ELL me not of deeds of glory,
Ye who seek a laurell'd brow,
Ye who seek to live in story,
But as giving mankind woe.
Is the thundering cannon dealing
Death and ruin all around,
Music to a heart of feeling?
Or is joy in murder's sound?
See the storm of battle raving,
Mark each banner high and low,
Victory now her standard waving,
In proud triumph o'er the foe.
Hear the trump of joy and gladness,
Pealing through the vaulted air,
Mingling with the cries of sadness,
And the groans of deep despair.
See an aged mother bending
O'er her dear, her slaughter'd sonMark the bitter tear descendingHear her agonizing groan.
See a widow senseless falling
On her bleeding husband's breast; Hear her now, in horror, calling On the sword to give her rest.
See her babes in stupor standing,
And, in Nature's artless tongue,
Still with tears of her demanding,
Why their father sleeps so long?
See the maid, in wildest sorrow,
Seeking, 'mong the ghastly slain,
Him who promis'd that the morrow
Bound them in the nuptial chain.
See her wildly bending o'er him,
Not a tear her grief proclaim-
Madness only can deplore him;
Madness call upon his name.
Talk not then of deeds of glory,
Ye who seek a laurell'd brow,
Ye who seek to live in story,
But as giving mankind woe.
THE jessamine, sweet-brier, woodbine and rose,
Are all that the west of my garden bestows;
And all on the east that I have, or desire,
Are the woodbine and jessamine, blush-rose and brier:
For variety little could add to the scent,
And the eye wants no change where the heart is content.
BY JAMES HOGG, THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.
WAKEN, drowsy slumberer! waken!
Over gorse, green broom, and braken,
From her sieve of silken blue,
Dawning sifts her silver dew;
Hangs the emerald on the willow,
Lights her lamps below the billow,
Bends the briar and branchy braken.
Waken, drowsy slumberer! waken!
Waken, drowsy slumberer! waken!
Deep the moon her draught has taken
Of the babbling rivulet sheen
Far beyond the Ochils green.
From her gauzy veil on high
Trills the laverock's melody:
Round and round, from glen and grove,
Pour a thousand hymns to love:
Harps the quail amid the clover;
O'er the moon-fern whews the plover:
Bat has hid, and heath-cock crowed;
Courser neighed, and cattle lowed;
Kid and lamb the lair forsaken.
Waken! drowsy slumberer! waken!
See how light the wood-fly dances;
Swifter still the dawn advances.
Pretty limner! see her hue
Painted on the amber dew;
On the leaf of beech and willow;
On the lake and sleepy billow-
Rouse thee, slumberer, from thy pillow!
Human life is but a day!
Gay its morn! but short as gay!
Day of evil! day of sorrow!
Hope, even hope, can point no morrow!
Steeped in sloth, or passions boiling,
Noon shall find thee faint and toiling!
Evening rears her mantle dreary-
Evening finds thee pale and weary!
Prospects blasted, aims misguided,
For the future ill provided;
Murmuring, worn, enfeebled, shaking,
Days of sorrow, nights of waking.
Yield thy soul unto the giver!
Bow thy head, and sleep for ever!
But rise up, now! to work betake thee!
Wake thee! drowsy slumberer! wake thee!
BENEATH a myrtle Cupid lay,
His eyelids drown'd in sleep's soft dew, When Dora, passing by that way,
His quiver seiz'd, and strait withdrew. Hence the fair artist's drawing charms, Her slightest sketches fire our hearts: The nymph, possess'd of Cupid's arms, Sports with our fate, and draws with darts.
20TH ODE OF THE 3D BOOK OF HORACE
TRANSLATED INTO THE SAPPHIC METRE.
Do not you see more perilous a combat,
Than of her young yon lioness to plunder,
Waits ye? full soon your insolence dismay'd, will
shun the destruction.
Thro' the surrounding populace she rushes,
Fierce to protect her elegant Nearchus :
Long is your conflict, difficult the toil that
He, the meanwhile, your recompense and umpire,
While ye send forth your javelins in combat,
Rends the light blooming coronal, and smiling
treads on the palm-branch,
Fans his soft ringlets redolent of perfume,
While the fresh breeze plays amorous around him,
Fairer than Nireus, or the boy convey'd from
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