Arm❜d on the poop, myself a host,
I seem'd in glory's orb to move—
Ah, Harold! check the empty boast,
A Russian maiden scorns thy love.
To fight the foe in early youth,
I march'd to Drontheim's field;
Numbers were theirs, but valour ours,
Which forced that foe to yield.
This right hand made their king a ghost:
His youthful blood now stains the grove—
Ah, Harold! check the empty boast,
A Russian maiden scorns thy love.
Rough was the sea, and rude the wind,
And scanty were my crew;
Billows on billows o'er our deck
With frothy fury flew:
Deep in our hold the waves were toss'd,
Back to their bed each wave we drove
Ah, Harold! check the empty boast,
A Russian maiden scorns thy love.
What feat of hardihood so bold
But Harold wots it well?
I curb the steed, I stem the flood,
I fight with falchion fell;
287 of the Northern Antiquities, taken from the above work, gives it in English prose under the title of an Ode of Harold the Valiant. He was a Norwegian prince in the middle of the eleventh century. See also five pieces of Runic poetry published by Dr. Percy. It was versified with a view of being inserted in an Introduction to a projected edition of a History of English Poetry (see Memoirs of Gray, last Edit. Vol. IV. p. 143); and was meant to be a specimen of the first Ballad (properly so called) now extant of northern origin.
The oar I ply from coast to coast,
On ice with flying skates I rove— Ah, Harold! check the empty boast, A Russian maiden scorns thy love.
Can she deny, the blooming maid,
For she has heard the tale,
When to the South my troops I led,
The fortress to assail?
How, while my prowess thinn'd the host,
Fame bade the world each deed approve―
Ah, Harold! check the empty boast,
A Russian maiden scorns thy love.
On Norway's cloud-capp'd mountains bred,
Whose sons are bowmen brave,
I dared a deed that peasants dread,
To plough old Ocean's wave;
By tempest driven, by dangers cross'd,
Through wild, unpeopled climes to rove-
Ah, Harold! check the empty boast,
A Russian maiden scorns thy love.
WHEN first I dared by soft surprise
To breathe my love in Flavia's ear,
I saw the mix'd sensations rise
Of trembling joy and pleasing fear;
Her cheek forgot its rosy hue,
For what has Art with Love to do?
But soon the crimson glow return'd
Ere half my passion was express'd,
The eye that closed, the cheek that burn'd,
The quivering lip, the panting breast
Show'd that she wish'd or thought me true,
For what has Art with Love to do?
Ah! speak, I cried, thy soft assent:
She strove to speak, she could but sigh;
A glance, more heavenly eloquent,
Left language nothing to supply.
She press'd my hand with fervour new;
For what has Art with Love to do?
Ye practised nymphs, who form your charms
By Fashion's rules, enjoy your skill;
Torment your swains with false alarms,
And, ere you cure, pretend to kill:
Still, still your sex's wiles pursue,
Such tricks she leaves to Art and you.
Secure of native powers to please,
My Flavia scorns all mean pretence;
Her form is elegance and ease,
Her soul is truth and innocence;
And these, O heartfelt ecstasy!
She gives to Honour, Love, and me.
A garden is the purest of human pleasures; it is the greatest refreshment to the spirits of man, without which buildings and palaces are but gross handiworks. And a man shall ever see, that when ages grow to civility and elegancy, men come to build stately, sooner than to garden finely, as if gardening were the greater perfection.
To thee, divine Simplicity ! to thee,
Best arbitress of what is good and fair,
This verse belongs. O, as it freely flows,
Give it thy powers of pleasing: else in vain
It strives to teach the rules, from Nature drawn,
Of import high to those whose taste would add
To Nature's careless graces; loveliest then,
When, o'er her form, thy easy skill has taught
The robe of Spring in ampler folds to flow.
Haste,Goddess ! to the woods, the lawns, the vales
That lie in rude luxuriance, and but wait
Thy call to bloom with beauty. I meanwhile,
Attendant on thy state serene, will mark
Its fairy progress; wake the' accordant string;
And tell how far, beyond the transient glare
Of fickle fashion, or of formal art,
Thy flowery works with charm perennial please.
Ye too, ye sister powers! that at my birth
Auspicious smiled; and o'er my cradle dropp'd
Those magic seeds of fancy, which produce
A poet's feeling, and a painter's eye,
Come to your votary's aid. For well ye know
How soon my infant accents lisp'd the rhyme,
How soon my hands the mimic colours spread,
And vainly strove to snatch a double wreath
From Fame's unfading laurel: fruitless aim;
Yet not inglorious; nor perchance devoid
Of friendly use to this fair argument;
If so, with lenient smiles, ye deign to cheer,
At this sad hour', my desolated soul.
For deem not ye that I resume the strain
To court the world's applause: my years mature
Have learn'd to slight the toy. No, 'tis to sooth
The agony of heart, which they alone
Who best have loved, who best have been beloved,
Can feel or pity; sympathy severe !
Which she too felt, when on her pallid lip
The last farewell hung trembling, and bespoke
A wish to linger here, and bless the arms
She left for heaven. She died, and heaven is hers!
Be mine the pensive solitary balm
That recollection yields. Yes, angel pure!
While Memory holds a seat, thy image still
Shall reign, shall triumph there; and when, as now,
Imagination forms a nymph divine
To lead the fluent strain, thy modest blush,
Thy mild demeanour, thy unpractised smile
Shall grace that nymph, and sweet simplicity
Be dress'd (ah meek Maria!) in thy charms.
Begin the song! and ye of Albion's sons
At this sad hour, my desolated soul.] This Poem was begun in the year 1767, not long after the death of the amiable person here mentioned. See Epitaph, page 104.
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