The Blue Poetry Book

SONG

Where shall the lover rest,Whom the fates severFrom his true maiden’s breast,Parted for ever?Where, through groves deep and high,Sounds the far billow,Where early violets die,Under the willow.CHORUS Eleu loro, &c. Soft shall be his pillowThere, through the summer day,Cool streams are laving;There, while the tempests sway,Scarce are boughs waving;There, thy rest shalt thou take,Parted for ever,Never again to wake,Never, O never!CHORUS Eleu loro, &c. Never, O never!Where shall the traitor rest,He, the deceiver,Who could win maiden’s breast,Ruin, and leave her?In the lost battle,Borne down by the flying,Where mingles war’s rattleWith groans of the dying.CHORUS Eleu loro, &c. There shall he be lyingHer wing shall the eagle flapO’er the false-hearted;His warm blood the wolf shall lap,Ere life be parted.Shame and dishonour sitBy his grave ever;Blessing shall hallow it, —Never, O never!CHORUS Eleu loro, &c. Never, O never!Sir W. Scott.

KINMONT WILLIE

O have ye na heard o’ the fause Sakelde?O have ye na heard o’ the keen Lord Scroope?How they hae ta’en bauld Kinmont Willie,On Hairibee to hang him up?Had Willie had but twenty men,But twenty men as stout as he,Fause Sakelde had never the Kinmont ta’en,Wi’ eight score in his cumpanie.They band his legs beneath the steed,They tied his hands behind his back;They guarded him, fivesome on each side,And they brought him ower the Liddel-rack.They led him thro’ the Liddel-rack,And also thro’ the Carlisle sands;They brought him on to Carlisle castell,To be at my Lord Scroope’s commands.‘My hands are tied, but my tongue is free,And whae will dare this deed avow?Or answer by the Border law?Or answer to the bauld Buccleuch?’‘Now haud thy tongue, thou rank reiver!There’s never a Scot shall set ye free:Before ye cross my castle yate,I trow ye shall take farewell o’ me.’‘Fear na ye that, my lord,’ quo’ Willie:‘By the faith o’ my body, Lord Scroope,’ he said,I never yet lodged in a hostelrie,But I paid my lawing before I gaed.’Now word is gane to the bauld Keeper,In Branksome Ha’ where that he lay,That Lord Scroope has ta’en the Kinmont Willie,Between the hours of night and day.He has ta’en the table wi’ his hand,He garr’d the red wine spring on hie —‘Now Christ’s curse on my head,’ he said,‘But avenged of Lord Scroope I’ll be!‘O is my basnet a widow’s curch?Or my lance a wand of the willow tree?Or my arm a lady’s lilye hand,That an English lord should lightly me!‘And have they ta’en him, Kinmont Willie,Against the truce of Border tide?And forgotten that the bauld BuccleuchIs Keeper here on the Scottish side?‘And have they e’en ta’en him, Kinmont Willie,Withouten either dread or fear?And forgotten that the bauld BuccleuchCan back a steed, or shake a spear?‘O were there war between the lands,As well I wot that there is none,I would slight Carlisle castell high,Tho’ it were builded of marble stone.‘I would set that castell in a low,And sloken it with English blood!There’s nevir a man in CumberlandShould ken where Carlisle castell stood.‘But since nae war’s between the lands,And there is peace, and peace should be;I’ll neither harm English lad or lass,And yet the Kinmont freed shall be!’He has call’d him forty marchmen bauld,I trow they were of his ain name,Except Sir Gilbert Elliot, call’dThe laird of Stobs, I mean the same.He has call’d him forty marchmen bauld,Were kinsmen to the bauld Buccleuch;With spur on heel, and splent on spauld,And gleuves of green, and feathers blue.There were five and five before them a’,Wi’ hunting-horns and bugles bright;And five and five came wi’ Buccleuch,Like warden’s men, arrayed for fight.And five and five, like a mason gang,That carried the ladders lang and hie;And five and five, like broken men;And so they reached the Woodhouselee.And as we cross’d the Bateable Land,When to the English side we held,The first o’ men that we met wi’,Whae sould it be but fause Sakelde?‘Where be ye gaun, ye hunters keen?’Quo’ fause Sakelde; ’come tell to me!’‘We go to hunt an English stag,Has trespass’d on the Scots countrie.‘Where be ye gaun, ye marshal men?’Quo’ fause Sakelde; ‘come tell me true!‘We go to catch a rank reiver,Has broken faith wi’ the bauld Buccleuch.’‘Where are ye gaun, ye mason lads,Wi’ a’ your ladders, lang and hie?’‘We gang to herry a corbie’s nest,That wons not far frae Woodhouselee.’‘Where be ye gaun ye broken men?’Quo’ fause Sakelde; ‘come tell to me!’Now Dickie of Dryhope led that band,And the never a word o’ lear had he.‘Why trespass ye on the English side?Row-footed outlaws, stand!’ quo’ he;The nevir a word had Dickie to say,Sae he thrust the lance through his fause bodie.Then on we held for Carlisle toun,And at Staneshaw-bank the Eden we cross’d;The water was great and meikle of spait,But the niver a horse nor man we lost.And when we reach’d the Staneshaw-bank,The wind was rising loud and hie;And there the laird garr’d leave our steeds,For fear that they should stamp and nie.And when we left the Staneshaw-bank,The wind began full loud to blaw;But ’twas wind and weet, and fire and sleet,When we came beneath the castle wa’.We crept on knees, and held our breath,Till we placed the ladders against the wa’;And sae ready was Buccleuch himsellTo mount the first, before us a’.He has ta’en the watchman by the throat,He flung him down upon the lead —‘Had there not been peace between our lands,Upon the other side thou hadst gaed!‘Now sound out, trumpets!’ quo’ Buccleuch;‘Let’s waken Lord Scroope right merrilie!’Then loud the warden’s trumpet blew —‘O wha dare meddle wi’ me?’Then speedilie to work we gaed,And raised the slogan ane and a’,And cut a hole thro’ a sheet of lead,And so we wan to the castle ha’.They thought King James and a’ his menHad won the house wi’ bow and spear;It was but twenty Scots and ten,That put a thousand in sic a stear!Wi’ coulters, and wi’ fore-hammers,We garr’d the bars bang merrilie,Until we cam to the inner prison,Where Willie o’ Kinmont he did lie.And when we cam to the lower prison,Where Willie o’ Kinmont he did lie —‘O sleep ye, wake ye, Kinmont Willie,Upon the morn that thou’s to die?’‘O I sleep saft, and I wake aft;It’s lang since sleeping was fley’d frae me;Gie my service back to my wife and bairns,And a’ gude fellows that spier for me.’Then Red Rowan has hente him up,The starkest man in Teviotdale —‘Abide, abide now, Red Rowan,Till of my Lord Scroope I take farewell.‘Farewell, farewell, my gude Lord Scroope!My gude Lord Scroope, farewell!’ he cried —‘I’ll pay you for my lodging maill,When first we meet on the Border side.’Then shoulder high, with shout and cry,We bore him down the ladder lang;At every stride Red Rowan made,I wot the Kinmont’s airns played clang!‘O mony a time,’ quo’ Kinmont Willie,‘I have ridden horse baith wild and wood;But a rougher beast than Red Rowan,I ween my legs have ne’er bestrode.‘And mony a time,’ quo’ Kinmont Willie,‘I’ve pricked a horse out oure the furs;But since the day I backed a steed,I never wore sic cumbrous spurs!’We scarce had won the Staneshaw-bank,When a’ the Carlisle bells were rung,And a thousand men, in horse and foot,Cam’ wi’ the keen Lord Scroope along.Buccleuch has turned to Eden water,Even where it flow’d frae bank to brim,And he has plunged in wi’ a’ his band,And safely swam them thro’ the stream.He turned him on the other side,And at Lord Scroope his glove flung he —‘If ye like na my visit in merry England,In fair Scotland come visit me!’All sore astonished stood Lord Scroope,He stood as still as rock of stane;He scarcely dared to trew his eyes,When thro’ the water they had gane.‘He is either himsell a devil frae hell,Or else his mother a witch maun be;I wadna have ridden that wan waterFor a’ the gowd in Christentie.’Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border.

THE LAST MAN

All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,The Sun himself must die,Before this mortal shall assumeIts Immortality!I saw a vision in my sleep,That gave my spirit strength to sweepAdown the gulph of Time!I saw the last of human mould,That shall Creation’s death behold,As Adam saw her prime!The Sun’s eye had a sickly glare,The Earth with age was wan,The skeletons of nations wereAround that lonely man!Some had expired in fight, – the brandsStill rested in their bony hands;In plague and famine some!Earth’s cities had no sound nor tread;And ships were drifting with the deadTo shores where all was dumb!Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stoodWith dauntless words and high,That shook the sere leaves from the woodAs if a storm passed by,Saying, ‘We are twins in death, proud Sun!Thy face is cold, thy race is run,’Tis Mercy bids thee go;For thou ten thousand thousand yearsHast seen the tide of human tears,That shall no longer flow.‘What though beneath thee man put forthHis pomp, his pride, his skill;And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,The vassals of his will; —Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,Thou dim discrownèd king of day:For all those trophied artsAnd triumphs that beneath thee sprangHeal’d not a passion or a pangEntail’d on human hearts.‘Go, let oblivion’s curtain fallUpon the stage of men,Nor with thy rising beams recallLife’s tragedy again:Its piteous pageants bring not back,Nor waken flesh, upon the rackOf pain anew to writhe;Stretch’d in disease’s shapes abhorr’d,Or mown in battle by the sword,Like grass beneath the scythe.‘E’en I am weary in yon skiesTo watch thy fading fire;Test of all sumless agonies,Behold not me expire.My lips that speak thy dirge of death —Their rounded gasp and gurgling breathTo see thou shalt not boast.The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall, —The majesty of Darkness shallReceive my parting ghost!‘This spirit shall return to HimThat gave its heavenly spark;Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dimWhen thou thyself art dark!No! it shall live again, and shineIn bliss unknown to beams of thine,By Him recalled to breath,Who captive led captivity,Who robb’d the grave of Victory, —And took the sting from Death!Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me upOn Nature’s awful wasteTo drink this last and bitter cupOf grief that man shall taste —Go, tell the night that hides thy face,Thou saw’st the last of Adam’s race,On Earth’s sepulchral clod,The darkening universe defyTo quench his Immortality,Or shake his trust in God!’T. Campbell.

IVRY

A SONG OF THE HUGUENOTSNow glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are!And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre!Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance,Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land ofFrance! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters,Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters.As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy,For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoyHurrah! Hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war,Hurrah! Hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre.Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day,We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array;With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers,And Appenzel’s stout infantry, and Egmont’s Flemish spears.There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land;And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand:And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine’s empurpled flood,And good Coligni’s hoary hair all dabbled with his blood;And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war,To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.The King is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest,And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye;He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing,Down all our line, a deafening shout, ‘God save our Lord the King!’‘And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may,For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray,Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war,And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre.’Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din,Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin.The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint André’s plain,With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France,Charge for the golden lilies, upon them with the lance.A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest;And in they burst, and on they rushed, while like a guiding star,Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.Now, God be praised, the day is ours. Mayenne hath turned his rein.D’Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish count is slain.Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale;The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail.And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van,‘Remember St. Bartholomew,’ was passed from man to man.But out spake gentle Henry, ‘No Frenchman is my foe:Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go.’Oh! was there ever such a knight in friendship or in war,As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre?Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day;And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey.But we of the religion have borne us best in fight;And the good Lord of Rosny has ta’en the cornet white.Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta’en,The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine.Up with it high; unfurl it wide; that all the host may knowHow God hath humbled the proud house which wrought His Church such woe.Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point of war,Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of Navarre.Ho! maidens of Vienna; Ho! matrons of Lucerne;Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return.Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles,That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen’s souls.Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright;Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night.For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave,And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the brave.Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are;And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre.Lord Macaulay.

SIR PATRICK SPENS

The king sits in Dunfermline toun,Drinking the blude-red wine:‘O whare will I get a skeely skipperTo sail this new ship of mine?’O up and spake an eldern knight,Sat at the king’s right knee —‘Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailorThat ever sailed the sea.’Our king has written a braid letter,And sealed it with his hand,And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,Was walking on the strand.‘To Noroway, to Noroway,To Noroway o’er the faem;The king’s daughter of Noroway,’Tis thou maun bring her hame.’The first word that Sir Patrick read,Sae loud loud laughed he;The neist word that Sir Patrick read,The tear blinded his e’e.‘O wha is this has done this deed,And tauld the king o’ me,To send us out, at this time of the year,To sail upon the sea?’‘Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,Our ship must sail the faem;The king’s daughter of Noroway,‘Tis we must fetch her hame.’They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn,Wi’ a’ the speed they may;And they hae landed in NorowayUpon a Wedensday.They hadna been a week, a weekIn Noroway but twae,When that the lords o’ NorowayBegan aloud to say:‘Ye Scottishmen spend a’ our king’s gowd,And a’ our queenis fee.’‘Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud!Fu’ loud I hear ye lie!‘For I hae brought as much white monieAs gane my men and me —And I hae brought a half-fou’ o’ gude red gowdOnt o’er the sea wi’ me.‘Make ready, make ready, my merry men a’!Our gude ship sails the morn.’‘Now ever alake, my master dear,I fear a deadly storm!‘I saw the new moon, late yestreen,Wi the auld moon in her arm;And if we gang to sea, master,I fear we’ll come to harm.’They hadna sail’d a league, a league,A league but barely three,When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,And gurly grew the sea.The ankers brak, and the top-masts lap,It was sic a deadly storm;And the waves cam’ o’er the broken shipTill a’ her sides were torn.‘O where will I get a gude sailor,To take my helm in hand,Till I get up to the tall top-mast;To see if I can spy land?’‘O here am I, a sailor gude,To take the helm in hand,Till ye get up to the tall top-mast:But I fear you’ll ne’er spy land.’He hadna gane a step, a step,A step but barely ane,When a bout flew out of our goodly ship,And the salt sea it came in.‘Gae, fetch a web o’ the silken claith,Another o’ the twine,And wap them into our ship’s side,And letna the sea come in.’They fetch’d a web o’ the silken claith,Another o’ the twine,And they wapped them round that gude ship’s side,But still the sea came in.O laith laith were our gude Scots lordsTo wet their cork-heeled shoon!But lang ere a’ the play was play’dThey wat their hats aboon.And mony was the feather-bedThat floated on the faem,And mony was the gude lord’s sonThat never mair came hame.The ladyes wrang their fingers white —The maidens tore their hair;A’ for the sake of their true loves —For them they’ll see na mair.O lang lang may the ladyes sit,Wi’ their fans into their hand,Before they see Sir Patrick SpensCome sailing to the strand!And lang lang may the maidens sit,Wi’ the goud kaims in their hair,A’ waiting for their ain dear loves —For them they’ll see na mair.O forty miles off Aberdour,’Tis fifty fathoms deep,And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,Wi’ the Scots lords at his feet.

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCY

Ah! what can ail thee, wretched wight,Alone and palely loitering?The sedge is withered from the lake,And no birds sing.Ah! what can ail thee, wretched wight,So haggard and so woe-begone?The squirrel’s granary is full,And the harvest’s done.I see a lily on thy brow,With anguish moist and fever-dew;And on thy cheek a fading roseFast withereth too.I met a lady in the meads,Full beautiful – a fairy’s child;Her hair was long, her foot was light,And her eyes were wild.I set her on my pacing steed,And nothing else saw all day long;For sideways would she lean and singA fairy’s song.I made a garland for her head,And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;She looked at me as she did love,And made sweet moan.She found me roots of relish sweet,And honey wild, and manna-dew;And sure in language strange she said,I love thee true.She took me to her elfin grot,And there she gazed and sighèd deep,And there I shut her wild sad eyes —So kissed to sleep.And there we slumbered on the moss,And there I dreamed, ah! woe betide,The latest dream I ever dreamed,On the cold hill-side.I saw pale kings and princes too,Pale warriors – death-pale were they all;Who cried, ‘La Belle Dame Sans MercyHath thee in thrall!’I saw their starved lips in the gloom,With horrid warning gapèd wide;And I awoke, and found me hereOn the cold hill-side.And this is why I sojourn here,Alone and palely loitering:Though the sedge is withered from the lake,And no birds sing.J. Keats.

THE CHILD AND THE SNAKE

Henry was every morning fedWith a full mess of milk and bread.One day the boy his breakfast took,And ate it by a purling brook.Which through his mother’s orchard ran.From that time ever when he canEscape his mother’s eye, he thereTakes his food in th’ open air.Finding the child delight to eatAbroad, and make the grass his seat,His mother lets him have his way.With free leave Henry every dayThither repairs, until she heardHim talking of a fine grey bird.This pretty bird, he said, indeed,Came every day with him to feed,And it loved him and loved his milk,And it was smooth and soft like silk.His mother thought she’d go and seeWhat sort of bird this same might be.So the next morn she follows Harry,And carefully she sees him carryThrough the long grass his heap’d-up mess.What was her terror and distress,When she saw the infant takeHis bread and milk close to a snake!Upon the grass he spreads his feast,And sits down by his frightful guest,Who had waited for the treat;And now they both began to eat.Fond mother! shriek not, O bewareThe least small noise, O have a care —The least small noise that may be made,The wily snake will be afraid —If he hear the lightest sound,He will inflict th’ envenom’d wound.– She speaks not, moves not, scarce does breathe,As she stands the trees beneath;No sound she utters; and she soonSees the child lift up his spoon,And tap the snake upon the head,Fearless of harm; and then he said,As speaking to familiar mate,‘Keep on your own side, do, Grey Pate:’The snake then to the other side,As one rebukèd, seems to glide;And now again advancing nigh,Again she hears the infant cry,Tapping the snake, ‘Keep further, do;‘Mind, Grey Pate, what I say to you.’The danger’s o’er – she sees the boy(O what a change from fear to joy!)Rise and bid the snake ‘Good-bye;’Says he, ‘Our breakfast’s done, and I‘Will come again to-morrow day;’– Then, lightly tripping, ran away.M. Lamb.

TOM BOWLING

Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,The darling of our crew,No more he’ll hear the tempest howling,For death has broach’d him to.His form was of the manliest beauty,His heart was kind and soft,Faithful below he did his duty;But now he’s gone aloft.Tom never from his word departed,His virtues were so rare,His friends were many and true-hearted,His Poll was kind and fair:And then he’d sing so blithe and jolly,Ah, many’s the time and oft!But mirth is turn’d to melancholy,For Tom is gone aloft.Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather,When He who all commands,Shall give, to call life’s crew together,The word to pipe all hands.Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches,In vain Tom’s life has doff’d;For though his body’s under hatches,His soul has gone aloft.C. Dibdin.

THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES

That way look, my Infant, lo!What a pretty baby-show!See the Kitten on the wall,Sporting with the leaves that fall,Withered leaves – one – two – and three —From the lofty elder-tree!Through the calm and frosty airOf this morning bright and fair,Eddying round and round they sinkSoftly, slowly: one might think,From the motions that are made,Every little leaf conveyedSylph or Faery hither tending, —To this lower world descending,Each invisible and mute,In his wavering parachute.– But the Kitten, how she starts,Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts!First at one, and then its fellow,Just as light and just as yellow;There are many now – now one —Now they stop, and there are none:What intenseness of desireIn her upward eye of fire!With a tiger-leap half wayNow she meets the coming prey,Lets it go as fast, and thenHas it in her power again:Now she works with three or four,Like an Indian conjuror;Quick as he in feats of art,Far beyond in joy of heart.Were her antics played in th’ eyeOf a thousand standers-by,Clapping hands with shout and stare,What would little Tabby careFor the plaudits of the crowd?Over happy to be proud,Over wealthy in the treasureOf her own exceeding pleasure!‘Tis a pretty baby-treat;Nor, I deem, for me unmeet;Here, for neither Babe nor me,Other play-mate can I see.Of the countless living things,That with stir of feet and wings(In the sun or under shade,Upon bough or grassy blade)And with busy revellings,Chirp and song, and murmurings,Made this orchard’s narrow spaceAnd this vale so blithe a place,Multitudes are swept awayNever more to breathe the day:Some are sleeping; some in bandsTravelled into distant lands;Others slunk to moor and wood,Far from human neighbourhood;And, among the Kinds that keepWith us closer fellowship,With us openly abide,All have laid their mirth aside.Where is he that giddy Sprite,Blue-cap, with his colours bright,Who was blest as bird could be,Feeding in the apple-tree;Made such wanton spoil and rout,Turning blossoms inside out;Hung – head pointing towards the ground —Fluttered, perched, into a roundBound himself, and then unbound;Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin!Prettiest Tumbler ever seen!Light of heart and light of limb;What is now become of Him?Lambs, that through the mountains wentFrisking, bleating merriment,When the year was in its prime,They are sobered by this time.If you look to vale or hill,If you listen, all is still,Save a little neighbouring rill,That from out the rocky groundStrikes a solitary sound.Vainly glitter hill and plain,And the air is calm in vain;Vainly Morning spreads the lureOf a sky serene and pure;Creature none can she decoyInto open sign of joy:Is it that they have a fearOf the dreary season near?Or that other pleasures beSweeter even than gaiety?Yet, whate’er enjoyments dwellIn the impenetrable cellOf the silent heart which NatureFurnishes to every creature;Whatso’er we feel and knowToo sedate for outward show,Such a light of gladness breaks,Pretty Kitten! from thy freaks,Spreads with such a living graceO’er my little Dora’s face;Yes, the sight so stirs and charmsThee, Baby, laughing in my arms,That almost I could repineThat your transports are not mine,That I do not wholly fareEven as ye do, thoughtless pair!And I will have my careless season,Spite of melancholy reason,Will walk through life in such a wayThat, when time brings on decay,Now and then I may possessHours of perfect gladsomeness.– Pleased by any random toy;By a kitten’s busy joy,Or an infant’s laughing eyeSharing in the ecstasy;I would fare like that or this,Find my wisdom in my bliss;Keep the sprightly soul awake;And have faculties to take,Even from things by sorrow wroughtMatter for a jocund thought;Spite of care, and spite of grief,To gambol with Life’s falling Leaf.W. Wordsworth.