JONATHAN SWIFT. 1667-1745.

o Stella,

VISITING ME IN MY SICKNESS.

ALLAS, observing Stella's wit
Was more than for her sex was
fit,

By honour seated in her breast
She still determines what is best :
What indignation in her mind

And that her beauty, soon or Against enslavers of mankind!
late,

Might breed confusion in the state,
In high concern for human kind,
Fixed honour in her infant mind.

But, not in wranglings to engage
With such a stupid vicious age,
If honour I would here define,
It answers faith in things divine.
As natural life the body warms,
And (scholars teach) the soul informs,
So honour animates the whole,
And is the spirit of the soul.

Those numerous virtues which the
tribe

Of tedious moralists describe,
And by such various titles call,
True honour comprehends them all.
Let melancholy rule supreme,
Choler preside, or blood, or phlegm,
It makes no difference in the case,
Nor is complexion honour's place.

Base kings and ministers of state
Eternal objects of her hate!

She thinks that Nature ne'er designed
Courage to man alone confined.
Can cowardice her sex adorn,
Which most exposes ours to scorn?
She wonders where the charm appears
In Florimel's affected fears;
For Stella never learned the art
At proper times to scream and start;
Nor calls up all the house at night,
And swears she saw a thing in white.
Doll never flies to cut her lace,
Or throw cold water in her face,
Because she heard a sudden drum,
Or found an earwig in a plum.

Her hearers are amazed from whence
Proceeds that fund of wit and sense,
Which, though her modesty would
shroud,

Breaks like the sun behind a cloud;
While gracefulness its art conceals,
And yet through every motion steals.

Say, Stella, was Prometheus blind,
And, forming you, mistook your kind?
No: 't was for you alone he stole
The fire that forms a manly soul;
Then, to complete it every way,
He moulded it with female clay :
To that you owe the nobler flame,
To this the beauty of your frame.

TO STELLA.

AREWELL to Lochaber, farewell to my Jean, Where heartsome wi' her I ha'e mony a day been; To Lochaber no more, to Lochaber no more,

We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more!

These tears that I shed, they're a' for my dear,

And no for the dangers attending on weir;

Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore, Maybe to return to Lochaber no more!

LOCHABER.

Though hurricanes rise, though rise every wind,
No tempest can equal the storm in my mind;
Though loudest of thunders on louder waves roar,
That's naething like leavin' my love on the shore.
To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained;
But by ease that's inglorious no fame can be gained;
And beauty and love's the reward of the brave,
And I maun deserve it before I can crave.

Then glory, my Jeanie, maun plead my excuse;
Since honour commands me, how can I refuse?
Without it, I ne'er can have merit for thee;
And losing thy favour, I'd better not be.
I gae then, my lass, to win honour and fame;
And if I should chance to come glorious hame,
I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er,
And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more.

Д

Tarbest.

DOON as the morning, trembles o'er the sky,
And, unperceived, unfolds the spreading day,
Before the ripened field the reapers stand,
In fair array; each by the lass he loves,
To bear the rougher part, and mitigate