English

Q V ick soul'd Pythagoras , ├┤ thou that wert,
So many men, and didst so oft revert
From shades of death (if we may trust to fame)
With losse of nothing but thy buried name;
Hadst thou but liv'd in this our Ailmer's time,
Thou wouldst have dy'd once more to live in him;
Or had our Ailmer In those dayes of thine
But dy'd, and left so glorious, so divine
A soule as his, how would thy hasty brest
Have gasp'd to entertaine so faire a guest!
Which if obtained, had (no doubt) supplide thee

I Wondred not to heare so brave an end,
Because I knew, who made it could contend
With death, and conquer, and in open chace
Would spit defiance in his conquered face;
And did: Dauntlesse he trod him underneath
To show the weaknesse of unarmed death:
Nay, had report, or niggard Fame deny'd
His name, it had beene knowne 'twas Ailmer dy'd.
It was no wonder, to heare rumour tell,
That he which dy'd so oft, once dy'd so well:
Great Lord of life, how hath thy dying breath,
Made man whom death had conquer'd, conquer death.

Ha d Vertue, Learning, the Diviner Arts,
Wit, judgement, wisdome, (or what other parts
That make perfection, and returne the minde
As great as earth can suffer) been confin'd
To earth; had they the Patent to abide
Secure from change, our Ailmer ne'r had dy'd:
Fond earth forbeare and let thy childish eyes
Ne'r weep for him thou ne'r knew'st how to prize;
Shed not a teare blinde earth; for it appeares,
Thou never lov'dst our Ailmer , by thy teares:
Or if thy fiouds must needs o'rflow their brim.

C A l back (bright Phaebus ) your sky-wandring steeds;
Your day is tedious, and our sorrow needs
No Sun: when our sad soules have lost their light
Why should our eyes not finde perpetuall night?
Goe to the nether world, and let your rayes
Shine there: Bestow on them our share of dayes;
But say not, Why: lest when report shall show
Such cause of griefe, they fall agrieving too,
And pray the absence of your restlesse wayne
Which then must be return'd on us againe,
Deare Phaebus grant my suit; if thou deny 't,

B V t stay: (sad Genius ) How doe griefes transport
Thy exil'd senses? Is there no resort
To fork'd Parnassus ' sacred Mount? No word,
No thought of Helicon? No Muse implor'd?
I did invoke, but there was none repli'd;
The nine were silent, since Metaenas dy'd:
They have forsaken their old Spring: 'tis said,
They haunt a new one, which their teares have made:
Should I molest them with my losse? 'Tis knowne
They finde enough to relament their owne:
I crave no ayde, no Deitle to infuse
New matter: Ah! True sorrow needs no Muse.

No. III.

EASTER-MONDAY AT SHEFFIELD .

Yes , there are some that think of me;
The blessing on their heads! I say;
May all their lives as happy be,
As mine has been with them to-day!

When I was sold, from Lincolnshire
To this good town, I heard a noise,
What merry-making would be here
At Easter-tide, for climbing boys.

'Twas strange, because where I had been,

THE DREAM .

I DREAMT ; but what care I for dreams?
And yet I tremble too;
It look'd so like the truth, it seems
As if it would come true.

I dreamt that, long ere peep of day,
I left my cold straw bed,
And o'er a common far away,
As if I flew, I fled.

The tempest hurried me behind
Like a mill-stream along;
I could have lean'd against the wind,

THE COMPLAINT .

Who loves the climbing boy? Who cares
If well or ill I be?
Is there a living soul that shares
A thought or wish with me?

I've had no parents since my birth,
Brothers and sisters none;
Ah! what to me is all this earth
Where I am only one?

I wake and see the morning shine,
And all around me gay;
But nothing I behold is mine,

PROLOGUE.

A WORD WITH MYSELF .

I KNOW they scorn the Climbing Boy,
The gay, the selfish, and the proud;
I know his villanous employ
Is mockery with the thoughtless crowd.

So be it; — brand with every name
Of burning infamy his art,
But let his country bear the shame,
And feel the iron at her heart.

I cannot coldly pass him by,

TO BRITAIN .

I LOVE Thee, O my native Isle!
Dear as my mother's earliest smile;
Sweet as my father's voice to me
Is all I hear, and all I see,
When, glancing o'er thy beauteous land,
In view thy Public Virtues stand,
The Guardian-angels of thy coast,
Who watch the dear domestic Host ,
The Heart's Affections , pleased to roam
Around the quiet heaven of Home.

I love Thee, — when I mark thy soil
Flourish beneath the peasant's toil,