Or sweetest Shakspeare, Fancy's child,

Warble his native wood-notes wild.

Married to immortal verse,

Such as the melting soul may pierce In notes, with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out,

With wanton heed and giddy cunning,

The melting voice through mazes running; Untwisting all the chains that tie

The hidden soul of harmony;

That Orpheus' self may heave his head
From golden slumber on a bed

Of heap'd Elysian flowers, and hear

Such strains as would have won the ear

Of Pluto, to have quite set free

His half-regain'd Eurydice.

These delights, if thou canst give,

Mirth, with thee I mean to live.

THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN.

BY ANDREW MARVEL.

[ANDREW MARVEL was born at Hull, in 1620, and was educated at Cambridge. After leaving the University, he travelled on the Continent for some time. During the Commonwealth he was assistant to Milton in his official duties; and, about the time of the Restoration, became member for Hull, with a salary from his constituents. He is believed to have been the last member who was thus paid. Though much disliked by the ministers of Charles II., he was a great favourite with that monarch. His integrity was incorruptible; he refused a present of one thousand pounds from the King, although, immediately afterwards, he was obliged to borrow a guinea; and in his writings he continued to attack the vices of the Court. He died in 1678, without any previous sickness, which caused it to be supposed that he was poisoned. His poems show him to have been a good and amiable man.]

How vainly men themselves amaze,
To win the palm, the oak, or bays:

And their incessant labours see

Crown'd from some single herb, or tree,
Whose short and narrow-verged shade

Does prudently their toils upbraid ;
While all the flow'rs, and trees, do close,

To weave the garlands of repose.

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
And Innocence, thy sister dear?
Mistaken long, I sought you then

In busy companies of men.

No white nor red was ever seen
So am'rous as this lovely green.

Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,

Cut in these trees their mistress' name.
Little, alas they know or heed,

How far these beauties her exceed!

Fair trees! where'er your barks I wound, No name shall but our own be found.

What wondrous life in this I lead!
Ripe apples drop about my head.
The luscious clusters of the vine
Upon my mouth do crush their wine.

The nectarine, and curious peach,

Into my hands themselves do reach.
Stumbling on melons, as I pass,

Ensnared with flow'rs, I fall on grass.

Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less Withdraws into its happiness:

The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find;

Yet it creates, transcending these,

Far other worlds and other seas;
Annihilating all that's made

To a green thought in a green shade.

Here at the fountain's sliding foot,
Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root,