The Penguin Book of English Verse

by Paul Keegan

  CHRISTOPHER SMART A Morning Piece, Or, An Hymn for the Hay-Makers

  Quinetiam Gallum noctem explaudentibus alis

  Auroram clara consuetum voce vocare.

  LUCRET.

  Brisk chaunticleer his mattins had begun,

  And broke the silence of the night,

  And thrice he call’d aloud the tardy sun,

  And thrice he hail’d the dawn’s ambiguous light;

  Back to their graves the fear-begotten phantoms run.

  Strong Labour got up. – With his pipe to his mouth,

  He stoutly strode over the dale,

  He lent new perfumes to the breath of the south,

  On his back hung his wallet and flail.

  Behind him came Health from her cottage of thatch,

  Where never physician had lifted the latch.

  First of the village Colin was awake,

  And thus he sung, reclining on his rake.

  Now the rural graces three

  Dance beneath yon maple tree;

  First the vestal Virtue, known

  By her adamantine zone;

  Next to her in rosy pride,

  Sweet Society, the bride;

  Last Honesty, full seemly drest

  In her cleanly home-spun vest.

  The abby bells in wak’ning rounds

  The warning peal have giv’n;

  And pious Gratitude resounds

  Her morning hymn to heav’n.

  All nature wakes – the birds unlock their throats,

  And mock the shepherd’s rustic notes.

  All alive o’er the lawn,

  Full glad of the dawn,

  The little lambkins play,

  Sylvia and Sol arise, – and all is day –

  Come, my mates, let us work,

  And all hands to the fork,

  While the Sun shines, our Hay-cocks to make,

  So fine is the Day,

  And so fragrant the Hay,

  That the Meadow’s as blithe as the Wake.

  Our voices let’s raise

  In Phœbus’s praise,

  Inspir’d by so glorious a theme,

  Our musical words

  Shall be join’d by the birds,

  And we’ll dance to the tune of the stream.

  1749

  SAMUEL JOHNSON from The Vanity of Human Wishes, The Tenth Satire of Juvenal

  When first the College Rolls receive his Name,

  The young Enthusiast quits his Ease for Fame;

  Through all his Veins the fever of Renown

  Burns from the strong Contagion of the Gown;

  O’er Bodley’s Dome his future Labours spread,

  And Bacon’s Mansion trembles o’er his Head;

  Are these thy Views? proceed, illustrious Youth,

  And Virtue guard thee to the Throne of Truth,

  Yet should thy Soul indulge the gen’rous Heat,

  Till captive Science yields her last Retreat;

  Should Reason guide thee with her brightest Ray,

  And pour on misty Doubt resistless Day;

  Should no false Kindness lure to loose Delight,

  Nor Praise relax, nor Difficulty fright;

  Should tempting Novelty thy Cell refrain,

  And Sloth effuse her opiate Fumes in vain;

  Should Beauty blunt on Fops her fatal Dart,

  Nor claim the triumph of a letter’d Heart;

  Should no Disease thy torpid Veins invade,

  Nor Melancholy’s Phantoms haunt thy Shade;

  Yet hope not Life from Grief or Danger free,

  Nor think the Doom of Man revers’d for thee:

  Deign on the passing World to turn thine Eyes,

  And pause awhile from Letters to be wise;

  There mark what Ills the Scholar’s Life assail,

  Toil, Envy, Want, the Patron, and the Jail.

  (… )

  The festal Blazes, the triumphal Show,

  The ravish’d Standard, and the captive Foe,

  The Senate’s Thanks, the Gazette’s pompous Tale,

  With Force resistless o’er the Brave prevail.

  Such Bribes the rapid Greek o’er Asia whirl’d,

  For such the steady Romans shook the World;

  For such in distant Lands the Britons shine,

  And stain with Blood the Danube or the Rhine;

  This Pow’r has Praise, that Virtue scarce can warm,

  Till Fame supplies the universal Charm.

  Yet Reason frowns on War’s unequal Game,

  Where wasted Nations raise a single Name,

  And mortgag’d States their Grandsires Wreaths regret

  From Age to Age in everlasting Debt;

  Wreaths which at last the dear-bought Right convey

  To rust on Medals, or on Stones decay.

  On what Foundation stands the Warrior’s Pride?

  How just his Hopes let Swedish Charles decide;

  A Frame of Adamant, a Soul of Fire,

  No Dangers fright him, and no Labours tire;

  O’er Love, o’er Fear, extends his wide Domain,

  Unconquer’d Lord of Pleasure and of Pain;

  No Joys to him pacific Scepters yield,

  War sounds the Trump, he rushes to the Field;

  Behold surrounding Kings their Pow’r combine,

  And One capitulate, and One resign;

  Peace courts his Hand, but spreads her Charms in vain;

  ‘Think Nothing gain’d, he cries, till nought remain,

  ‘On Moscow’s Walls till Gothic Standards fly,

  ‘And all be Mine beneath the Polar Sky.’

  The March begins in Military State,

  And Nations on his Eye suspended wait;

  Stern Famine guards the solitary Coast,

  And Winter barricades the Realms of Frost;

  He comes, not Want and Cold his Course delay; –

  Hide, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa’s Day:

  The vanquish’d Hero leaves his broken Bands,

  And shews his Miseries in distant Lands;

  Condemn’d a needy Supplicant to wait,

  While Ladies interpose, and Slaves debate.

  But did not Chance at length her Error mend?

  Did no subverted Empire mark his End?

  Did rival Monarchs give the fatal Wound?

  Or hostile Millions press him to the Ground?

  His Fall was destin’d to a barren Strand,

  A petty Fortress, and a dubious Hand;

  He left the Name, at which the World grew pale,

  To point a Moral, or adorn a Tale.

  1751

  THOMAS GRAY Elegy Written in a Country Church Yard

  The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

  The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea,

  The plowman homeward plods his weary way,

  And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

  Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,

  And all the air a solemn stillness holds,

  Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,

  And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

  Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow’r

  The mopeing owl does to the moon complain

  Of such, as wand’ring near her secret bow’r,

  Molest her ancient solitary reign.

  Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade,

  Where heaves the turf in many a mould’ring heap,

  Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

  The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

  The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,

  The swallow twitt’ring from the straw-built shed,

  The cock’s shrill clarion, or the ecchoing horn,

  No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

  For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,

  Or busy houswife ply her evening care:

  No children run to lisp their sire’s return,<
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  Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

  Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

  Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;

  How jocund did they drive their team afield!

  How bow’d the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

  Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

  Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;

  Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,

  The short and simple annals of the poor.

  The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r,

  And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,

  Awaits alike th’ inevitable hour.

  The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

  Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault,

  If Mem’ry o’er their Tomb no Trophies raise,

  Where thro’ the long-drawn isle and fretted vault

  The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

  Can storied urn or animated bust

  Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?

  Can Honour’s voice provoke the silent dust,

  Or Flatt’ry sooth the dull cold ear of Death?

  Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

  Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire,

  Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway’d,

  Or wak’d to extasy the living lyre.

  But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page

  Rich with the spoils of time did ne’er unroll;

  Chill Penury repress’d their noble rage,

  And froze the genial current of the soul.

  Full many a gem of purest ray serene,

  The dark unfathom’d caves of ocean bear:

  Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,

  And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

  Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast

  The little Tyrant of his fields withstood;

  Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,

  Some Cromwell guiltless of his country’s blood.

  Th’ applause of list’ning senates to command,

  The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

  To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land,

  And read their hist’ry in a nation’s eyes

  Their lot forbad: nor circumscrib’d alone

  Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin’d;

  Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,

  And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

  The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,

  To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,

  Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride

  With incense kindled at the Muse’s flame.

  Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,

  Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray;

  Along the cool sequester’d vale of life

  They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

  Yet ev’n these bones from insult to protect

  Some frail memorial still erected nigh,

  With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck’d,

  Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

  Their name, their years, spelt by th’ unletter’d muse,

  The place of fame and elegy supply:

  And many a holy text around she strews,

  That teach the rustic moralist to die.

  For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,

  This pleasing anxious being e’er resign’d,

  Left the warm precincts of the chearful day,

  Nor cast one longing ling’ring look behind?

  On some fond breast the parting soul relies,

  Some pious drops the closing eye requires;

  Ev’n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,

  Ev’n in our Ashes live their wonted Fires.

  For thee, who mindful of th’ unhonour’d Dead

  Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;

  If chance, by lonely contemplation led,

  Some kindred Spirit shall inquire thy fate,

  Haply some hoary-headed Swain may say,

  ‘Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn

  ‘Brushing with hasty steps the dews away

  ‘To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

  ‘There at the foot of yonder nodding beech

  ‘That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,

  ‘His listless length at noontide wou’d he stretch,

  ‘And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

  ‘Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,

  ‘Mutt’ring his wayward fancies he wou’d rove,

  ‘Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,

  ‘Or craz’d with care, or cross’d in hopeless love.

  ‘One morn I miss’d him on the custom’d hill,

  ‘Along the heath and near his fav’rite tree;

  ‘Another came; nor yet beside the rill,

  ‘Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he,

  ‘The next with dirges due in sad array

  ‘Slow thro’ the church-way path we saw him born[e].

  ‘Approach and read (for thou can’st read) the lay,

  ‘Grav’d on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.’

  The Epitaph

  Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth

  A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown,

  Fair Science frown’d not on his humble birth,

  And Melancholy mark’d him for her own.

  Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,

  Heav’n did a recompence as largely send:

  He gave to Mis’ry all he had, a tear,

  He gain’d from Heav’n (’twas all he wish’d) a friend.

  No farther seek his merits to disclose,

  Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,

  (There they alike in trembling hope repose)

  The bosom of his Father and his God.

  1755

  ANONYMOUS This is the House That Jack Built

  This is the farmer sowing his corn,

  That kept the cock that crowed in the morn,

  That waked the priest all shaven and shorn,

  That married the man all tattered and torn,

  That kissed the maiden all forlorn,

  That milked the cow with the crumpled horn,

  That tossed the dog,

  That worried the cat,

  That killed the rat,

  That ate the malt

  That lay in the house that Jack built.

  1761

  CHRISTOPHER SMART from Jubilate Agno

  For the doubling of flowers is the improvement of the gardners talent.