"And who, with pious hand, shall bring
The flowers she cherish'd, snow-drops cold,
And violets that unheeded spring,
To scatter o'er her hallow'd mould?
"And who, while Memory loves to dwell
Upon her name for ever dear,
Shall feel his heart with passion swell,
And pour the bitter, bitter tear?
While, ever as she read, the conscious maid,
By faultering voice and downcast looks betray'd,
Would blushing on her lover's neck recline,
And with her finger—point the tenderest line!"
Mæeviad, pp. 194, 202.
Yet the author assures us just before, that in these "wild strains" "all was plain."
"Even then (admire, John Bell! my simple ways)
No heaven and hell danced madly through my lays,
No oaths, no execrations; all was plain;
Yet trust me, while thy ever jingling train
Chime their sonorous woes with frigid art,
And shock the reason and revolt the heart;
My hopes and fears, in nature's language drest,
Awakened love in many a gentle breast."
Ibid v. 185—92.
If any one else had'composed these "wild strains," in which "all is plain," Mr. GifFord would have accused them of three things, "1. Downright nonsense. 2. Downright frigidity. 3. Downright doggrel;" and proceeded to anatomise them very cordially in his way. As it is, be is thrilled with a very pleasing horror at his former scenes of tenderness, and "gasps at the recollection" of watery Aquarius!" he! jam satis est! "Why rack a grub—a butterfly upon a wheel?"
