THE SOLITUDE OF ALEXANDER SELKIRK

I AM monarch of all I survey,

My right there is none to dispute,
From the centre all round to the sea,
I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
O Solitude! where are the charms

That sages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms,
Than reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity's reach,

I must finish my journey alone,
Never hear the sweet music of speech,-
I start at the sound of my own.
The beasts that roam over the plain
My form with indifference see;
They are so unacquainted with man,
Their tameness is shocking to me.

Society, Friendship, and Love,
Divinely bestow'd upon man,
Oh, had I the wings of a dove
How soon would I taste you again!
My sorrows I then might assuage

In the ways of religion and truth,
Might learn from the wisdom of age,

And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.

Ye winds that have made me your sport,
Convey to this desolate shore

Some cordial endearing report

Of a land I shall visit no more!
My friends, do they now and then send

A wish or a thought after me?

Oh, tell me I yet have a friend,

Though a friend I am never to see.

How fleet is a glance of the mind!

Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind,

And the swift-wingèd arrows of light.

When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there; But alas! recollection at hand

Soon hurries me back to despair.

-But the seafowl is gone to her nest,

The beast is laid down in his lair,
Even here is a season of rest,

And I to my cabin repair.
There's mercy in every place,
And mercy, encouraging thought!
Gives even affliction a grace,

And reconciles man to his lot.

W. COWPER.

THE EVE OF ST. JOHN

THE Baron of Smaylho'me rose with day,
He spurr'd his courser on,

Without stop or stay, down the rocky way,
That leads to Brotherstone.

He went not with the bold Buccleuch,

His banner broad to rear;

He went not 'gainst the English yew,

To lift the Scottish spear.

Yet his plate-jack1 was braced, and his helmet was laced,
And his vaunt-brace of proof he wore;

At his saddle-gerthe was a good steel sperthe,
Full ten pound weight and more.

The Baron return'd in three days' space,

And his looks were sad and sour;

And weary was his courser's pace,
As he reach'd his rocky tower.

He came not from where Ancram Moor

Ran red with English blood;

Where the Douglas true, and the bold Buccleuch,

'Gainst keen Lord Evers stood.

'The plate-jack is coat armour; the vaunt-brace, or wam-brace, armour for the body; the sperthe, a battle-axe.

Yet was his helmet hack'd and hew'd,

His acton pierced and tore,

His axe and his dagger with blood imbrued,But it was not English gore.

He lighted at the Chapellage,

He held him close and still;

And he whistled thrice for his little foot-page, His name was English Will.

'Come thou hither, my little foot-page;
Come hither to my knee;

Though thou art young, and tender of age,
I think thou art true to me.

'Come, tell me all that thou hast seen, And look thou tell me true!

Since I from Smaylho'me tower have been, What did thy lady do?'

My lady, each night, sought the lonely light, That burns on the wild Watchfold;

For, from height to height, the beacons bright Of the English foemen told.

'The bittern clamour'd from the moss,
The wind blew loud and shrill;
Yet the craggy pathway she did cross
To the eiry Beacon Hill.

'I watched her steps, and silent came
Where she sat her on a stone;

No watchman stood by the dreary flame;
It burned all alone.

'The second night I kept her in sight,

Till to the fire she came,

And, by Mary's might! an Armed Knight
Stood by the lonely flame.

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And many a word that warlike lord

Did speak to my lady there;

But the rain fell fast, and loud blew the blast
And I heard not what they were.

The third night there the sky was fair,
And the mountain-blast was still,

As again I watch'd the secret pair,

On the lonesome Beacon Hill.

'And I heard her name the midnight hour, And name this holy eve;

And say,

"Come this night to thy lady's bower; Ask no bold Baron's leave.

"He lifts his spear with the bold Buccleuch;
His lady is all alone;

The door she'll undo, to her knight so true,
On the eve of good St. John."

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I cannot come; I must not come;

I dare not come to thee;

On the eve of St. John I must wander alone:

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In thy bower I may not be."

Now, out on thee, faint-hearted knight !
Thou should'st not say me nay;

For the eve is sweet, and when lovers meet,

Is worth the whole summer's day.

"And I'll chain the blood-hound, and the warder shall

not sound,

And rushes shall be strew'd on the stair;

So, by the black rood-stone, and by holy St. John,

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I conjure thee, my love, to be there!"

Though the blood-hound be mute, and the rush beneath my foot,

And the warder his bugle should not blow,

Yet there sleepeth a priest in the chamber to the east,

And my footstep he would know."