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There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
That wreathes its old fantastic roots on high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. Him have we seen the greenwood side along,
While o'er the heath we hied, our labour done, Oft as the woodlark piped her farewell song,
With wistful eyes pursue the setting sun. Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would rove; Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn,
Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.
One morn I miss'd him on the 'custom'd hill,
Along the heath, and near his favourite tree : Another came ; nor yet beside the rill, Nor
up the lawn, nor at the wood was he:
The next, with dirges due, in sad array,
borne : Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay
Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.”
Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth,
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown; Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy mark’d him for her own.
AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere
Heaven did a recompense as largely send : He
gave to mis’ry (all he had) a tear; He gain'd from heaven ('twas all he wish’d) a
friend. No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Nor draw his frailties from their dread abode(Where they alike in trembling hope repose)
The bosom of his Father and his God.
AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE. How sweet it were, if without feeble fright, Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight, An angel came to us, and we could bear To see him issue from the silent air At evening in our room, and bend on ours His divine eyes,—and bring us from his bowers News of dear friends and children who have never Been dead indeed- as we shall know for ever. Alas! we think not what we daily see About our hearths, angels that are to be, Or
may be if they will, and we prepare Their souls and ours to meet in happy air,– A child, a friend, a wife, whose soft heart sings In unison with ours, waiting for future wings.
Of their egression endlessly ; with ever rising new From forth their sweet nest; as their store, still
as it faded, grew, And never would cease sending forth her clusters
to the spring, They still crowd out so; this flock here, that
there, belabouring The loaded flowers; so from the ships and tents
the army's store Troop'd to these princes, and the court, along th' unmeasur'd shore.
G. CHAPMAN, 1580.
Who is the honest man ? He that doth still and strongly good pursue ; To God, his neighbour, and himself most true :
Whom neither force nor fawning can
Whose honesty is not
Who rides his sure and even trot,
Who, when great trials come, Nor seeks nor shuns them, but does calmly stay, Till he the thing and the example weigh ;
All being brought into a sum,
Whom none can work or woo
His words, and works, and fashions too, All of a piece, and all are clear and straight.
Who never melts or thaws At close temptations. When the day is done His goodness sets not, but in dark can run.
The sun to others writeth laws, And is their virtue. Virtue is his sun.
SPORTING through the forest wide;
be seen ;
ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S
Much have I travell’d in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen:
Round many western islands have I been, Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne ; Yet never did I breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold : Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken, Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific—and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
FROM CHAPMAN'S TRANSLATION OF HOMER.
The Banquet. THE youths crown'd cups with wine Drank off and fill’d to all again: that day was
held divine, Consumed in pæans to the sun ; who heard with
pleased ear; When whose bright chariot stoop'd to sea, and
twilight hid the clear,