To Althea. From Prison.

HEN Love with unconfinèd wings Hovers within thy gates; And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates : When I lie tangled in her hair, And fettered to her eye; The birds that wanton in the air Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames,

Our careless heads with roses bound,
Our hearts with loyal flames;

When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
When healths and draughts go free,
Fishes that tipple in the deep
Know no such liberty.

When (like committed linnets) I
With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty,
And glories of my king;

When I shall voice aloud, how good
He is, how great should be;
Enlarged winds, that curl the flood,

Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage;

Minds innocent and quiet take

That for an hermitage;

164

FUNERAL DIRGE.

If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free
Angels alone, that soar above,
Enjoy such liberty.

RICHARD LOVELACE.

و

D

Funeral Dirge.

EAR as thou wert, and justly dear,
We will not weep for thee;

One thought shall check the starting tear,
It is that thou art free.

And thus shall Faith's consoling power

The tears of love restrain;

Oh! who that saw thy parting hour,
Could wish thee here again?

Triumphant in thy closing eye
The hope of glory shone,
Joy breathed in thine expiring sigh,
To think the fight was won.

Gently the passing spirit fled,
Sustained by grace Divine:
Oh! may such grace on me be shed,

And make my end like thine!

REV. T. DALE. [From "The Widow of Nain."]

166

THE MARINER'S WIFE.

For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a',

There's nae luck about the house,
When our gudeman's awa.

Is this a time to think o' wark,
When Colin's at the door?
Rax down my cloak-I'll to the quay,
And see him come ashore.

Rise up and mak a clean fireside,
Put on the mickle pot;

Gie little Kate her cotton goun,
And Jock his Sunday's coat.

And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their stockins white as snaw;

It's a' to pleasure our gudeman-
He likes to see them braw.

There are twa hens into the crib,
Hae fed this month and mair,

Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare.

My Turkey slippers I'll put on,
My stockins pearly blue--
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,
For he's baith leal and true.

THE MARINER'S WIFE.

Sae sweet his voice, sae smooth his tongue;

His breath 's like caller air;

His very fit has music in't,

As he comes up the stair.

And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought:
In troth, I'm like to greet.

167

[WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE is chiefly known by his elegant and scholarly translation of the "Lusiade" of Camoens. He also wrote several ballads of more than average merit. The foregoing may be taken as a favourable specimen.]