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And fetched my sea-born treasures home;
But the poor, unsightly, noisome things
Had left their beauty on the shore

With the sun, and the sand, and the wild uproar.

The lover watched his graceful maid

As 'mid the virgin train she strayed,

Nor knew her beauty's best attire

Was woven still by the snow-white quire;

At last she came to his hermitage,

Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage,

The gay enchantment was undone,

A gentle wife, but fairy none.

Then I said, 'I covet Truth;

Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat,-
I leave it behind with the gems of youth.'
As I spoke, beneath my feet

The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath,
Running over the club-moss burrs;

I inhaled the violet's breath;

Around me stood the oaks and firs;

Pine cones and acorns lay on the ground;

Above me soared the eternal sky,

Full of light and deity;

Again I saw, again I heard,

The rolling river, the morning bird;-
Beauty through my senses stole,

I yielded myself to the perfect whole.

EMERSON.

Song.

HENCE, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights

Wherein you spend your folly!

There's nought in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see 't,
But only melancholy;

Oh, sweetest melancholy!

Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies-

A look that's fastened to the ground—
A tongue chained up, without a sound!

Fountain heads, and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed, save bats and owls!

A midnight bell—a parting groan!
These are the sounds we feed upon;
Then stretch our bones in a still, gloomy valley;
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

L'Allegro.

HENCE, loathed Melancholy,

Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born,

In Stygian cave forlorn,

'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy, Find out some uncouth cell,

Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings, And the night-raven sings;

There, under ebon shades, and low-browed rocks,

As ragged as thy locks,

In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.

But come thou Goddess fair and free,
In Heaven yclept Euphrosyne,
And by men, heart-easing Mirth,
Whom lovely Venus at a birth
With two sister Graces more
To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore;
Or whether (as some Sages sing)

The frolick wind that breathes the spring,
Zephyr with Aurora playing,

As he met her once a Maying,

There on beds of violets blue,

And fresh-blown roses washed in dew,

Filled her with thee a daughter fair,
So buxom, blithe, and debonair.
Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee
Jest, and youthful Jollity.

Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,
Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles,
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,

And love to live in dimple sleek;
Sport that wrinkled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides.
Come, and trip it as you go

On the light fantastic toe,

And in thy right hand lead with thee
The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty;
And if I give thee honour due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crew

To live with her, and live with thee
In unreproved pleasures free;
To hear the lark begin his flight,
And singing startle the dull night,
From his watch-tower in the skies,
Till the dappled dawn doth rise;
Then to come in spite of sorrow,
And at my window bid good morrow,
Through the sweet-briar, or the vine,
Or the twisted eglantine:

While the cock with lively din
Scatters the rear of darkness thin,
And to the stack, or the barn-door,
Stoutly struts his dames before:

Oft listening how the hounds and horn
Chearly rouse the slumbering morn,
From the side of some hoar hill,
Through the high wood echoing shrill :
Sometime walking not unseen

By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green,

Right against the eastern gate,
Where the great sun begins his state,
Robed in flames, and amber light,
The clouds in thousand liveries dight,
While the plowman near at hand
Whistles o'er the furrowed land,
And the milkmaid singeth blithe,
And the mower whets his sithe,
And every shepherd tells his tale
Under the hawthorn in the dale.

Strait mine eye hath caught new pleasures
Whilst the landskip round it measures,
Russet lawns, and fallows gray,
Where the nibbling flocks do stray,
Mountains on whose barren breast
The labouring clouds do often rest,
Meadows trim with daisies pied,
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide;
Towers and battlements it sees
Bosomed high in tufted trees,
Where perhaps some Beauty lies,
The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes.
Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes,
From betwixt two aged oaks,
Where Corydon and Thyrsis met,
Are at their savoury dinner set
Of herbs, and other country messes,
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses;
And then in haste her bower she leaves,
With Thestylis to bind the sheaves;
Or if the earlier season lead

To the tanned haycock in the mead.

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