Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets Part 131

3 In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, The bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray; At fair, or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching-- The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

4 At e'en, at the gloaming, nae sw.a.n.kies are roaming 'Bout stacks wi' the la.s.ses at bogle to play; But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie-- The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

5 Dule and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border!

The English, for ance, by guile wan the day; The Flowers of the Forest, that foucht aye the foremost, The prime o' our land, are cauld in the clay.

6 We hear nae mair lilting at our yowe-milking, Women and bairns are heartless and wae; Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning-- The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.

BY MRS c.o.c.kBURN.

1 I've seen the smiling Of Fortune beguiling; I've felt all its favours, and found its decay: Sweet was its blessing, Kind its caressing; But now 'tis fled--fled far away.

2 I've seen the forest Adorned the foremost With flowers of the fairest most pleasant and gay; Sae bonnie was their blooming!

Their scent the air perfuming!

But now they are withered and weeded away.

3 I've seen the morning With gold the hills adorning, And loud tempest storming before the mid-day.

I've seen Tweed's silver streams, s.h.i.+ning in the sunny beams, Grow drumly and dark as he rowed on his way.

4 Oh, fickle Fortune, Why this cruel sporting?

Oh, why still perplex us, poor sons of a day?

Nae mair your smiles can cheer me, Nae mair your frowns can fear me; For the Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

SIR WILLIAM JONES.

This extraordinary person, the 'Justinian of India,' the master of twenty-eight languages, who into the short s.p.a.ce of forty-eight years (he was born in 1746, and died 27th of April 1794) compressed such a vast quant.i.ty of study and labour, is also the author of two volumes of poetry, of unequal merit. We quote the best thing in the book.

A PERSIAN SONG OF HAFIZ.

1 Sweet maid, if thou wouldst charm my sight, And bid these arms thy neck enfold; That rosy cheek, that lily hand, Would give thy poet more delight Than all Bokhara's vaunted gold, Than all the gems of Samarcand.

2 Boy, let yon liquid ruby flow, And bid thy pensive heart be glad, Whate'er the frowning zealots say: Tell them, their Eden cannot show A stream so clear as Rocnabad, A bower so sweet as Mosellay.

3 Oh! when these fair perfidious maids, Whose eyes our secret haunts infest, Their dear destructive charms display, Each glance my tender breast invades, And robs my wounded soul of rest, As Tartars seize their destined prey.

4 In vain with love our bosoms glow: Can all our tears, can all our sighs, New l.u.s.tre to those charms impart?

Can cheeks, where living roses blow, Where nature spreads her richest dyes, Require the borrowed gloss of art?

5 Speak not of fate: ah! change the theme, And talk of odours, talk of wine, Talk of the flowers that round us bloom: 'Tis all a cloud, 'tis all a dream; To love and joy thy thoughts confine, Nor hope to pierce the sacred gloom.

6 Beauty has such resistless power, That even the chaste Egyptian dame Sighed for the blooming Hebrew boy: For her how fatal was the hour, When to the banks of Nilus came A youth so lovely and so coy!

7 But, ah! sweet maid, my counsel hear, (Youth should attend when those advise Whom long experience renders sage): While music charms the ravished ear, While sparkling cups delight our eyes, Be gay; and scorn the frowns of age.

8 What cruel answer have I heard?

And yet, by Heaven, I love thee still: Can aught be cruel from thy lip?

Yet say, how fell that bitter word From lips which streams of sweetness fill, Which nought but drops of honey sip?

9 Go boldly forth, my simple lay, Whose accents flow with artless ease, Like orient pearls at random strung: Thy notes are sweet, the damsels say; But, oh! far sweeter, if they please The nymph for whom these notes are sung.

SAMUEL BISHOP.

This gentleman was born in 1731, and died in 1795. He was an English clergyman, master of Merchant Tailors' School, London, and author of a volume of Latin pieces, ent.i.tled 'Feriae Poeticae,' and of various other poetical pieces. We give some verses to his wife, from which it appears that he remained an ardent lover long after having become a husband.

TO MRS BISHOP,

WITH A PRESENT OF A KNIFE.

'A knife,' dear girl, 'cuts love,' they say!

Mere modish love, perhaps it may-- For any tool, of any kind, Can separate--what was never joined.

The knife, that cuts our love in two, Will have much tougher work to do; Must cut your softness, truth, and spirit, Down to the vulgar size of merit; To level yours, with modern taste, Must cut a world of sense to waste; And from your single beauty's store, Clip what would dizen out a score.

That self-same blade from me must sever Sensation, judgment, sight, for ever: All memory of endearments past, All hope of comforts long to last; All that makes fourteen years with you, A summer, and a short one too; All that affection feels and fears, When hours without you seem like years.

Till that be done, and I'd as soon Believe this knife will chip the moon, Accept my present, undeterred, And leave their proverbs to the herd.

If in a kiss--delicious treat!-- Your lips acknowledge the receipt, Love, fond of such substantial fare, And proud to play the glutton there, 'All thoughts of cutting will disdain, Save only--'cut and come again.'

TO THE SAME,

ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF HER WEDDING-DAY, WHICH WAS ALSO HER BIRTH-DAY, WITH A RING.

'Thee, Mary, with this ring I wed'-- So, fourteen years ago, I said.---- Behold another ring!--'For what?'

'To wed thee o'er again?'--Why not?

With that first ring I married youth, Grace, beauty, innocence, and truth; Taste long admired, sense long revered, And all my Molly then appeared.

If she, by merit since disclosed, Prove twice the woman I supposed, I plead that double merit now, To justify a double vow.

Here then to-day, with faith as sure, With ardour as intense, as pure, As when, amidst the rites divine, I took thy troth, and plighted mine, To thee, sweet girl, my second ring A token and a pledge I bring: With this I wed, till death us part, Thy riper virtues to my heart; Those virtues which, before untried, The wife has added to the bride: Those virtues, whose progressive claim, Endearing wedlock's very name, My soul enjoys, my song approves, For conscience' sake, as well as love's.

And why? They show me every hour, Honour's high thought, Affection's power, Discretion's deed, sound Judgment's sentence, And teach me all things--but repentance.