Thus all through merry Islington, These gambols he did play, And till he came unto the Wash Of Edmonton so gay. And there he threw the Wash about At Edmonton, his loving wife From balcony espied Her tender husband, wondering much To see how he did ride. Stop, stop, John Gilpin! - Here's the house They all at once did cry; The dinner waits, and we are tired: I came because your horse would come; My hat and wig will soon be here; The calender, right glad to find Returned him not a single word, But to the house went in. Whence straight he came with hat and wig; A wig that flowed behind, A hat not much the worse for wear, He held them up, and in his turn Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw Her husband posting down Into the country far away, She pulled out half-a-crown; And thus unto the youth she said, This shall be yours when you bring back The youth did ride, and soon did meet Whom in a trice he tried to stop, But not performing what he meant, Away went Gilpin, and away Went postboy at his heels, The postboy's horse right glad to miss Six gentlemen upon the road, With postboy scamp'ring in the rear, Stop thief! stop thief! - And all and each that passed that way And now the turnpike gates again Flew open in short space; The toll-men thinking, as before, And so he did, and won it too, For he got first to town; Nor stopped till where he first got up He did again get down. Now let us sing― Long live the king, And Gilpin, long live he; And, when he next doth ride abroad, 241. WILLIAM FALCONER. 1730-1769. (Manual, p. 359.) FROM "THE SHIPWRECK." In vain the cords and axes were prepared, Her shattered top half-buried in the skies, Then headlong, plunging, thunders on the ground, ERASMUS DARWIN. 1731-1802. (Manual, p. 360.) FROM "THE BOTANIC GARDEN." 242. STEEL. Hail, adamantine STEEL! magnetic Lord! His steady helm amid the struggling tides; Braves with broad sail th' immeasurable sea, JAMES MACPHERSON. 1738-1796. (Manual, p. 361.) 243. THE Songs of Selma. Star of descending night! fair is thy light in the west! thou liftest thy unshorn head from thy cloud; thy steps are stately on thy hill. What dost thou behold in the plain? The stormy winds are laid. The murmur of the torrent comes from afar. Roaring waves climb the distant rock. The flies of evening are on their feeble wings; the hum of their course is on the field. What dost thou behold, fair light? But thou dost smile and depart. The waves come with joy around thee: they bathe thy lovely hair. Farewell, thou silent beam! let the light of Ossian's soul arise! And it does arise in its strength! I behold my departed friends. Their gathering is on Lora, as in the days of other years. Fingal comes like a watery column of mist; his heroes are around. And see the bards of song, gray-haired Ullin! stately Ryno! Alpin with the tuneful voice! the soft complaint of Minona! How are ye changed, my friends, since the days of Selma's feast, when we contended, like gales of spring, as they fly along the hill, and bend by turns the feebly whistling grass! Minona came forth in her beauty, with downcast look and tearful eye. Her hair flew slowly on the blast, that rushed unfrequent from the hill. The souls of the heroes were sad when she raised the tuneful voice. Often had they seen the grave of Salgar, the dark dwelling of white-bosomed Colma. Colma left alone on the hill, with all her voice of song! Salgar promised to come; but the night descended around. Hear the voice of Colma, when she sat alone on the hill! Colma. — It is night; I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms. The wind is heard in the mountain. The torrent pours down the rock. No hut receives me from the rain; forlorn on the hill of winds! Rise, moon, from behind thy clouds! Stars of the night, arise! Lead me, some light, to the place, where my love rests from the chase alone! his bow near him, unstrung! his dogs panting around him. But here I must sit alone by the rock of the mossy stream. The stream and the wind roar aloud. I hear not the voice of my love. Why delays my Salgar, why the chief of the hill, his promise? Here is the rock, and here the tree! here is the roaring stream! Thou didst promise with night to be here. Ah, whither is my Salgar gone? With thee I would fly from my father; with thee from my brother of pride. Our race have long been foes; we are no foes, O Salgar! Cease a little while, O wind! stream, be thou silent a while! let my voice be heard around. Let my wanderer hear me! Salgar, it is Colma who calls. Here is the tree, and the rock. Salgar, my |