on his sapphire throne!”—
Friend! give thy hand! be merry as before;
I've look'd on Death, and fear her face no more.
Crawls in the mire, a prey to every woe;
But freed by me, on angel pinions borne,
Shall visit worlds beyond the gates of morn,
Shall soar to spheres where sorrow is unknown,
And see the Godhead on his sapphire throne!”—
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I've look'd on Death, and fear her face no more.
“Then fear not me, nor say I'm foe to man,
And till I call, be happy if you can!”
The vision's fled! fill, fill your bumpers high!
Let omens come, we will not fear to die;
Heaven is no foe to innocent delight;
Death has no terror if the heart is right.
Friends and companions! let the wine run o'er!
We've look'd on Death, and fear her face no more!
And till I call, be happy if you can!”
The vision's fled! fill, fill your bumpers high!
Let omens come, we will not fear to die;
Heaven is no foe to innocent delight;
Death has no terror if the heart is right.
Friends and companions! let the wine run o'er!
We've look'd on Death, and fear her face no more!
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CONSTANCY.
I knew thee in the sunny hour,
When Fortune shed her brightest beam,
And thought, should e'er the tempest lower,
Thy love would wither like a dream.
I deem'd that it was feign'd and cold,
Lured like the rest by Fortune's ray,
Inspired by vanity or gold,
To bloom an hour, then fade away.
When Fortune shed her brightest beam,
And thought, should e'er the tempest lower,
Thy love would wither like a dream.
I deem'd that it was feign'd and cold,
Lured like the rest by Fortune's ray,
Inspired by vanity or gold,
To bloom an hour, then fade away.
But now, when Glory's light hath pass'd,
And grief and sorrow cloud my brow,
When friends have vanish'd in the blast,
Star of my fortunes! where art thou?—
Here by my side in sorrow still,
The same as in the prosperous hour,
Striving to heal the bosom's ill—
Oh! this is love—I own its power!
And grief and sorrow cloud my brow,
When friends have vanish'd in the blast,
Star of my fortunes! where art thou?—
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The same as in the prosperous hour,
Striving to heal the bosom's ill—
Oh! this is love—I own its power!
And thou, who canst unchanging rest,
Though Fortune frown, and Hope decline,
Forgive me, if in times more blest,
I dared to doubt a love like thine;
And I will be, whate'er befal,
Unchanging as thou 'st been to me,
And tell, and proudly tell, to all,
One proof of woman's constancy!
Though Fortune frown, and Hope decline,
Forgive me, if in times more blest,
I dared to doubt a love like thine;
And I will be, whate'er befal,
Unchanging as thou 'st been to me,
And tell, and proudly tell, to all,
One proof of woman's constancy!
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THE EMIGRANTS' FAREWELL TO ENGLAND.
Far away! oh, far away,
Over the wide sea's bounding spray,
Many a league o'er the pelting foam,
We seek a country, we seek a home!
Farewell, England! our native land,
Lingering still on thy verdant strand,
We look our last on thy once-loved shore,
And vow in our hearts to return no more.
Over the wide sea's bounding spray,
Many a league o'er the pelting foam,
We seek a country, we seek a home!
Farewell, England! our native land,
Lingering still on thy verdant strand,
We look our last on thy once-loved shore,
And vow in our hearts to return no more.
Far away! oh, far away!
Nothing invites us here to stay.
England, our mother, is hard as stone,
And shuts her ear to her children's moan,
And running on to destruction sure,
Pampers the rich, and grinds the poor!
Farewell, England! a last farewell!
We fly thy shores, but we wish thee well.
Nothing invites us here to stay.
England, our mother, is hard as stone,
And shuts her ear to her children's moan,
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Pampers the rich, and grinds the poor!
Farewell, England! a last farewell!
We fly thy shores, but we wish thee well.
Far away! oh, far away!
We seek a world o'er the ocean spray.
Welcome, O land across the sea,
Where bread abounds, and man is free;
Welcome, the woods and wastes sublime,
And corn-fields of the western clime.
Our sails are set,—the breezes swell,
England, our country—Farewell! Farewell!
We seek a world o'er the ocean spray.
Welcome, O land across the sea,
Where bread abounds, and man is free;
Welcome, the woods and wastes sublime,
And corn-fields of the western clime.
Our sails are set,—the breezes swell,
England, our country—Farewell! Farewell!
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THE SCOTTISH EMIGRANTS' FAREWELL TO YARROW.
Farewell to thee, sweetest of rivers in Scotland!
Adown by thy banks never more must we stray;
No more at the gloaming
Find pleasure in roaming,
To hear thy young nightingales sing on the spray.
No more on thy bonnie braes where the birks blossom
Shall we revisit the scenes loved of yore;
By Yarrow enchanted,
Verse-hallowed, song-haunted,
Our footsteps delighted must linger no more!
Adown by thy banks never more must we stray;
No more at the gloaming
Find pleasure in roaming,
To hear thy young nightingales sing on the spray.
No more on thy bonnie braes where the birks blossom
Shall we revisit the scenes loved of yore;
By Yarrow enchanted,
Verse-hallowed, song-haunted,
Our footsteps delighted must linger no more!
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To the banks of new rivers our fortune conducts us,
In far distant regions to live and to die,
Where our hands may provide us
A blessing denied us;—
The bold independence hard labour can buy.
So welcome St. Lawrence or broad Mississippi,
That flaunt your great waves in the bright western sun,
New homes ye shall yield us,
To shelter and shield us,
And our love shall take root where our bread must be won.
In far distant regions to live and to die,
Where our hands may provide us
A blessing denied us;—
The bold independence hard labour can buy.
So welcome St. Lawrence or broad Mississippi,
That flaunt your great waves in the bright western sun,
New homes ye shall yield us,
To shelter and shield us,
And our love shall take root where our bread must be won.
But far though we be, sweetest stream of our country,
Thou still shalt be prized in our innermost heart;
And never forgetful,
But sad and regretful,
We'll cherish thy memory till life shall depart!
We'll sing the dear songs that we heard in our childhood,
Intwined with thy name since we clomb at the knee,
O Yarrow enchanted!
Verse-hallowed, song-haunted!
We'll never forget thee wherever we be!
Thou still shalt be prized in our innermost heart;
And never forgetful,
But sad and regretful,
We'll cherish thy memory till life shall depart!
We'll sing the dear songs that we heard in our childhood,
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O Yarrow enchanted!
Verse-hallowed, song-haunted!
We'll never forget thee wherever we be!
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LOVE AMID SORROW.
Light is love without esteem,
Lighter than a feather!
But ours has borne
Contempt and scorn,
And sorrow's wintry weather!
Then never more! never more!
Shall we sever:
I am thine, thou art mine,
For ever and for ever!
Lighter than a feather!
But ours has borne
Contempt and scorn,
And sorrow's wintry weather!
Then never more! never more!
Shall we sever:
I am thine, thou art mine,
For ever and for ever!
Never shall affliction's scowl,
Or its touch divide us;
Though Fortune frown,
Or men look down,
And evil days betide us!
Never more! never more!
Shall we sever:
I am thine, thou art mine,
For ever and for ever!
Or its touch divide us;
Though Fortune frown,
Or men look down,
And evil days betide us!
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Shall we sever:
I am thine, thou art mine,
For ever and for ever!
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THE WIDOWER TO THE EVENING STAR.
Star that warnest the bird
To her dew-besprinkled nest,
That sendest the hind to his cottage fire,
And givest the weary rest.
Star! O gentle Star!
Beacon of dreams and sleep,
I lie me down
On the cold heath brown,
To gaze on thy light and weep!
To her dew-besprinkled nest,
That sendest the hind to his cottage fire,
And givest the weary rest.
Star! O gentle Star!
Beacon of dreams and sleep,
I lie me down
On the cold heath brown,
To gaze on thy light and weep!
I weep, O quiet Star!
With a grief that shall not depart,
For thou wakest the thoughts of times gone by,
And bringest them to my heart:
When thy light was the signal ray,
To guide my weary feet
To the lowly dome
Of my cottage home,
And the side of my partner sweet.
With a grief that shall not depart,
For thou wakest the thoughts of times gone by,
And bringest them to my heart:
When thy light was the signal ray,
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To the lowly dome
Of my cottage home,
And the side of my partner sweet.
Yes! lovely Star of Eve!
Thou bringest to all things rest;
Thou sendest the bee to its sheltering hive,
The bird to its warm-built nest:
But thou bringest to me, O Star!
Thoughts that are sad and deep.
So I lie me down
On the cold heath brown,
To gaze on thy light and weep!
Thou bringest to all things rest;
Thou sendest the bee to its sheltering hive,
The bird to its warm-built nest:
But thou bringest to me, O Star!
Thoughts that are sad and deep.
So I lie me down
On the cold heath brown,
To gaze on thy light and weep!
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MOUNTAIN DEW.
Away with your port, your champagne and your sherry,
And fill up with toddy as high as you please;
We men of the northland should know ourselves better
Than pledge her in liquors so foreign as these!
In whisky that reeks of the peat and the heather,
We 'll drink to the land of the brave and the true;—
Unsullied in honour,
Our blessings upon her!
Scotland for ever, and old Mountain Dew!
And fill up with toddy as high as you please;
We men of the northland should know ourselves better
Than pledge her in liquors so foreign as these!
In whisky that reeks of the peat and the heather,
We 'll drink to the land of the brave and the true;—
Unsullied in honour,
Our blessings upon her!
Scotland for ever, and old Mountain Dew!
Mountain dew! clear as a Scot's understanding,
Pure as his conscience wherever he goes,
Warm as his heart to the friend he has chosen,
Strong as his arm when he fights with his foes!
In liquor like this should old Scotland be toasted;
So fill up again, and the pledge we'll renew.
Long flourish the honour
Her children have won her;
Scotland for ever, and old Mountain Dew!
Pure as his conscience wherever he goes,
Warm as his heart to the friend he has chosen,
Strong as his arm when he fights with his foes!
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So fill up again, and the pledge we'll renew.
Long flourish the honour
Her children have won her;
Scotland for ever, and old Mountain Dew!
May her worth, like her lowland streams, roll on unceasing;
Her fame, like her highland hills, last evermore;
May the cold of her glens be confined to the climate,
Nor enter the heart, tho' it creep through the door;
And never may we while we love and revere her,
As long as we 're brave, and warm-hearted and true,
Want reason to boast her,
Or whisky to toast her;
Scotland for ever, and old Mountain Dew!
Her fame, like her highland hills, last evermore;
May the cold of her glens be confined to the climate,
Nor enter the heart, tho' it creep through the door;
And never may we while we love and revere her,
As long as we 're brave, and warm-hearted and true,
Want reason to boast her,
Or whisky to toast her;
Scotland for ever, and old Mountain Dew!
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SEA SORROW;
OR, YEARNING FOR HOME.
Sadly howls the cold sea blast,
And fiercely the wild waves beat,
And a thousand miles away from home,
I toss about on the ocean foam,
And dream of my children sweet.
And fiercely the wild waves beat,
And a thousand miles away from home,
I toss about on the ocean foam,
And dream of my children sweet.
Sad are the sounds in this lonely ship,
To one home-sick like me;
The flapping of the wide wet sail,
The moaning of the restless gale,
And the murmur of the sea.
To one home-sick like me;
The flapping of the wide wet sail,
The moaning of the restless gale,
And the murmur of the sea.
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All night I dream of the sounds of land;
Of the chant of the early lark;
Of the peasant whistling o'er the lea,
And the cow-boy trolling lustily,
Some love song in the dark.
Of the chant of the early lark;
Of the peasant whistling o'er the lea,
And the cow-boy trolling lustily,
Some love song in the dark.
I dream of the pleasant rustic bench
That stands at my cottage door;
I dream of my wife, and prattling boys
Climbing my knees with a merry noise,
All under my sycamore.
That stands at my cottage door;
I dream of my wife, and prattling boys
Climbing my knees with a merry noise,
All under my sycamore.
Oh! if ever I see my beloved one more,
And press her to my heart,
Never again shall my footsteps stray;
Never to regions far away,
Shall the sire of her babes depart!
And press her to my heart,
Never again shall my footsteps stray;
Never to regions far away,
Shall the sire of her babes depart!
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Sorrow shall teach my mind content
With a small sufficient store;
Bless'd with the love of one true soul,
Let wild winds blow and billows roll,
I'll tempt them never more;—
With a small sufficient store;
Bless'd with the love of one true soul,
Let wild winds blow and billows roll,
I'll tempt them never more;—
But dwell in my little cot at peace,
Heedless of India's wealth;
Careless of empty power or fame,
Rich in my own unsullied name,
And a happy home, with health.
Heedless of India's wealth;
Careless of empty power or fame,
Rich in my own unsullied name,
And a happy home, with health.
Blow, thou auspicious wind, blow fair,
We've a thousand miles to run;
But Hope returns, though long denied,
As I lean upon the good ship's side,
And count them one by one.
We've a thousand miles to run;
But Hope returns, though long denied,
As I lean upon the good ship's side,
And count them one by one.
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A SONG FOR A STORMY NIGHT.
The winds without,
In their midnight rout,
Howl through our casement drearily;
But sweet is our mirth
Round the social hearth,
When circles the wine-cup cheerily,
With a heigh! ho! Nonnie no!
And a heigh! ho! Nonnie nee!
In their midnight rout,
Howl through our casement drearily;
But sweet is our mirth
Round the social hearth,
When circles the wine-cup cheerily,
With a heigh! ho! Nonnie no!
And a heigh! ho! Nonnie nee!
Fill up the bowl,
And stir up the coal,
Make the flames mount bright and cheerily;
We've right good cheer,
And a welcome here,
Though the fierce winds whistle wearily.
With a heigh! ho! Nonnie! no! &c.
And stir up the coal,
Make the flames mount bright and cheerily;
We've right good cheer,
And a welcome here,
Though the fierce winds whistle wearily.
With a heigh! ho! Nonnie! no! &c.
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Yet amid our glee,
Perchance there be
Some near us pining wearily;
All nipp'd by the cold,
Some traveller old,
May be trudging through snow-drifts drearily.
With a heigh! ho! Nonnie! no! &c.
Perchance there be
Some near us pining wearily;
All nipp'd by the cold,
Some traveller old,
May be trudging through snow-drifts drearily.
With a heigh! ho! Nonnie! no! &c.
Show then a light
From our window to-night,
Let it gleam to guide him cheerily,
We've a chair and a jug,
And a corner snug,
When he comes to our door so wearily.
With a heigh! ho! Nonnie! no! &c.
From our window to-night,
Let it gleam to guide him cheerily,
We've a chair and a jug,
And a corner snug,
When he comes to our door so wearily.
With a heigh! ho! Nonnie! no! &c.
Never shall it be said,
That we, well fed,
By our fire-side singing cheerily,
Could forget this night
The bitter plight
Of the many pining wearily.
With a heigh! ho! Nonnie! no! &c.
That we, well fed,
By our fire-side singing cheerily,
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The bitter plight
Of the many pining wearily.
With a heigh! ho! Nonnie! no! &c.
Throw open the door
To the old and poor;
They shall all be welcome cheerily,
While there's bite or sup
On our board or cup,
They never shall pass by wearily.
With a heigh! ho! Nonnie! no! &c.
To the old and poor;
They shall all be welcome cheerily,
While there's bite or sup
On our board or cup,
They never shall pass by wearily.
With a heigh! ho! Nonnie! no! &c.
165
THE TRUE GENTLEMAN.
The man whose heart is kind and pure,
Unswayed by greediness of pelf,
Who worships God without a show,
And loves his neighbour as himself,
May be as poor as Lazarus,
And all deform'd as heathen Pan;
Yet kings might press him to their hearts,
And own him as a gentleman.
Unswayed by greediness of pelf,
Who worships God without a show,
And loves his neighbour as himself,
May be as poor as Lazarus,
And all deform'd as heathen Pan;
Yet kings might press him to their hearts,
And own him as a gentleman.
Who hath but little of his own,
Yet gladly shares it with the poor,
Who makes the best of mortal ills,
Slow to complain, long to endure,
May own his fathers have been churls
Ever since pride of birth began,
Yet waive no fraction of his right
To be consider'd gentleman.
Yet gladly shares it with the poor,
Who makes the best of mortal ills,
Slow to complain, long to endure,
May own his fathers have been churls
Ever since pride of birth began,
Yet waive no fraction of his right
To be consider'd gentleman.
166
Among the rare but glorious ranks
Of Nature's nobles he doth stand,
And shines within his lowly sphere
The pride and blessing of a land.
A monarch upon parchment writes
His patents, sold in honour's mart;
But Nature, when ennobling men,
Inscribes her patents on the heart.
Of Nature's nobles he doth stand,
And shines within his lowly sphere
The pride and blessing of a land.
A monarch upon parchment writes
His patents, sold in honour's mart;
But Nature, when ennobling men,
Inscribes her patents on the heart.
167
THE GREENWOOD TREE.
The soldier bold, when the bugles sound,
Must start from his pleasant sleep,
To measure alone his weary round
On the gloomy castle keep.
But we, merry men, in the pathless woods,
Where the nimble wild deer run,
We rise when we will, and sleep when we can,
And bend the knee to none.
Oh! a merry, merry life is ours, I ween;
At morn in the forests free,
And quaffing at e'en the jolly brown ale,
All under the greenwood tree.
Must start from his pleasant sleep,
To measure alone his weary round
On the gloomy castle keep.
But we, merry men, in the pathless woods,
Where the nimble wild deer run,
We rise when we will, and sleep when we can,
And bend the knee to none.
Oh! a merry, merry life is ours, I ween;
At morn in the forests free,
And quaffing at e'en the jolly brown ale,
All under the greenwood tree.
The monk must go when the abbot calls,
To chant his vesper hymn,
And the warder watch from his loop-hole grate,
At the hour of midnight dim:
But we, merry men, in the gay greenwood,
We own no master's sway;
But live to be happy when we can,
And jolly while we may.
Oh! a merry, merry life is ours, I ween;
At morn in the forests free,
And quaffing at e'en the jolly brown ale,
All under the greenwood tree.
To chant his vesper hymn,
And the warder watch from his loop-hole grate,
At the hour of midnight dim:
168
We own no master's sway;
But live to be happy when we can,
And jolly while we may.
Oh! a merry, merry life is ours, I ween;
At morn in the forests free,
And quaffing at e'en the jolly brown ale,
All under the greenwood tree.
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