The Penguin Book of English Verse

by Paul Keegan

  As one by one, at dread Medea’s strain,

  The sick’ning stars fade off th’ethereal plain;

  As Argus’ eyes by Hermes’ wand opprest,

  Clos’d one by one to everlasting rest;

  Thus at her felt approach, and secret might,

  Art after Art goes out, and all is Night.

  See skulking Truth to her old Cavern fled,

  Mountains of Casuistry heap’d o’er her head!

  Philosophy, that lean’d on Heav’n before,

  Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more.

  Physic of Metaphysic begs defence,

  And Metaphysic calls for aid on Sense!

  See Mystery to Mathematics fly!

  In vain! they gaze, turn giddy, rave, and die.

  Religion blushing veils her sacred fires,

  And unawares Morality expires.

  Nor public Flame, nor private, dares to shine;

  Nor human Spark is left, nor Glimpse divine!

  Lo! thy dread Empire, CHAOS! is restor’d;

  Light dies before thy uncreating word:

  Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall;

  And Universal Darkness buries All.

  (1728–42)

  1744

  ANONYMOUS On the Death of Mr. Pope

  Seal up the Book, all Vision’s at an end,

  For who durst now to Poetry pretend?

  Since Pope is dead, it must be sure confessed

  The Muse’s sacred Inspiration’s ceased;

  And we may only what is writ rehearse:

  His Works are the Apocalypse of Verse.

  from Tommy Thumb’s Pretty Song Book

  ANONYMOUS Cock Robbin

  Who did kill Cock Robbin?

  I, said the Sparrow,

  With my bow and Arrow,

  And I did kill Cock Robbin.

  Who did see him die?

  I, said the Fly,

  With my little Eye,

  And I did see him die.

  And who did catch his blood?

  I, said the Fish,

  With my little Dish,

  And I did catch his blood.

  And who did make his shroud?

  I, said the Beetle,

  With my little Needle,

  And I did make his shroud.

  Who’ll dig his grave?

  I, said the Owl,

  With my pick and shovel,

  I’ll dig his grave.

  Who’ll be the parson?

  I, said the Rook,

  With my little book,

  I’ll be the parson.

  Who’ll be the clerk?

  I, said the Lark,

  If it’s not in the dark,

  I’ll be the clerk.

  Who’ll carry the link?

  I, said the Linnet,

  I’ll fetch it in a minute,

  I’ll carry the link.

  Who’ll be chief mourner?

  I, said the Dove,

  I mourn for my love,

  I’ll be chief mourner.

  Who’ll carry the coffin?

  I, said the Kite,

  If it’s not through the night,

  I’ll carry the coffin.

  Who’ll bear the pall?

  We, said the Wren,

  Both the cock and the hen,

  We’ll bear the pall.

  Who’ll sing a psalm?

  I, said the Thrush,

  As she sat on a bush,

  I’ll sing a psalm.

  Who’ll toll the bell?

  I, said the Bull,

  Because I can pull,

  I’ll toll the bell.

  All the birds of the air

  Fell a-sighing and a-sobbing,

  When they heard the bell toll

  For poor Cock Robbin.

  ANONYMOUS London Bridge

  London Bridge is broken down,

  Dance o’er my lady lee,

  London Bridge is broken down,

  With a gay lady.

  How shall we build it up again?

  Dance o’er my lady lee,

  How shall we build it up again?

  With a gay lady.

  Build it up with silver and gold,

  Dance o’er my lady lee,

  Build it up with silver and gold,

  With a gay lady.

  Silver and gold will be stole away,

  Dance o’er my lady lee,

  Silver and gold will be stole away,

  With a gay lady.

  Build it up with iron and steel,

  Dance o’er my lady lee,

  Build it up with iron and steel,

  With a gay lady.

  Iron and steel will bend and bow,

  Dance o’er my lady lee,

  Iron and steel will bend and bow,

  With a gay lady.

  Build it up with wood and clay,

  Dance o’er my lady lee,

  Build it up with wood and clay,

  With a gay lady.

  Wood and clay will wash away,

  Dance o’er my lady lee,

  Wood and clay will wash away,

  With a gay lady.

  Build it up with stone so strong,

  Dance o’er my lady lee,

  Huzza! ’twill last for ages long,

  With a gay lady.

  1745

  CHARLES WESLEY

  Let Earth and Heaven combine,

  Angels and Men agree

  To praise in Songs divine

  Th’Incarnate Deity,

  Our GOD contracted to a Span,

  Incomprehensibly made Man.

  He laid his Glory by,

  He wrap’d Him in our Clay,

  Unmark’d by Human Eye

  The latent Godhead lay;

  Infant of Days He here became,

  And bore the lov’d IMMANUEL’S Name.

  See in that Infant’s Face

  The Depths of Deity,

  And labour while ye gaze

  To sound the Mystery:

  In vain; ye Angels gaze no more,

  But fall, and silently adore.

  Unsearchable the Love

  That hath the Saviour brought,

  The Grace is far above

  Or Men or Angels Thought;

  Suffice for Us, that GOD, we know,

  Our GOD is manifest below.

  He deigns in Flesh t’appear,

  Widest Extremes to join,

  To bring our Vileness near,

  And make us All divine;

  And we the Life of GOD shall know,

  For GOD is manifest below.

  Made perfect first in Love,

  And sanctified by Grace,

  We shall from Earth remove,

  And see his glorious Face;

  His Love shall then be fully shew’d,

  And Man shall be lost in GOD.

  1746

  WILLIAM COLLINS Ode, Written in the Beginning of the Year 1746

  How sleep the Brave, who sink to Rest,

  By all their Country’s Wishes blest!

  When Spring, with dewy Fingers cold,

  Returns to deck their hallow’d Mold,

  She there shall dress a sweeter Sod,

  Than Fancy’s Feet have ever trod.

  By Fairy Hands their Knell is rung,

  By Forms unseen their Dirge is sung;

  There Honour comes, a Pilgrim grey,

  To bless the Turf that wraps their Clay,

  And Freedom shall a-while repair,

  To dwell a weeping Hermit there!

  WILLIAM COLLINS Ode to Evening

  If ought of Oaten Stop, or Pastoral Song,

  May hope, chaste Eve, to sooth thy modest Ear,

  Like thy own solemn Springs,

  Thy Springs, and dying Gales,

  O Nymph reserv’d, while now the bright-hair’d Sun

  Sits in yon western Tent, whose cloudy Skirts,

  With Brede ethereal wove,

  O’erhang his wavy
Bed:

  Now Air is hush’d, save where the weak-ey’d Bat,

  With short shrill Shriek flits by on leathern Wing,

  Or where the Beetle winds

  His small but sullen Horn,

  As oft he rises ’midst the twilight Path,

  Against the Pilgrim born in heedless Hum:

  Now teach me, Maid compos’d,

  To breathe some soften’d Strain,

  Whose Numbers stealing thro’ thy darkning Vale,

  May not unseemly with its Stillness suit,

  As musing slow, I hail

  Thy genial lov’d Return!

  For when thy folding Star arising shews

  His paly Circlet, at his warning Lamp

  The fragrant Hours, and Elves

  Who slept in Flow’rs the Day,

  And many a Nymph who wreaths her Brows with Sedge,

  And sheds the fresh’ning Dew, and lovelier still,

  The Pensive Pleasures sweet

  Prepare thy shadowy Car.

  Then lead, calm Vot’ress, where some sheety Lake

  Cheers the lone Heath, or some time-hallow’d Pile,

  Or up-land Fallows grey

  Reflect it’s last cool Gleam.

  But when chill blustring Winds, or driving Rain,

  Forbid my willing Feet, be mine the Hut,

  That from the Mountain’s Side,

  Views Wilds, and swelling Floods,

  And Hamlets brown, and dim-discover’d Spires,

  And hears their simple Bell, and marks o’er all

  Thy Dewy Fingers draw

  The gradual dusky Veil.

  While Spring shall pour his Show’rs, as oft he wont,

  And bathe thy breathing Tresses, meekest Eve!

  While Summer loves to sport,

  Beneath thy ling’ring Light:

  While sallow Autumn fills thy Lap with Leaves,

  Or Winter yelling thro’ the troublous Air,

  Affrights thy shrinking Train,

  And rudely rends thy Robes.

  So long, sure-found beneath the Sylvan Shed,

  Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lip’d Health,

  Thy gentlest Influence own,

  And hymn thy fav’rite Name!

  1747

  WILLIAM SHENSTONE Lines Written on a Window at the Leasowes at a Time of Very Deep Snow

  In this small fort, besieged with snow,

  When every studious pulse beats low,

  What does my wish require?

  Some sprightly girls beneath my roof,

  Some friends sincere and winter-proof,

  A bottle and a fire.

  Prolong, O snow, prolong thy siege!

  With these, thou wilt but more oblige,

  And bless me with thy stay;

  Extend, extend thy frigid reign,

  My few sincerer friends detain,

  And keep false friends away.

  LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU A Receipt to Cure the Vapours 1748

  Why will Delia thus retire

  And languish Life away?

  While the sighing Crowds admire

  ’Tis too soon for Hartshorn Tea.

  All these dismal looks and fretting

  Cannot Damon’s life restore,

  Long ago the Worms have eat him,

  You can never see him more.

  Once again consult your Toilet,

  In the Glass your Face review,

  So much weeping soon will spoil it

  And no Spring your Charms renew.

  I like you was born a Woman –

  Well I know what Vapours mean,

  The Disease alas! is common,

  Single we have all the Spleen.

  All the Morals that they tell us

  Never cur’d Sorrow yet,

  Chuse among the pretty Fellows

  One of humour, Youth, and Wit.

  Prithee hear him ev’ry Morning

  At least an hour or two,

  Once again at Nights returning,

  I beleive the Dose will do.

  MARY LEAPOR Mira’s Will

  Imprimis – My departed Shade I trust

  To Heav’n – My Body to the silent Dust;

  My Name to publick Censure I submit,

  To be dispos’d of as the World thinks fit;

  My Vice and Folly let Oblivion close,

  The World already is o’erstock’d with those;

  My Wit I give, as Misers give their Store,

  To those who think they had enough before.

  Bestow my Patience to compose the Lives

  Of slighted Virgins and neglected Wives;

  To modish Lovers I resign my Truth,

  My cool Reflexion to unthinking Youth;

  And some Good-nature give (’tis my Desire)

  To surly Husbands, as their Needs require;

  And first discharge my Funeral – and then

  To the small Poets I bequeath my Pen.

  Let a small Sprig (true Emblem of my Rhyme)

  Of blasted Laurel on my Hearse recline;

  Let some grave Wight, that struggles for Renown,

  By chanting Dirges through a Market-Town,

  With gentle Step precede the solemn Train;

  A broken Flute upon his Arm shall lean.

  Six comick Poets may the Corse surround,

  And All Free-holders, if they can be found:

  Then follow next the melancholy Throng,

  As shrewd Instructors, who themselves are wrong.

  The Virtuoso, rich in Sun-dry’d Weeds,

  The Politician, whom no Mortal heeds,

  The silent Lawyer, chamber’d all the Day,

  And the stern Soldier that receives no Pay.

  But stay – the Mourners shou’d be first our Care,

  Let the freed Prentice lead the Miser’s Heir;

  Let the young Relict wipe her mournful Eye,

  And widow’d Husbands o’er their Garlick cry.

  All this let my Executors fulfil,

  And rest assured that this is Mira’s Will,

  Who was, when she these Legacies design’d,

  In Body healthy, and compos’d in Mind.