Ourselves in soft Guatemala, 'Let's brush loose for any creek, Flutter not about a place, Mute the listening nations stand How faint their villages and towns, Appears no bigger than a mouse! Never is a question asked, 50 60 And the children stare at the sky, GEOFFREY CHAUCER (1328-1400) THE PORe persouN CANTERBURY TALES-PROLOGUE A GOOD man was ther of religioun, And such he was i-proved oftë sithes." Of his offrynge, and eek of his substaunce. He cowde in litel thing han suffisance. * Times. Wyd was his parisch, and houses fer asondur, This noble ensample unto his scheep he yaf, Out of the gospel he tho wordës caughte, 30 And schame it is, if that a prest tak keep, A [filthy] schepherde and a clenë scheep; Wel oughte a prest ensample for to yive, By his clennesse, how that hisscheepschulde lyve. He settë not his benefice to hyre, And left his scheep encombred in the myre, And ran to Londone, unto seyntë Poules, To seeken him a chaunterie for soules, Or with a brethurhede to ben withholde; But dwelte at hoom, and keptë wel his folde, So that the wolf ne made it not myscarye. He was a schepperde and no mercenarie : And though he holy were, and vertuous, 40 He was to senful man nought dispitous, Ne of his speche daungerous* ne digne, t *Not affable. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE (1772-1834) HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI HAST thou a charm to stay the morning star O dread and silent mount! I gazed upon thee, Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast- WILLIAM COLLINS (1720-1756) THE PASSIONS AN ODE FOR MUSIC WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young, First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Next Anger rushed; his eyes on fire In lightnings owned his secret stings: With woful measures wan Despair, Low, sullen sounds, his grief beguiled; But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair. [With eyes upraised, as one inspired, Pale Melancholy sat retired, And from her wild sequestered seat, Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul: And dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels joined the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Or o'er some haunted stream with fond delay, Love of peace and lonely musing, Last came Joy's ecstatic trial: He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand addressed; But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best : They would have thought, who heard the strain, They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids, Amidst the festal sounding shades, To some unwearied minstrel dancing, round; 50 60 WILLIAM J. COURTHOPE CHORUS FROM THE PARADISE of birDS WE wish to declare how the Birds of the air all high Institutions designed, And holding in awe art, science, and law, delivered the same to mankind. To begin with: of old, man went naked and cold whenever it pelted or froze, Till we showed him how feathers were proof against weathers; with that he bethought him of hose And next it was plain that he in the rain was forced to sit dripping and blind, While the reed-warbler swung in a nest with her young, deep-sheltered and warm from the wind. So our homes in the boughs made him think of the house; and the swallow, to help him invent, Revealed the best way to economise clay, and bricks to combine with cement. The knowledge withal of the carpenter's awl is drawn from the nuthatch's bill, And the sand-martin's pains in the hazel-clad lanes instructed the mason to drill. Is there one of the arts more dear to men's hearts? to the birds' inspiration they owe it, For the nightingale first sweet music rehearsed, prima donna, composer, and poet; The owl's dark retreats showed sages the sweets of brooding to spin or unravel Fine webs in one's brain, philosophical, vainthe swallows, the pleasures of travel, Who chirped in such strain of Greece, Italy, Spain, and Egypt, that men when they heard Were mad to fly forth from their nests in the north, and follow the trail of the bird. Besides it is true to our wisdom is due the knowledge of sciences all, And chiefly those rare metaphysics of air, men Meteorology call. For indeed it is said a kingfisher when dead has his science alive in him still; And, hung up; he will show, how the wind means to blow, and turn to the point with his bill. And parliaments hold, as themselves did of old, exclaiming, Hear, hear!' for 'Caw, caw!' When they build, if one steal, so great is their zeal for justice, that all, at a pinch, Without legal test will demolish his nest; and hence is the trial by Lynch. And whence arose love? Go ask of the dove, or behold how the titmouse, unresting, Still early and late ever sings by his mate, to lighten her labours of nesting. Their bonds never gall, tho' the leaves shoot and fall, and the seasons roll round in their course, For their marriage each year grows more lovely and dear, and they know not decrees of divorce. That these things are truth we have learned from our youth, for our hearts to our customs incline, As the rivers that roll from the fount of our soul, immortal, unchanging, divine. Man, simple and old, in his ages of gold, derived from our teaching true light, And deemed it his praise in his ancestors' ways to govern his footsteps aright: But the fountain of woes, Philosophy, rose, and what betwixt reason and whim, He has splintered our rules into sections and schools, so the world is made bitter for him. But the birds, since on earth they discovered the worth of their souls, and resolved with a vow, No custom to change for a new or a strange, have attained into Paradise now. WILLIAM COWPER (1742-1800) ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE, 1782 TOLL for the brave, The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave, Fast by their native shore! Eight hundred of the brave, Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel, And laid her on her side. A land-breeze shook the shrouds, Brave Kempenfelt is gone; See also BOADICEA His sword was in its sheath; Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes. Her timbers yet are sound, But Kempenfelt is gone, His victories are o'er; And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the wave no more. ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER's picture о GEORGE CRABBE (1754-1832) FUNERAL OF ISAAC ASHFORD, A VIRTUOUS PEASANT NOBLE he was, contemning all things mean, His truth unquestioned, and his soul serene; Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid; At no man's question Isaac looked dismayed: Cheerful he seemed, and gentleness he loved : (Bane of the poor! it wounds their weaker mind To miss one favour which their neighbours find :) Yet far was he from stoic pride removed, Nor pride in rustic skill, although we knew 30 20 330 |