The butterfly, gay-painted, soon
Explores awhile the tepid noon;
And fondly trusts its tender dyes
To fickle suns and flattering skies.
ON A PAINTED WINDOW AT OXFORD.
YE brawny Prophets, that in robes so rich,
At distance due, possess the crisped niche;
Ye rows of Patriarchs, that, sublimely reared,
Diffuse a proud primeval length of beard:
Ye saints, who, clad in crimson's bright array,
More pride than humble poverty display:
Ye Virgins meek, that wear the palmy crown
Of patient faith, and yet so fiercely frown:
Ye Angels, that from clouds of gold recline,
But boast no semblance to a race divine:
Ye tragic Tales of legendary lore,
That draw devotion's ready tear no more;
Ye Martyrdoms of unenlightened days,
Ye Miracles that now no wonder raise;
Shapes, that with one broad glare the gazer strike,
Kings, bishops, nuns, apostles, all alike!
Ye Colours, that the unwary sight amaze,
And only dazzle in the noontide blaze!
No more the secret window's round disgrace.
But yield to Grecian groups the shining space.
Lo! from the canvas Beauty shifts her throne;
Lo! Picture's powers a new formation own!
Behold, she prints upon the crystal plain,
With her own energy, the expressive stain !
The mighty Master spreads his mimic toil
More wide, nor only blends the breathing ou;
But calls the lineaments of life complete
From genial alchemy's creative heat;
Obedient forms to the bright fusion gives,
While in the warm enamel Nature lives.
Reynolds, 'tis thine, from the broad window's height,
To add new lustre to religious light:
Not of its pomp to strip this ancient shrine,
But bid that pomp with purer radiance shine:
With arts unknown before, to reconcile
The willing Graces to the Gothic pile.
THOMAS PERCY was born at Bridgenorth, in Shropshire, in 1728. educated at Oxford, for the Church. After being successively Chaplain to the King, and Dean of Carlisle, he was advanced to the bishopric of Dromore in Ireland. In 1765 he published his "Reliques of English Poetry," which had an immediate and lasting effect on our literature. He was also himself a poet, and published some small pieces, which show considerable talent, the "Hermit of Warkworth," "O Nancy, wilt thou go with me?" &c. Percy died in 1811.
O NANCY, WILT THOU GO WITH ME?
O NANCY, Wilt thou go with me,
Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town?
Can silent glens have charms for thee,
The lowly cot and russet gown?
No longer drest in silken sheen,
No longer decked with jewels rare,
Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene,
Where thou wert fairest of the fair?
O Nancy, when thou'rt far away,
Wilt thou not cast a wish behind!
Say, canst thou face the parching ray,
Nor shrink before the wintry wind?
O can that soft and gentle mien
Extremes of hardship learn to bear,
Nor, sad, regret each courtly scene,
Where thou wert fairest of the fair?
O Nancy, canst thou love so true,
Through perils keen with me to go?
Or, when thy swain mishap shall rue,
To share with him the pang of woe?
Say, should disease or pain befall,
Wilt thou assume the nurse's care,
Nor, wistful, those gay scenes recall,
Where thou wert fairest of the fair?
And when at last thy love shall die,
Wilt thou receive his parting breath?
Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh.
And cheer with smiles the bed of death?
And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay
Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear?
Nor then regret those scenes so gay,
Where thou wert fairest of the fair?
AN Irish poet, the son of a Dublin artisan. Author of "The Landscape," a poem, and some minor pieces, which display great melody and simplicity of versification. He spent some time in Edinburgh in a theatrical
KATE OF ABERDEEN.
THE silver moon's enamoured beam,
Steals softly through the night,
To wanton with the winding stream,
And kiss reflected light.
To beds of state go, balmy sleep-
'Tis where you've seldom been---
May's vigil while the shepherds keep
With Kate of Aberdeen.
Upon the green the virgins wait,
In rosy chaplets gay,
Till morn unbars her golden gate,
And gives the promised May.
Methinks I hear the maids declare
The promised May, when seen,
Not half so fragrant, half so fair,
As Kate of Aberdeen.
Strike up the tabor's boldest notes,
We'll rouse the nodding grove;
The nested birds shall raise their throats.
And hail the maid I love.
And see-the matin lark mistakes,
He quits the tufted green:
Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks,
'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.
Now lightsome o'er the level mead,
Where midnight fairies rove,
Like them the jocund dance we'll lead,
Or tune the reed to love:
For see, the rosy May draws nigh;
She claims a virgin queen;
And hark! the happy shepherds cry
"Tis Kate of Aberdeen."
AN English clergyman, author of some miscellaneous poems, chiefly in
On the Anniversary of her Wedding-day, which was also her Birthday. 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.
CHURCHILL'S father was an English clergyman in Essex, who educated his son for the Church. He obtained a curacy in Somersetshire,-so poor, however, that it is said he had to eke out his living by selling cider. In 1758 he succeeded his father as lecturer of St John's, Westminster. And now commenced his downward career. His income was small for London, while his tastes were expensive, and he was on the verge of being sent to jail when a friend effected a compromise. He now composed his satire the "Rosciad," which was published at first anonymously, and which led many to believe a second Dryden had arisen. It created a great sensation; other pieces followed, which brought him into still higher notice. With all this success he was, however, plunging deeper into vice, and his manners were such that his ecclesiastical superiors had at last to insist on his resignation of the lectureship. With it he cast off his Christianity, and stood out as an avowed infidel. In 1764 Churchill visited France. At Boulogne he was seized with a fever, and died 4th November. His satires having been entirely of local reference, are now scarcely known.
FROM THE CONFERENCE."
Look back! a thought which borders on despair,
Which human nature must, yet cannot bear.
'Tis not the babbling of a busy world,
Where praise or censure are at random hurled,
Which can the meanest of my thoughts control,
Or shake one settled purpose of my soul;
Free and at large might their wild curses roam,
If all, if all, alas! were well at home.
No; 'tis the tale which angry conscience tells,
When she with more than tragic horror swells
Each circumstance of guilt; when stern, but true,
She brings bad actions forth into review,
And, like the dread handwriting on the wall,
Bids late remorse awake at reason's call;
Armed at all points, bids scorpion vengeance pass,
And to the mind holds up reflection's glass-
The mind which starting heaves the heartfelt groan,
And hates that form she knows to be her own
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