Puslapio vaizdai

To a Child of Quality

Five Years Old, 1704, the Author Then Forty.
Lords, knights, and squires, the numerous band
That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters,
Were summoned by her high command
To show their passion by their letters.
My pen amongst the rest I took,

Lest those bright eyes, that cannot read,
Should dart their kindling fires, and look
The power they have to be obey'd.
Nor quality, nor reputation,

Forbid me yet my flame to tell;

Dear Five-years-old befriends my passion,
And I may write till she can spell.

For, while she makes her silkworms beds
With all the tender things I swear;
Whilst all the house my passion reads,
In papers round her baby's hair;

She may receive and Own my flame;

For, though the strictest prudes should know it,
She'll pass for a most virtuous dame,
And I for an unhappy poet.

Then too, alas! when she shall tear

The rhymes some younger rival sends, She'll give me leave to write, I fear, And we shall still continue friends.

In Merry

In Merry For, as our different ages move,


'Tis so ordained (would Fate but mend it!), That I shall be past making love

When she begins to comprehend it.




(Thomas Campbell, the Poet.)

Come from my First, ay, come!

For the battle hour is nigh:

And the screaming trump and thundering drum

Are calling thee to die!

Fight, as thy father fought!

Fall, as thy father fell!

Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought;-

So onward-and farewell.

Toll ye my Second, toll!

Fling wide the flambeau's light,

And sing the hymn for a parted soul

Beneath the silent night.

With the wreath upon his head,

And the cross upon his breast,

Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed;

So take him to his rest!

Call ye my Whole,―ay, call

The lord of lute and lay!

And let him greet the sable pall
With a noble song to-day!

Ay, call him by his name!

Nor fitter hand may crave

To light the flame of a soldier's fame
On the turf of a soldier's grave.


A Riddle

(A Book.)

I'm a strange contradiction; I'm new, and I'm

I'm often in tatters, and oft decked with gold.
Though I never could read, yet lettered I'm


Though blind, I enlighten; though loose, I am

I'm always in black, and I'm always in white;
I'm grave and I'm gay, I am heavy and light—
In form too I differ,-I'm thick and I'm thin,
I've no flesh and no bones, yet I'm covered with

I've more points than the compass, more stops
than the flute;

I sing without voice, without speaking confute.

In Merry

In Merry I'm English, I'm German, I'm French, and I'm Mood


Some love me too fondly, some slight me too


I often die soon, though I sometimes lives ages,
And no monarch alive has so many pages.

A Riddle

(The Vowels.)

We are little airy creatures,

All of different voice and features;
One of us in glass is set,

One of us you'll find in jet.
T'other you may see in tin,

And the fourth a box within.
If the fifth you should pursue,
it can never fly from you.


A Riddle

(The Letter H.)

'Twas whispered in Heaven, 'twas muttered in


And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell;
On the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest,
And the depths of the ocean its presence con-

"Twill be found in the sphere when 'tis riven

Be seen in the lightning and heard in the thunder;
"Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath,
Attends him at birth and awaits him in death,
Presides o'er his happiness, honor and health,
Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth.
In the heaps of the miser 'tis hoarded with care,
But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir;
It begins every hope, every wish it must bound,
With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs
is crowned;

Without it the soldier and seaman may roam,
But woe to the wretch who expels it from home!
In the whispers of conscience its voice will be

Nor e'er in the whirlwind of passion be drowned;
"Twill soften the heart; but though deaf be the


It will make it acutely and instantly hear.

In Merry

« AnkstesnisTęsti »