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TITLE: QUAINT GLEANINGS FROM ANCIENT POETRY
AUTHOR: EDMUND GOLDSMID
EBOOK: E03925 (O'Briens Book Cellar)

Quaint Gleanings From Ancient Poetry:

A COLLECTION OF CURIOUS POETICAL COMPOSITIONS
OF THE XVIth, XVIIth, AND XVIIIth CENTURIES.

EDITED From MSS. and Rare Printed Originals
BY EDMUND GOLDSMID, F.R.H.S.

INTRODUCTION.

The following curious collection I have gathered together during
several years' reading in out-of-the-way corners. Manuscripts, in
public and private libraries; old books picked up on dusty bookstalls,
or carried away as prizes from the battlefield of the auction-room;
even pencillings on the inside of tattered bindings,--all have been
laid under contribution. I trust this medley, or _pot-pourri_, of
snatches of song, grave and gay, will prove as interesting to my
readers as they have been to myself. They claim attention on various
grounds: some are the works of well-known men, such as Anthony Munday
and Warren Hastings; some are bitter political squibs--such, for
instance, as the "Satyre against the Scots," page 47; some, again, are
exquisitely beautiful, as "The Dirge," page 53. A few have appeared in
different collections: but none of my readers, I will undertake to
say, have seen more than a half-dozen or so.

With these few words I beg to introduce Volume One of the "Collectanea
Adamantaea."

EDMUND GOLDSMID.

Edinburgh, _March 6th_, 1884.

CONTENTS.

I. BEAUTIES FORT

II. MY BONNY LASS, THINE EYE

III. ANTHONY MUNDAY'S POEM ON THE CAPTIVITY OF JOHN FOX

IV. CARE FOR THY SOUL

V. MEGLIORA SPERO

VI. A LETTER FROM THE DUKE OF MONMOUTH TO THE KING

VII. THE KING'S ANSWER

VIII. AN EPITAPH ON DUNDEE

IX. THE ROBBER ROBB'D

X. AH! THE SHEPHERD'S MOURNFUL FATE

XI. VERSES TO A FRIEND

XII. A PANYGYRICK UPON OATES

XIII. THE MIRACLE

XIV. THE PATRIOTS

XV. JUSTICE IN MASQUERADE

XVI. THE BRAWNY BISHOP'S LAMENT

XVII. THE POOR BLIND BOY

XVIII. THE INISKILLING REGIMENT

XIX. A BALLAD ON THE FLEET

XX. ON MR. FOX AND MR. HASTINGS

XXI. AN IMITATION OF HORACE, BK. II, ODE 16

XXII. EPITAPH ON DR. JOHNSON

XXIII. VERSES UPON THE ROAD

XXIV. SATYR ON THE SCOTS

XXV. THE MARSEILLAISE

XXVI. A DIRGE

BEAUTIES FORT.

FROM AN ANONYMOUS MS., LATELY IN POSSESSION OF
J. P. COLLIER, ESQ., F.S.A.

When raging Love, with fierce assault,
  Strikes at fair Beauties gate,
What army hath she to resist
  And keepe her court and state?

She calleth first on Chastitie
  To lende her help in time;
And Prudence no lesse summons shee
  To meet her foe so trim.

And female Courage she alwaye
  Doth bring unto the walle,
To blowe the trump in her dismaye,
  Fearing her fort may falle.

On force of wordes she much relies
  Her foe without to keepe,
And parleyeth with her two bright eyes
  When they her dyke would leape.

Yet natheless the more she strives,
  The lesse she keepes him out,
For she hath traitors in her camp
  That keepe her still in doubt.

The first and worst of these the Fleshe,
  Then womans Vanitie
That still is caughte within the meshe
  Of guilefull Flatterie.

These traitors ope the gate at length;
  And in, with sword in hande,
Came raging Love, and all her strength
  No longer can withstande.

Prudence and Chastitie both to
  Submit unto the foe;
And female Courage nought can doe
  But down her walls must goe.

She needes must yield her castle strong,
  And Love triumphs once more;
Its onely what the boy hath done
  A thousand times before.

None may resist his mightie power;
  And though a boy, and blinde,
He knows to chase a happie hour
  When maidens must be kinde.

MY BONNY LASS! THINE EYE.

By THOMAS LODGE, M.D.

[Footnote: The original of this poem not being within my reach at
present, I have inserted Professor Arber's modern version.]

My bonny lass! thine eye,
            So sly,
Hath made me sorrow so.
Thy crimson cheeks, my dear!
            So clear,
Have so much wrought my woe.

Thy pleasing smiles and grace,
            Thy face,
Have ravished so my sprites,
That life is grown to nought
            Through thought
Of love, which me affrights.

For fancy's flames of fire
            Aspire
Unto such furious power,
As but the tears I shed
            Make dead,
The brands would me devour.

I should consume to nought
            Through thought
Of thy fair shining eye,
Thy cheeks, thy pleasing smiles,
            The wiles
That forced my heart to die,

Thy grace, thy face, the part
            Where art
Stands gazing still to see
The wondrous gifts and power,
            Each hour,
That hath bewitched me.

ANTHONY MUNDAY'S POEM ON THE CAPTIVITY OF JOHN FOX.

Leeving at large all fables vainly us'd,
  all trifling toys that doe no truth import,
Lo, here how the end (at length), though long diffus'd,
  unfoldeth plaine a rare and true report,
To glad those minds who seek their countries wealth
  by proffer'd pains t'enlarge its happy health.

At Rome I was when Fox did there arrive;
  therefore I may sufficiently express
What gallant joy his deedes did there revive
  in the hearts of those which heard his valiantness.
And how the Pope did recompense his pains,

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