When, sudden, comes blind unrelenting fate, Then taking his black staff, he called his man, And gives the untasted portion you have And roused himself as much as rouse him The lad leaped lightly at his master's call. He was, to weet, a little roguish page, Save sleep and play who minded nought at all, Like most the untaught striplings of his age. This boy he kept each band to disengage, Garters and buckles, task for him unfit, But ill-becoming his grave personage, And which his portly paunch would not permit, The deep vibrations of his 'witching song; So this same limber page to all performed That, by a kind of magic power, con strained Toenter in, pell-mell, the listeningthrong, Heaps poured on heaps, and yet they slipped along, In silent ease; as when beneath the beam Of summer-moons the distant woods among, Or by some flood all silvered with the gleam, The soft-embodied fays through airy portal stream. [THE PORTER OF INDOLENCE.] XXI. Waked by the crowd, slow from his bench arose A comely full-spread porter, swollen with sleep; His calm, broad, thoughtless aspect breathed repose ; And in sweet torpor he was plungèd deep, Ne could himself from ceaseless yawn ing keep; While o'er his eyes the drowsy liquor ran, Through which his half-waked soul would faintly peep, it. XXIII. Meantime the master-porter wide dis played Great store of caps, of slippers, and of gowns; Wherewith he those that entered in, arrayed Loose, as the breeze that plays along the downs, And waves the summer-woods when evening frowns. Oh! fair undress, best dress, it checks no vein, But every flowing limb in pleasure drowns, And heightens ease with grace. This done, right fain Sir porter sat him down, and turned to sleep again. RULE BRITANNIA. When Britain first at Heaven's command, And guardian angels sung the strain : Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves! Britons never shall be slaves. THE poem on which alone rest Blair's claims to rank as a poet, from its title The Grave, could hardly be expected to yield other than a melancholy pleasure; and yet, like Gray's famous Elegy almost on the same subject, but published six years later, it has been largely popular; though not nearly to the same extent, nor with the same permanence. Though somewhat sermonizing in its tone, it contains many noble passages, and is perhaps the nearest approach to the style of Thomson's blank verse that we possess: a resemblance no doubt owing to its being written immediately after the Seasons. The style, however, is all that it owes to Thomson. Blair was born in Edinburgh in 1699, and was the son of the Rev. David Blair, one of the ministers of the city. He was named after his grandfather, who was chaplain to Charles I., and was destined for the ministry of the Church of Scotland. Having completed his studies at the University of his native city, he travelled for some time on the Continent; and on his return was appointed to the parish of Athelstaneford, in East Lothian. His settlement took place in 1731; but The Grave must have been mostly written before this, as he informs Dr Doddridge, with whom, and with Dr Isaac Watts, he corresponded in 1742, as to its publication, that the greater part of it was written before his appointment to the ministry. Blair owed his introduction to his two distinguished English correspondents to their mutual friend, his neighbour, the celebrated Colonel Gardiner, whose death forms one of the most touching incidents of the battle of Prestonpans, and whose piety and valour are commemorated by his friend Dr Doddridge. The Grave was published in 1743, and its author died in 1746, leaving a numerous family, one of whom became Lord President of the Court of Session, and the intimate friend of Sir Walter Scott. Blair's successor in Athelstaneford was John Home, the author of the tragedy of Douglas. The Grave is a poem of over 800 lines, in paragraphs whose illustrations have no necessary sequence, and may therefore be read in any order. The specimens given are in the order of the poem, though not consecutive; yet they read almost as if they were. They have been selected as the best examples of the author's powers and style. THE GRAVE. [Specimens.] See yonder hallowed fane! the pious work Of names once famed, now dubious or forgot, Till out of breath he overtakes his fellows, And buried midst the wreck of things Who gather round, and wonder at the which were : There lie interred the more illustrious dead. The wind is up: hark! how it howls! methinks, Till now, I never heard a sound so dreary: | Doors creak, and windows clap, and night's foul bird, Rocked in the spire, screams loud: the gloomy aisles, Black plastered, and hung round with shreds of scutcheons And tattered coats of arms, send back the sound, Friendship! mysterious cement of the And glittering in the sun! Triumphant en soul! Sweet'ner of life! and solder of society ! from me Far, far beyond what I can ever pay. In some thick wood have wandered heedless on, Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us down Upon the sloping cowslip-covered bank, Where the pure limpid stream has slid along In grateful errors through the underwood Sweet-murmuring; methought the shrilltongued thrush Mended his song of love; the sooty blackbird Mellowed his pipe, and softened every note; The eglantine smelled sweeter, and the rose Assumed a dye more deep; whilst every flower Vied with its fellow-plant in luxury Of dress. O! then the longest summer's day tries Of conquerors and coronation pomps, In glory scarce exceed. Great gluts of people Retard the unwieldy show; whilst from the casements, And houses' tops, ranks behind ranks, close wedged, Hang bellying o'er. But tell us, why this waste? Why this ado in earthing up a carcass That's fallen into disgrace, and in the nostril Smells horrible? Ye undertakers! tell us, 'Midst all the gorgeous figures you exhibit, Why is the principal concealed, for which You make this mighty stir? 'Tis wisely done : What would offend the eye in a good picture, The painter casts discreetly into shades. And gives it a new pulse unknown before! Seemed too, too much in haste: still the The Grave discredits thee. Thy charms Coarse fare and carrion please thee full as well, And leave as keen a relish on the sense. Look, how the fair one weeps! the conscious tears Never to think of death and of ourselves For creatures of a day in gamesome mood Stand thick as dewdrops on the bells of To frolic on eternity's dread brink, flowers: Unapprehensive; when, for aught we know, The very first swoln surge shall sweep us Think we, or think we not, time hurries on That slides his hand under the miser's And carries off his prize. What is this world? Forewarned men of their death. 'Twas What, but a spacious burial-field unwalled, Strewed with death's spoils, the spoils of animals kindly done To knock and give the alarm. But what The shivering Icelander, and sun-burnt Men of all climes, that never met before, Here the proud prince, and favourite yet His sovereign's keeper, and the people's scourge, Are huddled out of sight. Here lie abashed The great negotiators of the earth, Into fantastic schemes, which the long And celebrated masters of the balance, livers Deep read in stratagems and wiles of In the world's hale and undegenerate days courts: Could scarce have leisure for. Fools that Now vain their treaty-skill! Death scorns |