The Penguin Book of English Verse

by Paul Keegan

  Fearless, a soul that does not always think.

  Me oft has fancy ludicrous and wild

  Sooth’d with a waking dream of houses, tow’rs,

  Trees, churches, and strange visages express’d

  In the red cinders, while with poring eye

  I gazed, myself creating what I saw.

  Nor less amused have I quiescent watch’d

  The sooty films that play upon the bars

  Pendulous, and foreboding in the view

  Of superstition prophesying still

  Though still deceived, some stranger’s near approach.

  ’Tis thus the understanding takes repose

  In indolent vacuity of thought,

  And sleeps and is refresh’d. Meanwhile the face

  Conceals the mood lethargic with a mask

  Of deep deliberation, as the man

  Were task’d to his full strength, absorb’d and lost.

  Thus oft reclin’d at ease, I lose an hour

  At evening, till at length the freezing blast

  That sweeps the bolted shutter, summons home

  The recollected powers, and snapping short

  The glassy threads with which the fancy weaves

  Her brittle toys, restores me to myself.

  How calm is my recess, and how the frost

  Raging abroad, and the rough wind, endear

  The silence and the warmth enjoy’d within.

  (…)

  [The Winter Walk at Noon]

  Where now the vital energy that moved

  While summer was, the pure and subtle lymph

  Through th’ imperceptible mæandring veins

  Of leaf and flow’r? It sleeps; and the icy touch

  Of unprolific winter has impress’d

  A cold stagnation on th’ intestine tide.

  But let the months go round, a few short months,

  And all shall be restored. These naked shoots

  Barren as lances, among which the wind

  Makes wintry music, sighing as it goes,

  Shall put their graceful foliage on again,

  And more aspiring and with ampler spread

  Shall boast new charms, and more than they have lost.

  Then, each in its peculiar honors clad,

  Shall publish even to the distant eye

  Its family and tribe. Laburnum rich

  In streaming gold; syringa iv’ry-pure;

  The scented and the scentless rose; this red

  And of an humbler growth, the 1other tall,

  And throwing up into the darkest gloom

  Of neighb’ring cypress or more sable yew

  Her silver globes, light as the foamy surf

  That the wind severs from the broken wave.

  The lilac various in array, now white,

  Now sanguine, and her beauteous head now set

  With purple spikes pyramidal, as if

  Studious of ornament, yet unresolved

  Which hue she most approved, she chose them all.

  Copious of flow’rs the woodbine, pale and wan,

  But well compensating their sickly looks

  With never-cloying odours, early and late.

  Hypericum all bloom, so thick a swarm

  Of flow’rs like flies cloathing her slender rods

  That scarce a leaf appears. Mezerion too

  Though leafless well attired, and thick beset

  With blushing wreaths investing ev’ry spray.

  Althæa with the purple eye, the broom,

  Yellow and bright as bullion unalloy’d

  Her blossoms, and luxuriant above all

  The jasmine, throwing wide her elegant sweets,

  The deep dark green of whose unvarnish’d leaf

  Makes more conspicuous, and illumines more

  The bright profusion of her scatter’d stars. –

  These have been, and these shall be in their day.

  And all this uniform uncoloured scene

  Shall be dismantled of its fleecy load,

  And flush into variety again.

  ROBERT BURNS To a Mouse, on Turning Her Up in Her Nest, with the Plough, November, 1785 1786

  Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim’rous beastie,

  O, what a panic ’s in thy breastie!

  Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

  Wi’ bickering brattle!

  5

  I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,

  Wi’ murd’ring pattle!

  I’m truly sorry Man’s dominion

  Has broken Nature’s social union,

  An’ justifies that ill opinion,

  10

  Which makes thee startle,

  At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,

  An’ fellow-mortal!

  I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;

  What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!

  15

  A daimen-icker in a thrave

  ‘S a sma’ request:

  I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave,

  An’ never miss’t!

  Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!

  20

  It’s silly wa’s the win’s are strewin!

  An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,

  O’ foggage green!

  An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin,

  Baith snell an’ keen!

  25

  Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ wast,

  An’ weary Winter comin fast,

  An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,

  Thou thought to dwell,

  Till crash! the cruel coulter past

  30

  Out thro’ thy cell.

  That wee-bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble,

  Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!

  Now thou ’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble,

  But house or hald,

  35

  To thole the Winter’s sleety dribble,

  An’ cranreuch cauld!

  But Mousie, thou art no thy-lane,

  In proving foresight may be vain:

  The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men,

  40

  Gang aft agley,

  An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,

  For promis’d joy!

  Still, thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me!

  The present only toucheth thee:

  45

  But Och! I backward cast my e’e,

  On prospects drear!

  An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,

  I guess an’ fear!

  ROBERT BURNS Address to the Unco Guid, Or the Rigidly Righteous 1787

  My Son, these maxims make a rule,

  And lump them ay thegither;

  The Rigid Righteous is a fool,

  The Rigid Wise anither:

  5

  The cleanest corn that e’er was dight

  May hae some pyles o’ caff in;

  So ne’er a fellow-creature slight

  For random fits o’ daffin.

  SOLOMON. – Eccles. ch. vii. vers. 16.

  O ye wha are sae guid yoursel,

  Sae pious and sae holy,

  Ye’ve nought to do but mark and tell

  Your Neebours’ fauts and folly!

  5

  Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,

  Supply’d wi’ store o’ water,

  The heaped happer ’s ebbing still,

  And still the clap plays clatter.

  Hear me, ye venerable Core,

  10

  As counsel for poor mortals,

  That frequent pass douce Wisdom’s door

  For glaikit Folly’s portals;

  I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes

  Would here propone defences,

  15

  Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes,

  Their failings and mischances.

  Ye see your state wi’ theirs compar’d,

  And shudder at the niffer,

  But cas
t a moment’s fair regard

  20

  What maks the mighty differ;

  Discount what scant occasion gave,

  That purity ye pride in,

  And (what ’s aft mair than a’ the lave)

  Your better art o’ hiding.

  25

  Think, when your castigated pulse

  Gies now and then a wallop,

  What ragings must his veins convulse,

  That still eternal gallop:

  Wi’ wind and tide fair i’ your tail,

  30

  Right on ye scud your sea-way;

  But, in the teeth o’ baith to sail,

  It maks an unco leeway.

  See Social-life and Glee sit down,

  All joyous and unthinking,

  35

  Till, quite transmugrify’d, they’re grown

  Debauchery and Drinking:

  O would they stay to calculate

  Th’ eternal consequences;

  Or your more dreaded h-11 to state,

  40

  D-mnation of expences!

  Ye high, exalted, virtuous Dames,

  Ty’d up in godly laces,

  Before ye gie poor Frailty names,

  Suppose a change o’ cases;

  45

  A dear-lov’d lad, convenience snug,

  A treacherous inclination –

  But, let me whisper i’ your lug,

  Ye’re aiblins nae temptation.

  Then gently scan your brother Man,

  50

  Still gentler sister Woman;

  Tho’ they may gang a kennin wrang,

  To step aside is human:

  One point must still be greatly dark,

  The moving Why they do it;

  55

  And just as lamely can ye mark,

  How far perhaps they rue it.

  Who made the heart, ’tis He alone

  Decidedly can try us,

  He knows each chord its various tone,

  60

  Each spring its various bias:

  Then at the balance let’s be mute,

  We never can adjust it;

  What ’s done we partly may compute,

  But know not what ’s resisted.

  WILLIAM BLAKE from Songs of Innocence 1789

  Holy Thursday

  Twas on a Holy Thursday their innocent faces clean

  The children walking two & two in red & blue & green

  Grey headed beadles walkd before with wands as white as snow

  Till into the high dome of Pauls they like Thames waters flow

  O what a multitude they seemd these flowers of London town

  Seated in companies they sit with radiance all their own

  The hum of multitudes was there but multitudes of lambs

  Thousands of little boys & girls raising their innocent hands

  Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song

  Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among

  Beneath them sit the aged men wise guardians of the poor

  Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door

  CHARLOTTE SMITH Sonnet. Written in the Church-yard at Middleton in Sussex

  Pressed by the Moon, mute arbitress of tides,

  While the loud equinox its power combines,

  The sea no more its swelling surge confines,

  But o’er the shrinking land sublimely rides.

  The wild blast, rising from the Western cave,

  Drives the huge billows from their heaving bed,

  Tears from their grassy tombs the village dead,

  And breaks the silent sabbath of the grave!

  With shells and seaweed mingled, on the shore

  Lo! their bones whiten in the frequent wave;

  But vain to them the winds and waters rave;

  They hear the warring element no more:

  While I am doomed – by life’s long storm oppressed,

  To gaze with envy on their gloomy rest.

  ELIZABETH HANDS On an Unsociable Family

  O what a strange parcel of creatures are we,

  Scarce ever to quarrel, or even agree;

  We all are alone, though at home altogether,

  Except to the fire constrained by the weather;

  Then one says, ‘’Tis cold,’ which we all of us know,

  And with unanimity answer, “Tis so’:

  With shrugs and with shivers all look at the fire,

  And shuffle ourselves and our chairs a bit nigher;

  Then quickly, preceded by silence profound,

  A yawn epidemical catches around:

  Like social companions we never fall out,

  Nor ever care what one another’s about;

  To comfort each other is never our plan,

  For to please ourselves, truly, is more than we can.

  1791 ROBERT BURNS Tam o’ Shanter. A Tale

  Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is this buke.

  GAWIN DOUGLAS.

  When chapman billies leave the street,

  And drouthy neebors, neebors meet,

  As market-days are wearing late,

  An’ folk begin to tak the gate;

  5

  While we sit bousing at the nappy,

  And getting fou and unco happy,

  We think na on the lang Scots miles,

  The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles,

  That lie between us and our hame,

  10

  Whare sits our sulky sullen dame,

  Gathering her brows like gathering storm,

  Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

  This truth fand honest Tam o’ Shanter,

  As he frae Ayr ae night did canter,

  15

  (Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a town surpasses,

  For honest men and bonny lasses.)

  O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise,

  As ta’en thy ain wife Kate’s advice!

  She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,

  20

  A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;

  That frae November till October,

  Ae market-day thou was nae sober;

  That ilka melder, wi’ the miller,

  Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;

  25

  That every naig was ca’d a shoe on,

  The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;

  That at the L – d’s house, even on Sunday,

  Thou drank wi’ Kirkton Jean till Monday.

  She prophesied that late or soon,