If pride were his, 'twas not their vulgar pride Who, in their base contempt, the great deride: Nor pride in learning-though my clerk agreed, If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed; Nor pride in rustic skill, although he knew None his superior, and his equals few: But if that spirit in his soul had place, It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace; A pride in honest fame, by virtue gain'd; In sturdy boys to virtuous labours train'd; Pride, in the power that guards his country's coast, And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast; Pride, in a life that slander's tongue defied; In fact, a noble passion, misnamed pride. I feel his absence in the hours of prayer, And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there; I see no more those white locks, thinly spread Round the bald polish of that honour'd head; No more that awful glance on playful wight, Compell'd to kneel and tremble at the sight, To fold his fingers, all in dread the while, Till Mister Ashford soften'd to a smile; No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer, Nor the pure faith (to give it force,) are there: But he is bless'd, and I lament no more,

A wise good man, contented to be poor.

CRABBE.

147.

CORONACH.*

[From THE LADY OF THE LAKE.]

HE is gone on the mountain,

He is lost to the forest,

Like a summer-dried fountain,
When our need was the sorest.
The font, reappearing,

From the rain-drops shall borrow,
But to us comes no cheering,

To Duncan no morrow!

The hand of the reaper

Takes the ears that are hoary,
But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood in glory;
The autumn winds rushing,

Waft the leaves that are searest,
But our flower was in flushing
When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the correi†,

Sage counsel in cumber,
Red hand in the foray,

How sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain,
Thou art gone, and for ever!

* A funeral song.

SIR W. SCOTT.

The hollow side of a hill, where game usually lies. A plundering expedition.

148. THE SLAVE'S DREAM.

BESIDE the ungather'd rice he lay,

His sickle in his hand;

His breast was bare, his matted hair
Was buried in the sand;

Again in the mist and shadow of sleep
He saw his native land.

Wide through the landscape of his dreams
The lordly Niger flow'd;
Beneath the palm-trees on the plain

Once more a king he strode,
And heard the tinkling caravans
Descend the mountain road.

He saw once more his dark-eyed queen
Among her children stand;

They clasp'd his neck, they kiss'd his cheeks,
They held him by the hand:

A tear burst from the sleeper's lids,

And fell into the sand.

And then at furious speed he rode

Along the Niger's bank;

His bridle-reins were golden chains,

And, with a martial clank,

At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel

Smiting his stallion's flank.

Before him, like a blood-red flag,

The bright flamingoes flew ;

From morn till night he follow'd their flight,

O'er plains where the tarmarind grew,

Till he saw the roof of Caffre huts

And the ocean rose to view.

At night he heard the lion roar,

And the hyena scream,

And the river-horse, as he crush'd the reeds
Beside some hidden stream;

And it pass'd, like a glorious roll of drums,
Through the triumph of his dream.

The forests, with their myriad tongues,
Shouted of liberty;

And the blast of the desert cried aloud,
With a voice so wild and free,
That he started in his sleep and smiled
At their tempestuous glee.

He did not feel the driver's whip,
Nor the burning heat of day:

For death had illumined the land of sleep,
And his lifeless body lay

A worn-out fetter, that the soul

Had broken and thrown away!

LONGFELLOW.

149. ON THE DEATH OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

UNHAPPY White!* while life was in its spring,

And thy young muse just waved her joyous wing,

The spoiler swept that soaring lyre away,

Which else had sounded an immortal lay.

* Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge, in 1806, in consequence of over study.

Oh! what a noble heart was here undone,
When Science' self destroy'd her favourite son!
Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit,
She sow'd the seeds, but death has reap'd the fruit!
'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow,
And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low!
So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain,
No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
View'd his own feather on the fatal dart,
And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart :
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel
He nursed the pinion which impell'd the steel;
While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.

BYRON.

150. MORNING HYMN OF ADAM AND EVE IN PARADISE.

THESE

[From PARADISE LOST.]

HESE are thy glorious works, Parent of good,
Almighty! Thine this universal frame,

Thus wond'rous fair: Thyself how wondrous then!
Unspeakable, who sitt'st above these heavens,
To us invisible, or dimly seen

In these thy lowest works; —yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.
Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light,
Angels; for ye behold Him, and with songs
And choral symphonies, day without night,