But if ne'er so close ye wall him,
Do the best that you may,

Blind love, if so ye call him,

Will find out his way.

You may train the eagle

To stoop to your fist;
Or you may inveigle
The phoenix of the east;
The lioness, ye may move her

To give o'er her prey;
But you'll ne'er stop a lover:

He will find out his way.

THE KING'S PROGRESS.

From Christ Church MS. K., 3. 43-5. (Music by Thomas Ford.)

YET if his majesty our sovereign lord

Should of his own accord

Friendly himself invite,

And say, "I'll be your guest to-morrow night", How should we stir ourselves, call and command All hands to work! "Let no man idle stand.

Set me fine Spanish tables in the hall;

See they be fitted all;

Let there be room to eat,

And order taken that there want no meat.

See every sconce and candlestick made bright,
That without tapers they may give a light.
Look to the presence: are the carpets spread,
The dais o'er the head,

The cushions in the chairs,

And all the candles lighted on the stairs?
Perfume the chambers, and in any case

Let each man give attendance in his place!"

Thus if the king were coming would we do,
And 't were good reason too;

For 't is a duteous thing

To show all honour to an earthly king,
And after all our travail and our cost,

So he be pleased, to think no labour lost.
But at the coming of the King of Heaven
All's set at six and seven:

We wallow in our sin,

Christ cannot find a chamber in the inn.

We entertain Him always like a stranger,

And as at first still lodge Him in the manger.

WALY, WALY.

Printed in Thomson's Orpheus Caledonius, 1725. The original version of the song probably dates from circa 1675, where it is brought into the ballad of Jamie Douglas. It is possible, however, that it dates from the sixteenth century. See Prof. Child's English and Scottish Popular Ballads, part vii. (Boston, 1890).

0

WALY, waly, up the bank,

O waly, waly, doun the brae,

And waly, waly, yon burn-side,
Where I and my love wont to gae!

I lean'd my back unto an aik,

I thocht it was a trustie tree;

But first it bow'd and syne it brak',-
Sae my true love did lichtlie me.

O waly, waly, but love be bonnie
A little time while it is new!
But when 't is auld it waxeth cauld,
And fades awa' like morning dew
O wherefore should I busk my heid,

Or wherefore should I kame my hair?

For my true love has me forsook,
And says he'll never lo'e me mair.

Noo Arthur Seat1 sall be my bed,

The sheets sall ne'er be press'd by me; Saint Anton's well sall be my drink;

Since my true love's forsaken me. Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,

And shake the green leaves off the tree? O gentle death, when wilt thou come? For of my life I am wearie.

'Tis not the frost that freezes fell,
Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie,
'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry;

But my love's heart grown cauld to me.
When we cam' in by Glasgow toun,
We were a comely sicht to see;
My love was clad in the black velvet,
An' I mysel' in cramasie.

But had I wist before I kiss'd

That love had been sae ill to win,
I'd lock'd my heart in a case o' goud,
And pinn'd it wi' a siller pin.
Oh, oh! if my young babe were born,
And set upon the nurse's knee;

And I mysel' were dead and gane,
And the green grass growing over me!

1 The hill near Edinburgh.

JOHN MILTON.

(1608-1674.)

HYMN ON THE NATIVITY.

This Hymn is dated in 1629; L'Allegro and Il Penseroso, 16321638; Arcades, 1630-1634; Comus, 1634; the Song on May Morning, 1630 (?); the first sonnet probably soon after 1630; that on the Massacre in Piedmont in 1655; and that on his Blindness at about the same time. Compare with the last the first fifty-five lines of Book III. of Paradise Lost.

[T was the winter wild,

IT

While the heaven-born child

All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies;
Nature, in awe of him,

Had doffed her gaudy trim,

With her great Master so to sympathise:

It was no season then for her

To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour.

Only with speeches fair

She woos the gentle air,

To hide her guilty front with innocent snow;
And on her naked shame,

Pollute with sinful blame,

The saintly veil of maiden-white to throw;
Confounded, that her Maker's eyes

Should look so near upon her foul deformities.

But he, her fears to cease,

Sent down the meek-eyed Peace;

She, crowned with olive green, came softly sliding

Down through the turning sphere,

His ready harbinger,

With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing;

And, waving wide her myrtle wand,

She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.

No war or battle's sound

Was heard the world around.

The idle spear and shield were high uphung; The hooked chariot stood

Unstain'd with hostile blood;

The trumpet spake not to the armèd throng; And kings sat still with awful eye,

As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.

But peaceful was the night,
Wherein the Prince of Light

His reign of peace upon the earth began:
The winds, with wonder whist,

Smoothly the waters kissed,

Whispering new joys to the mild ocean,

Who now hath quite forgot to rave,

While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmèd wave.

The stars, with deep amaze,

Stand fixed in steadfast gaze,

Bending one way their precious influence;

And will not take their flight,

For all the morning light,

Or Lucifer that often warned them thence;

But in their glimmering orbs did glow,

Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.

And, though the shady gloom

Had given day her room,

The sun himself withheld his wonted speed,

And hid his head for shame,

As his inferior flame

The new-enlightened world no more should need; He saw a greater Sun appear

Than his bright throne or burning axle-tree could

bear.