English

Ay , most I love thee when thy starry song
Stoops to the plague-spot that we dare not name,
And bares with burning breath the envenomed wrong —
Our country's dark inheritance of shame.
When our blaspheming synods look thereon,
Stifling God's law and Nature's noble ires
With the cold ashes of dead council-fires,
That Gorgon terror chills them into stone.
Yet while they cringe and palter, thy true heart,
Serene in love's own light and woman's ruth,
Loyal to God and to God's living truth,

Sometimes I see thee, pale with scorn and sorrow,
At a great palace window, looking forth,
To-day on plumed Florentines, — to-morrow
Upon the hireling legions of the North:
Sometimes o'er little children bending lowly,
To hear their cry, in the dark factories drowned;
Ah, then thy pitying brow grows sweet and holy,
With a saint's aureole of sorrow crowned!
But most I love thee when that mystic glory —
Kindling at horrors that abhor the day —
Sheds a wild, stormy splendor o'er the story

Fair Sibyl, sitting in thy " House of Clouds, "
Shrined, like some solitary star, above
The dull, cold shadow that our earth enshrouds,
How oft my spirit looks to thee in love!
To thy " Lost Bower " how oft in dreams returning,
I see thee standing in the sylvan room, —
See the red sun-light in the rose-cups burning,
And the sweet blue-bells nodding through the gloom:
Again I hear thy grand and solemn dirges
To the dim " Gods of Hellas, " like the breeze
O'er lone savannas sighing, or the surges

BOOK FOUR

CANTO I

I

And which of all Hawaii's isles
Of sandalwood and singing wilds
Received and housed this maiden rare —
This bravest, best, since Eve's despair?
It matters not; enough to know
Night-blooming trumpets ever blow
Love's tuneful banner to the breeze
In chorus with the ardent seas;
That Juno walks her mountain wall
In peacock plumes the whole year through.
You hear her gaudy lover call

BOOK THIRD

CANTO I

I

Of all fair trees to look upon,
Of all trees " pleasant to the sight, "
Give me the Poet's tree of white —
Pink cherry trees of blest Nippon
With lovers passing to and fro —
Pink cherry lanes of Tokio:
Ten thousand cherry trees and each
Hung white with Poet's plaint and speech.

II

Of all fair lands to look upon,
To feel, to breathe, at Orient dawn,
I count this baby land the best,

O fader God, how fers and how cruel,
In whom the list or wilt, canst þu the make
Whom wilt thu spare, ne wot I neuere a deel,
Sithe thu thi sone hast to the deth betake,
That the offended neuere ne dide wrake,
Or mystook him to the or disobeyde,
Ne to non other dide he harme or seide.

I had ioye entiere and also gladnesse
Whan þu betook him me to clothe and wrappe
In mannes flesch. I wend, in sothfastnesse,
Have had for euere joye be the lappe.
But now hath sorwe caught me with his trappe

Spoken by Miss M ACKLIN .

A ye — now I can with pleasure look around,
Safe as I am, thank Heaven, on English ground. —
In a dark dungeon to be stow'd away,
Midst roaring, thund'ring, danger and dismay:
Expos'd to fire and water, sword and bullet —
Might damp the heart of any Virgin pullet. —
I dread to think what might have come to pass,
Had not the British Lyon quell'd the Gallic ass —
By Champignon a wretched victim led
To cloister'd cell, or more detested bed.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

M ACLAYMORE , Champignon .

Champignon running upon the stage in a ridiculous dishabille .
Prenez garde qu'elle ne vous echappe! — aux armes! — Mons. le Second — contre maitre — la chaloupe! la chaloupe!

M ACLAYMORE .

As I sall answer, the folks are a' gaen daft! — deel stap out your een! I'm nae sic midge but ye might a seen me in your porridge.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Heartly , Brush .

Brush .

Spoken by Mr. HAVARD.

An ancient sage, when death approach'd his bed,
Consign'd to Pluto his devoted head;
And, that no fiend might hiss, or prove uncivil,
With vows and pray'rs he fairly brib'd the Devil:
Yet neither vows nor pray'rs, nor rich oblation,
Cou'd always save the sinner — from damnation:
Thus authors, tottering on the brink of fate,
The critick's rage with prologues deprecate;
Yet oft the trembling bard implores in vain,
The wit profess'd, turns out a dunce in grain: