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, From the rain-drops shall borrow, To Duncan no morrow! The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary, Waft the leaves that are searest, Fleet foot on the correi†, Sage counsel in cumber, How sound is thy slumber! * 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 Again in the mist and shadow of sleep Wide through the landscape of his dreams Once more a king he strode, He saw once more his dark-eyed queen They clasp'd his neck, they kiss'd his cheeks, 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 And it pass'd, like a glorious roll of drums, The forests, with their myriad tongues, And the blast of the desert cried aloud, He did not feel the driver's whip, For death had illumined the land of sleep, 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, BYRON. 150. MORNING HYMN OF ADAM AND EVE IN PARADISE. THESE [From PARADISE LOST.] HESE are thy glorious works, Parent of good, Thus wond'rous fair: Thyself how wondrous then! In these thy lowest works; —yet these declare |