What should We do but sing his praise, That led us through the watery maze, Unto an isle so long unknown, And yet far kinder than our own? Where he the huge sea-monsters wracks, That lift the deep upon their backs. He lands us on a grassy stage, Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage, He gave us this eternal spring, Which here enamels every thing; And sends the fowls to us in care, On daily visits through the air. He hangs in shades the orange bright, Like golden lamps in a green night; And does in the pomegranates close Jewels more rich than Ormus shows. He makes the figs our mouths to meet; And throws the melons at our feet. But apples plants of such a price, No tree could ever bear them twice. With cedars, chosen by his hand, From Lebanon, he stores the land; And makes the hollow seas, that roar, Proclaim the ambergrease on shore. He cast (of which we rather boast) The gospel's pearl upon our coast; And in these rocks for us did frame A temple, where to sound his name. Oh! let our voice his praise exalt, Till it arrive at Heaven's vault: Which, thence (perhaps) rebounding, may, Echo beyond the Mexique Bay. Thus sung they in the English boat, And all the way, to guide their chime, ANDREW MARVELL. To Althea. From Prison. WHEN love with unconfined wings And my divine Althea brings The birds that wanton in the air When flowing cups run swiftly round Fishes that tipple in the deep When (like committed linnets) I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty, When I shall voice aloud, how good Stone walls do not a prison make, To Daffodils. FAIR Daffodils, we weep to see As yet the early-rising Sun Until the hasting day Has run But to the Even-song ; And, having prayed together, we Will go with you along. RICHARD LOVELACE, How delicious is the winning Yet remember, 'midst your wooing, Love he comes, and Love he tarries, Laughs and flies, when pressed and bidden. HERRICK. Bind the sea to slumber stilly, Love's a fire that needs renewal Love's wing moults when caged and captured, Can you keep the bee from ranging, Dirge. THOMAS CAMPBELL. GLORIES, pleasures, pomps, delights, and ease, The outward senses, when the mind |