Russet lawns, and fallows gray,
Where the nibbling flocks do stray;
Mountains, on whose barren breast
The labouring clouds do often rest;
Meadows trim with daisies pied,
Shallow brooks and rivers wide;
Towers and battlements it sees
Bosomed high in tufted trees,
Where perhaps some Beauty lies,
The Cynosure1 of neighbouring eyes.
Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes
From betwixt two aged oaks,
Where Corydon and Thyrsis,2 met,
Are at their savoury dinner set

Of herbs, and other country messes
Which the neat-handed Phyllis dresses;
And then in haste her bower she leaves
With Thestylis to bind the sheaves;
Or, if the earlier season lead,
To the tanned haycock in the mead.
Sometimes with secure delight
The upland hamlets will invite,
When the merry bells ring round,
And the jocund rebecks3 sound
To many a youth and many a maid,
Dancing in the chequered shade.
And young and old come forth to play
On a sun-shine holy-day,
Till the live-long day-light fail:
Then to the spicy nut-brown ale,
With stories told of many a feat,
How faery Mab the junkets eat;
She was pinched, and pulled, she said;
And he, by Friar's Lantern1 led ;

1 Cynosure, the Pole Star.

2 Corydon, Thyrsis, Phyllis, and the old Idylls.' 3 Rebecks, fiddles.

Thestylis, are 'shepherd names from
Friar's lantern, Will o' the Wisp.

Tells how the drudging Goblin1 sweat
To earn his cream-bowl duly set,

When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,
His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn
That ten day-labourers could not end;
Then lies him down the lubber fiend,
And, stretched out all the chimney's length,
Basks at the fire his hairy strength;
And crop-full out of doors he flings,
Ere the first cock his matin rings.

Thus done the tales, to bed they creep,
By whispering winds soon lulled asleep.
Towered cities please us then
And the busy hum of men,

Where throngs of knights and barons bold,
In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold,
With store of ladies, whose bright eyes
Rain influence, and judge the prize
Of wit or arms, while both contend
To win her grace whom all commend.
There let Hymen oft appear
In saffron robe,2 with taper clear,
And pomp, and feast, and revelry,
With mask, and antique pageantry;
Such sights as youthful poets dream
On summer eves by haunted stream.
Then, to the well-trod stage anon,
If Jonson's learned sock3 be on,
Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child,
Warble his native wood-notes wild.

And ever, against eating cares,
Lap me in soft Lydian airs,*

1 Drudging Goblin, Robin Goodfellow.

2 Saffron robe. Saffron was the traditional colour of the robes of the God of Marriage. "The Roman marriage veil was yellow or flame-coloured.'

3 Sock. Soccus, the slipper worn by a comedian.

+ Lydian airs. 'A light and festive style of ancient music.'

Married to immortal verse;

Such as the meeting soul may pierce
In notes, with many a winding bout
Of linked sweetness long drawn out,
With wanton heed and giddy cunning,
The melting voice through mazes running,
Untwisting all the chains that tie
The hidden soul of harmony;

That Orpheus' self may heave his head
From golden slumber, on a bed

Of heaped Elysian flowers, and hear
Such strains as would have won the ear
Of Pluto, to have quite set free

His half-regained Eurydice.

These delights if thou canst give,

Mirth,* with thee I mean to live.

J. Milton.

CXL.

CORONACH.+

E is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,

Like a summer-dried fountain,

When our need was the sorest.

The font, reappearing,

From the raindrops shall borrow,

But to us comes no cheering,

To Duncan no morrow!

The hand of the reaper

Takes the ears that are hoary,

But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood in glory.

* Mirth or Gaiety is the Child of Nature.
↑ A Highland dirge.

The autumn winds rushing,
Waft the leaves that are serest,
But our flower was in flushing,
When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the correi,1

Sage counsel in cumber,2
Red hand in the foray,3

How sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river,

Like the bubble on the fountain,

Thou art gone, and for ever!

W. Scott.

CXLI.

THE EVE OF WATERLOO.1

HERE was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and, when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell;

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

1 Or corri, 'the hollow side of the hill where game usually lies:' this word gives name to many places in Scotland. 2 Cumber, trouble. Foray (forage), 'a Highland plundering expedition; on the Borders, where horses were used, the word was Raid (ride).'

On the evening of the 15th (June 1815), Wellington, having received intelligence of the advance of the French, and ordered the concentration of troops on Quatre Bras, 'dressed and went to a ball at the Duchess of Richmond's, where his manner was so undisturbed, that no one discovered that any intelligence of importance had arrived; many brave men were there assembled, amidst the scenes of festivity, and surrounded by the smiles of beauty, who were, ere long, locked in the arms of death.'-Alison, ch. xciii. Ed. 1848.

Did ye not hear it?-no; 'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;

No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet-
But, hark!-that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

Arm! arm! it is—it is—the cannon's opening roar !

Within a windowed niche of that high hall
Sate Brunswick's* fated chieftain; he did hear
That sound the first amid the festival,

And caught its tone with death's prophetic ear;
And when they smiled because he deemed it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well
Which 'stretched his father on a bloody bier,

And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell : He rushed into the field, and foremost, fighting, fell.

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which, but an hour ago, Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings; such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise?

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war :

* 'The son of the Duke of Brunswick, the leader of the allied armies in the invasion of France in 1792, who died of his wounds, and of grief, after the battle of Jena. The young duke was slain at Quatre Bras, June 16.'