Where shall I lead the flocks to-day?
Is there no Horeb for me beyond this desert?
Is there no rod with which I can divide this sea of blood to escape mine enemies?
Must I pine in bondage and drag these heavy chains through the rocky path of my unrecompensed toil?
Must I, with these pale, feeble hands, still lift the wreathed bowl for others to drink, while my lips are parched and my soul unslaked?

Thus feverish fancies floated in my brain.
Longing, yet forced my purpose to restrain,
Upon the brink of infamy I staid,
Now half resolved to plunge, now half afraid.
But fate, that turns the eddy of our lives,
And, at its will, like straws our fortune drives,
Saved me, ere yet the desperate chance was run;
For death deprived me of my Eddleston.
I pass the useless hours in college spent—
The morning's lounge, the evening's merriment,
The tutor's lecture flippantly disdained,
The bottle emptied and the punchbowl drained,

Among the yeomen's sons on my estate
A gentle boy would at my mansion wait:
And now that time has almost blanched my hair,
And with the past the present I compare,
Full well I know, though decency forbad
The same caresses to a rustic lad;
Love, love it was, that made my eyes delight
To have his person ever in my sight.
Yes, Rushton, though to unobserving eyes,
My favours but as lordly gifts were prized;
Yet something then would inwardly presage
The predilections of my riper age.
Why did I give the gauds to deck thy form?

HOW sweetly G ANGA smiles, and glides
Luxuriant o'er her broad autumnal bed!
Her waves perpetual verdure spread,
Whilst heath and plenty deck her golden sides:
As when an eagle, child of light,
On Cambala's unmeasur'd height,
By Patala, the pontiff's throne rever'd,
O'er her eyry proudly rear'd
Sits brooding, and her plumage vast expands,
Thus G ANGA o'er her cherish'd lands,
To Brahma's grateful race endear'd,
Throws wide her fostering arms, and on her banks divine
Sees temples, groves, and glittering towers, that in her crystal shine.

O' ER a low couch the setting sun had thrown its latest ray,
Where in his last strong agony a dying warrior lay,
The stern old Baron Rudiger, whose frame had ne'er been bent
By wasting pain, till time and toil its iron strength had spent.

“They come around me here, and say my days of life are o'er,
That I shall mount my noble steed and lead my band no more;
They come, and to my beard they dare to tell me now, that I,
Their own liege lord and master born,—that I, ha! ha! must die.

“And what is death? I 've dared him oft before the Paynim spear,—

Morning is my time.
I must have the early sun shine through this song.

I love the sky cloudless, a radiance of quivering blue,
The sun not too high up:
The month May or October:
A blithe hardiness in the wind, and the budding or harvest of flowers:
The earliest or latest birds:
The city streets golden with a spring morning and gay with toilers,
Or brilliant with autumn and the more zestful air …

Happy is the man who wakes up fresh from sound sleep,
A song in his heart, vigorously rising and bathing himself,
Ardent with thirst for vivid life,

Adore November's sacred seventeenth day,
Wherein our second sun began her shine:
Ring out, loud sounding bells; on organs play;
To music's mirth let all estates incline:
Sound drums and trumpets, rending air and ground;
Stringed instruments, strike with melodious sound.

Ye mighty men of Mars, ennobled knights,
Advance yourselves on fiery foaming steeds:
Revive this time's remembrance, with all rights,
In armour bright and gorgeous warlike weeds:
At tilt and tourney, trying martial might,
And battering strokes, at barriers forceful fight.

How pious Worth exalted Rank endears;
What lovely Grandeur Virtue lends to Years!
What Dignity humane, what awful Grace,
Dwell in that Mien, and open in that Face!
A Mind thus bless'd shall eye the last slow Sand,
When tardy Time uplifts his lenient Hand:
With dauntless Joy the untry'd State explore,
Quit Nature's Limits, and with Seraphs soar.
Why else would Piety her Palm display?
Why else invite us to the Realms of Day?
Sure Heav'n had made the Christian Task too hard,
If Goodness here could claim no just Reward:

I might strive as well to melt to softness the soulless breast
Of some fair and saintly image, carven out of stone,
With my smile, as to stir you heart from its icy rest,
Or win a tender glance from your royal eyes, Ione;
But your sad smile lures me on, as toward some fatal rock
Is the fond wave drawn, but to break with passionate moan.
Break! to be spurned from its cold feet with a stony shock,
As you would spurn my suppliant heart from your feet, Ione.

Ione, there is a grave in the churchyard under the hill,

I HEARD the solemn bells that flung
The mournful tidings to the air—
The tale of horror and despair,
From many a belfry's iron tongue.
I saw the flag he loved so well,
Sad with the crapes of woe,
Droop heavily and low,
From dome and mast and citadel,—
The quivering lip, and half-suspended breath
Of him who listened to the tale of death,
As friend to friend rehearsed
That crime without a name, abhorred! accurst!
And those last hours when slowly ebbed away—
As mute and motionless he lay,
The life of him who since the world began,