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Her cheeks so rare a white was on,
No daisy makes comparison,

(Who sees them is undone,)
For streaks of red were mingled there,
Such as are on a Katherine pear

The side that 's next the sun.
Her lips were red, and one was thin
Compared to that was next her chin,

Some bee had stung it newly.
But (Dick) her eyes so guard her face,
I durst no more upon them gaze,

Than on the sun in July.

SUCKLING. - [From "A Ballad upon a Wedding.”]

The Poet's Bridal-day Song.

0! my love 's like the stedfast sun,
Or streams that deepen as they run;
Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years,
Nor moments between sighs and tears, ·
Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain,
Nor dreams of glory dreamed in vain,
Nor mirth, nor sweetest song that flows
To sober joys and soften woes,
Can make my heart or fancy flee
One moment, my sweet wife, from thee.

Even while I muse, I see thee sit
In maiden bloom and matron wit;
Fair, gentle, as when first I sued,
Ye seem, but of sedater mood ;,
Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee,
As when, beneath Arbigland tree,
We stayed and wooed, and thought the moon
Set on the sea an hour too soon,
Or lingered 'mid the falling dew,
When looks were fond, and words were few.

Though I see smiling at thy feet
Five sons, and ae fair daughter sweet;
And time and care and birthtime woes
Have dimmed thine eye, and touched thy rose;
To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong
Whate'er charms me in tale or song.
When words descend like dews unsought,
With gleams of deep enthusiast thought,
And Fancy in her heaven flies free,
They come, my love, they come from thee.

0, when more thought we gave, of old,
To silver, than some give to gold,
'T was sweet to sit and ponder o'er,
How we should deck our humble bower :
'T was sweet to pull, in hope, with thee,
The golden fruit of Fortune's tree;
And sweeter still to choose and twine
A garland for that brow of thine :
A song-wreath which may grace my Jean,
While rivers flow, and woods grow green.

COWLEY

At times there come, as come there ought,
Grave moments of sedater thought,
When Fortune frowns, nor lends our night
One gleam of her inconstant light;
And Hope, that decks the peasant's bower,
Shines like a rainbow through the shower ;
O then I see, while seated nigh,
A mother's heart shine in thine eye ;
And proud resolve, and purpose meek,
Speak of thee more than words can speak,--
I think this wedded wife of mine
The best of all things not divine.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

The Grasshopper.

ANACREONTIC.

Happy insect! what can be
In happiness compared to thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy morning's gentle wine!
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy verdant cup does fill;
'T is filled wherever thou dost tread,
Nature's self 's thy Ganymede.

Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing,
Happier than the happiest king!
All the fields which thou dost see,
All the plants, belong to thee;
All that summer-hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice :
Man for thee does sow and plough;
Farmer he, and landlord thou !
Thou dost innocently joy,
Nor does thy luxury destroy.
The shepherd gladly heareth thee,
More harmonious than he.
Thee country hinds with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripened year!
Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire ;
Phæbus is himself thy sire.
To thee of all things upon earth,
Life is no longer than thy mirth.
Happy Insect! happy thou,
Dost neither age nor winter know :
But when thou 'st drunk, and danced, and sung
Thy fill, the flowery leaves among,
(Voluptuous, and wise withal,
Epicurean animal !)
Sated with thy summer feast,
Thou retirest to endless rest.

COWLEY.

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The glories of our birth and state

Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate :
Death lays his icy hand on kings :

Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,

And plant fresh laurels where they kill,
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still.

Early or late

They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow,

Then boast no more your mighty deeds :
Upon Death's purple altar now
See where the victor victim bleeds :

All heads must come

To the cold tomb;
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.

SHIRLEY

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