a

6 Witch.

At morning and at evening both I had a dagger : what did I with that?

You merry were and glad, Killed an infant to have his fat :

So little care of sleepe and sloth A piper it got, at a church-ale:

These prettie ladies had. I bade him again blow wind i’ the taile. When Tom came home from labor, 7 Witch.

Or Ciss to milking rose,
A murderer yonder was hung in chaines ;

Then merrily went their tabour,
The sunne and the wind had shrunke his And nimbly went their toes.
I bit off a sinew; I clipp'd his haire ; [veines : Witness those rings and roundelayes
I brought off his ragges, that danc'd i' the ayre. Of theirs, which yet remaine,
8 Witch.

Were footed in queen Maries dayes
The scrich-owles egges, and the feathers

On many a grassy playne.

But since of late Elizabeth blacke,

[backe,

And later James came in,
The bloud of the frogge, and the bone in his
I have been getting ; and made of his skin

They never danc'd on any heath,

As when the time had been. A purset, to keep sir Cranion in. 9 Witch.

By which wee note the fairies And I h' beene plucking (plants among)

Were of the old profession ; Hemlock, henbane, adders tongue,

Their songs were Ave Maries,

Their dances were procession.
Night-shade, moone-wort, libbards bane;
And twise by the dogges was like to be tane.

But now, alas ! they all are dead,

Or gone beyond the seas,
10 Witch.

Or farther for religion fled,
I from the jaws of a gardiner's bitch [ditch: Or else they take their ease.
Did snatch these bones, and then leap'd the

A tell-tale in their company
Yet went I back to the house againe,

They never could endure; Kill’d the blacke cat, and here is the braine.

And whoso kept not secretly
11 Witch.

Their mirth, was punish'd sure:
I went to the toade, breeds under the wall, It was a just and Christian deed
I charmed him out, and he came at my call; To pinch such blacke and blue :
I scratch'd out the eyes of the owle before ; O how the common-welth doth need
I tore the batts wings : what would you have Such justices as you !
more?

Now they have left our quarters;
Dame.

A Register they have,
Yes : I have brought, to helpe your vows, Who can preserve their charters ;
Horned poppie, cypresse boughes,

A man both wise and grave.
The fig-tree wild that grows on tombes, An hundred of their merry pranks
And juice that from the larch-tree comes, By one that I could name
The basiliskes bloud, and the vipers skin; Are kept in store; con twenty thanks
And now our orgies let's begin.

To William for the same.

To William Churne of Staffordshire, $ 109. The Fairies Farewell.

Give laud and praises due, This humorous old song fell from the hand of the witty Dr. Corbet, afterwards bishop of Norwich,

Who every meale can mend your cheare &c. In his Poetica Stromata it is called " A pro

With tales both old and true; per new Ballad, intituled, The Fairies Farewell, To William all give audience, or God-a-mercy Will : to be sung or whistled to the tune of the Meadow Brow, by the learned; by For all the fairies evidence

And pray yee for his noddle; the unlearned, to the tune of Fortune." FAREWELL, rewards and Fairies !

Were lost, if it were addle. Good housewives now may say;

$ 110. Unfading Beauty. For now foule sluts in dairies

This little beautiful Sonnet is reprinted from a small Doe fare as well as they ;

volume of " Poems by Thomas Carew, Esq. one of And though they sweepe their hearths no less

the gentlemen of the privie-chamber, and sewer in Than mayds were wont to doe,

ordinary to his majesty Charles I. 'Lond. 1640."

This elegant, and almost forgotten writer, whose Yet who of late for cleanliness

poems have been deservedly revived, died in the Finds six-pence in her shoe ?

prime of his age, in 1639.

In the original follows a third stanza, which, nol Lament, lament, old abbies,

being of general application, nor of equal merit, I The fairies lost command !

have ventured to omit. They did but change priests babies,

Hee that loves a rosie cheeke,
But some have chang'd your land;

Or corall lip admires,
And all your children stoln from thence Or from star-like eyes doth seek
Are now growne Puritanes,

Fuell to maintaine his fires;
Who live as changelings ever since,

As old time makes these decay, For love of your demaines.

So his flames must waste away.

)

a

*

But a smooth and stedfaste mind,

Allow me to muse and to sigh, Gentle thoughts, and calm desires,

Nor talk of the change that ye find; Hearts with equal love combin’d,

None, once, was so watchful as I :Kindle never-dying fires ;

I have left my dear Phillis behind. Where these are not, I despise

Now I know what it is to have strove Lovely cheekes, or lips, or eyes.

With the torture of doubt and desire;

What it is to admire and to love, $ 111. The Hermit. BEATTIE.,

And to leave her we love and admire. At the close of the day, when the hamlet is Ah, lead forth my flock in the morn,

And the damps of each evening repel : still,

(prove, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness, Alas! I am faint and forlorn : When nought but the torrent is heard on the

I have bade my dear Phillis farewell. hill,

[grove-Since Phillis vouchsaf'd me a look, And nought but the nightingale's song in the I never once dream'd of my vine : 'Twas then, by the cave of the mountain re- May I lose both my pipe and my crook, clinid,

If I knew of a kid that was mine! A hermit his nightly complaint thus began : I priz'd every hour that went by, Though mournful his numbers, his soul was Beyond all that had pleas'd me before ; resign'd;

(man. But now they are pass'd, and I sigh, He thought as a sage, though he felt as a And I grieve that I priz’d them no more. “Ah! why, thus abandon’d to darkness and But why do I languish in vain ? woe,

(strain ?! Why, thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad, Why wander thus pensively here ?

O, why did I come from the plain, For spring shall return, and a lover bestow;

Where I fed on the smiles of my dear ? And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain. They tell me, my favorite maid, Yet, if pity inspire thee, O cease not thy lay ! Mourn, sweetest companion! man calls thee Alas! where with her I have stray'd,

The pride of that valley, is flown ; to mourn:

[away!

I could wander with pleasure alone.
O soothe him whose pleasures, like thine, pass
Full quickly they pass, but they never re- When forc'd the fair nymph to forego,
turn !

What anguish I felt at my heart ! “ Now gliding remote on the verge of the sky,

Yet I thought, but it might not be so,

'Twas with pain when she saw me depart. he moon, half extinct, a dim crescent displays;

She gaz'd, as I slowly withdrew; But lately I mark’d, when majestic on high

My path I could hardly discern; She shone, and the planets were lost in her So sweetly she bade me adieu, blaze.

(sue

I thought that she bade me return.
Roll on then, fair orb, and with gladness pur- The pilgrim that journeys all day
The path that conducts thee to splendor To visit some far-distant shrine,
again :

If he bear but a relic away,
But man's faded glory no change shall renew : Is happy, nor heard to repine.

Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain ! | Thus, widely remov'd from the fair, “ 'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no

Where my vows, my devotion, I owe, [for you;

Soft hope is the relic I bear, I mourn ; but, ye woodlands, I mourn not

And my solace wherever I go. For morn is approaching, your charms to re

2. HOPE. store, Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glittring My banks they are furnish'd with bees,

Whose murmur invites one to sleep; with dew. Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn ;

My grottos are shaded with trees, Kind Nature the embryo-blossom shall save:

And my hills are white over with sheep.

I seldom have met with a loss, But when shall spring visit the mouldering

Such health do my fountains bestow; urn ? (, when shall it dawn on the night of the My fountains, all border'd with moss,

Where the hare-bell and violet grow :

Not a pine in my grove is there seen, 0 112. A pastoral Ballad. In Four Parts.

But with tendrils of woodbine is bound; SHENSTONE.

Not a beech's more beautiful green, 1. ABSENCE.

But a sweet-brier twines it around. YE shepherds so cheerful and gay,

Not my fields in the prime of the year Whose flocks never carelessly roam ; More charms than my cattle unfold ; Should Corydon's happen to stray,

Not a brook that is limpid and clear, O call the poor wanderers home.

But it glitters with fishes of gold.

more :

grave ?"

One would think she might like to retire When he sings, may the nymphs of the town To the bow'r I have labor’d to rear;

Come trooping, and listen the while ; Not a shrub that I heard her admire,

Nay, on him let not Phillida frown ;But I hasted and planted it there.

But I cannot allow her to smile. O how sudden the jessamine strove

For when Paridel tries in the dance With the lilach to render it gay!

Any favor with Phillis to find, Already it calls for my love,

O how, with one trivial glance, To prune the wild branches away.

Might she ruin the peace of my mind! From the plains, from the woodlands, and In ringlets he dresses his hair, groves,

And his crook is bestudded around; What strains of wild melody flow! And his pipe-0 may Phillis beware How the nightingales warble their loves, Of a magic there is in the sound !

From thickets of roses that blow ! And when her bright form shall appear,

'Tis his with mock passion to glow; Each bird shall harmoniously join

'Tis his in smooth tales to unfold,

“ How her face is as bright as the snow, In a concert so soft and so clear, As she may not be fond to resign.

And her bosom, be sure, is as cold;

How the nightingales labor the strain, I have found out a gift for my fair,

With the notes of his charmer to vie ;
I have found where the wood-pigeons breed ; How they vary their accents in vain,
But let me that plunder forbear :

Repine at her triumphs, and die."
She will say 'twas a barbarous deed.
For he ne'er could be true, she averr'd, To the grove or the garden he strays,
Who could rob a poor bird of its young;

And pillages every sweet ;
And I lov'd her the more when I heard Then, suiting the wreath to his lays,
Such tenderness fall from her tongue.

He throws it at Phillis's feet.

“O Phillis,” he whispers,“ more fair, I have heard her with sweetness unfold

More sweet, than the jessamine's flow'r ! How that pity was due to a dove,

What are pinks in a morn, to compare ?
That it ever attended the bold;

What is eglantine after a shower ?
And she call'd it the sister of love.
But her words such a pleasure convey, “ Then the lily no longer is white;
So much I her accents adore,

Then the rose is depriv'd of its bloom; Let her speak, and whatever she say, Then the violets die with despite,

Methinks, I should love her the more. And the woodbines give up their perfume." Can a bosom so gentle remain

Thus glide the soft numbers along, Unmov’d, when her Corydon sighs ?

And he fancies no shepherd his peer; Will a nymph that is fond of the plain,

Yet I never should

envy

the

song, These plains and this valley despise ?

Were not Phillis to lend it an ear. Dear regions of silence and shade!

Let his crook be with hyacinths bound, Soft scenes of contentment and ease! So Phillis the trophy despise ; Where I could have pleasingly stray'd, Let his forehead with laurels be crownd', If aught in her absence could please.

So they shine not in Phillis's eyes. But where does my Phillida stray ?

The language that flows from the heart And where are her grots and her bowers ?

Is a stranger to Paridel's tongue'; Are the groves and the valleys as gay,

Yet may she beware of his art! And the shepherds as gentle, as ours ?

Or sure I must envy the song. The groves may perhaps be as fair,

4. DISAPPOINTMENT. And the face of the valleys as fine ; The swains may in manners compare,

Ye shepherds, give ear to my lay, But their love is not equal to mine.

And take no more heed of my sheep :

They have nothing to do but to stray, 3. SOLICITUDE.

I have nothing to do but to weep. Why will you my passion reprove,

Yet do not my folly reprove: Why term it a folly to grieve,

She was fair, and my passion begun; Ere I show you the charms of my love ? She smil'd, and I could not but love; She is fairer than you can believe.

She is faithless, and I am undone.
With her mien she enamours the brave;

Perhaps I was void of all thought;
With her wit she engages the free;
With her modesty pleases the grave;

Perhaps it was plain to foresee,

That a nymph so complete would be sought She is every way pleasing to me.

By a swain more engaging than me. () you that have been of her train,

Ah! love ev'ry hope can inspire :
Come and join in my amorous lays !

It banishes wisdom the while;
I could lay down my life for the swain And the lip of the nymph we admire

That will sing but a song in her praise Seems for ever adorn’d with a smile!

m

She is faithless, and I am undone ;

Sweet music went with us both all the wood Ye that witness the woes I endure,

through, Let reason instruct you to shun

The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too; What it cannot instruct you to cure. Winds over us whisper'd, flocks by us did bleat, Beware how you loiter in vain

And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet. Amid nymphs of a higher degree :

But now she is absent, though still they sing on, It is not for me to explain

The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone! llow fair and how fickle they be.

Her voice in the concert, as now I have found, Alas! from the day that we met,

Gives every thing else its agreeable sound. What hope of an end to my woes, Will no pitying power that hears me complain, When I cannot endure to forget

Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain ? The glance that undid my repose ? To be cur'd, thou must, Colin, thy passion reYet time may diminish the pain :

move, The flow'r, and the shrub, and the tree, But what swain is so silly to live without love? Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain, No, deity, bid the dear nymph to return; In time may have comfort for me.

For ne'er was poor shepherd só sadly forlorn. The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose,

Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair : The sound of a murmuring stream,

Take heed, all yé swains, how ye love one so fair, The peace which from solitude flows, Henceforth shall be Corydon's theme.

Ø 114. A pastoral Ballad. Rowe. High transports are shown to the sight, DESPAIRING beside a clear strcam,

But we are not to find them our own. A shepherd forsaken was laid; Fate never bestow'd such delight,

And, while a false nymph was his theme, As I with my Phillis had known.

A willow supported his head.

The wind that blew over the plain,
Oye woods, spread your branches apace;
To your deepest recesses I fly;

To his sighs with a sigh did reply;
I would hide with the beasts of the chase,

And the brook, in return to his pain, I would vanish from every eye.

Ran mournfully murmuring by. Yet my reed shall resound through the grove “ Alas! silly swain that I was !"

With the same sad complaint it begun; (Thus, sadly complaining, he cried ;) How she smild, and I could not but love; “ When first I beheld that fair face, Was faithless, and I am undone!

'Twere better by far I had died.

She talk'd, and I bless'd her dear tongue; Ø 113. Phæbe. A Pastoral. Byrom.

When she smild, it was pleasure too great ;

I listen'd, and cried, when she sung;
My time, O ye muses ! was happily spent,

Was nightingale ever so sweet!
When Phæbe went with me wherever I went:
Ten thousand soft pleasures I felt in my breast :“How foolish was I to believe
Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was bless'd. She could doat on so lowly a clown,
But now she is gone, and has left me behind, Or that her fond heart would not grieve
What a marvellous change on a sudden I find ! To forsake the fine folk of the town!
When things were as fine as could possibly be, To think that a beauty so gay,
I thought it was spring; but, alas ! it was she. So kind and so constant would prove;

Or go clad, like our maidens, in gray,
The fountain that wont to run sweetly along,

Or live in a cottage on love! And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among, Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phæbe was there," What though I have skill to complain, It was pleasant to look at,'twas music to hear! Though the muses my temples have crown'd; But now she is absent, I walk by its side, What though, when they hear my soft strain, And, still as it murmurs, do nothing but chide : The virgins sit weeping around; Must you be so cheerful, whilst I go in pain ?

Ah, Colin! thy hopes are in vain, Peace, there, with your bubbling, and hear me Thy pipe and thy laurel resign; complain.

Thy fair one inclines to a swain

Whose music is sweeter than thine.
My dog I was ever well pleased to see
Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me;

“ All you, my companions so dear, And Phæbe was pleas'd too, and to my dog said,

Who sorrow to see me betray’d, “Come hither, poor fellow!" and patted his Whatever I suffer, forbear, head :

(look,

Forbear to accuse the false maid. But now, when he's fawning, I, with a sour

Though through the wide world I should range, Cry, “Sirrah !" and give him a blow with my 'Twas hers to be false, and to change ;

'Tis in vain from my fortune to fly; crook : And I'll give him another; for why should not

'Tis mine to be constant, and die. Tray

“ If, while my hard fate I sustain, Be dull as his master, when Phæbe's away? In her breast any pity is found ;

Let her come, with the nymphs of the plain, Now, whilst he gaz'd, a gallant, dress'd
And see me laid low in the ground :

In faunting robes above the rest,
The last humble boon that I crave

With awful accent cried :
Is, to shade me with cypress and yew ; “What mortal, of a wretched mind,
And, when she looks down on my grave, Whose sighs infect the balmy wind,
Let her own that her shepherd was true.

Has here presum'd to hide ?"
“ Then to her new love let her go,
And deck her in golden array;

At this the swain, whose vent'rous soul

No fears of magic art control, Be finest at ev'ry fine show,

Advanc'd in open sight; And frolic it all the long day:

“ Nor have I cause of dread," he said, While Colin, forgotten and gone,

“ Who view, by no presumption led, No more shall be talk'd of or seen,

Your revels of the night.
Unless when, beneath the pale moon,
His ghost shall glide over the green." “ 'Twas grief, for scorn of faithful love,
Ø 115. A Fairy Tale. PARNELL. Which made my steps unweeting rove

Amid the nightly dew."
In Britain's isle, and Arthur's days,

“ 'Tis well,” the gallant cries again, When midnight fairies daunc'd the maze,

“ We fairies never injure men Liv'd Edwin of the Green;

Who dare to tell us true.
Edwin, I wis, a gentle youth,
Endow'd with courage, sense, and truth, “Exalt thy love-dejected heart;
Though badly shap'd he been.

Be mine the task, or ere we part,
His mountain back mote well be said

To make thee grief resign ; To measure height against his head,

Now take the pleasure of thy chaunce; And lift itself above;

Whilst I with Mab, my partner, daunce, Yet, spite of all that Nature did

Pe little Mable thine." To make his uncouth form forbid,

He spoke, and, all a sudden, there This creature dar'd to love.

Light music floats in wanton air; He felt the charms of Edith's eyes,

The Monarch leads the Queen :Nor wanted hope to gain the prize,

The rest their fairie partners found : Could ladies look within ;

And Mable trimly tript the ground
But ore Sir Topaz dress'd with art,

With Edwin of the Green.
And, if a shape could win a heart,
He had a shape to win.

The dauncing past, the board was laid,
Edwin, if right I read my song,

And siker such a feast was made With slighted passion paced along

As heart and lip desire: All in the moony light;

Withouten hands the dishes fly, 'Twas near an old enchanted court,

The glasses with a wish come nigh, Where sportive fairies made resort,

And with a wish retire. To revel out the night.

But now, to please the fairie king, His heart was drear, his hope was cross'd, Full every deal they laugh and sing, 'Twas late, 'twas far, the path was lost

And antic feats devise;
That reach'd the neighbor town: Some wind and tumble like an ape,
With weary steps he quits the shades, And other some transmute their shape,
Resolv'd, the darkling dome he treads,

In Edwin's wond'ring eyes.
And drops his limbs adown.

Till one, at last, that Robin hight, But scant he lays him on the floor,

Renown'd for pinching maids at night, When hollow winds remove the door,

Has bent him up aloof; A trembling rocks the ground :

And full against the beam he flung, And, well I ween to count aright,

Where by the back the youth he hung,
At once an hundred tapers light

To sprawl unneath the roof.
On all the walls around.
Now sounding tongues assail his ear,

From thence, “Reverse my charm," he cries Now sounding feet approachen near,

“ And let it fairly now suffice, And now the sounds increase:

The gambol has been shown." And, from the corner where he lay,

But Oberon answers, with a smile, He sees a train, profusely gay,

“ Content thee, Edwin, for a while, Come prankling o'er the place.

The vantage is thine own."-But (trust me gentles) never yet,

Here ended all the phantom-play
Was dight a masquing half so neat,

They smelt the fresh approach of day,
Or half so rich, before ;

And heard a cock to crow;
The country lent the sweet perfumes, The whirling wind, that bore the crowd,
The sea the pearl, the sky the plumes, Has clapp'd the door, and whistled loud,
The town its silken store.

To warn them all to go.