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THE NYMPH'S REPLY.

A gown, made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair-lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw, and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing,
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,

Then live with me, and be my love.

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.

THE NYMPH'S REPLY.

IF that the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move,
To live with thee and be thy love.

But time drives flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold;
And Philomel becometh dumb,

And all complain of cares to come.

THE NYMPH'S REPLY.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward Winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's Spring, but sorrow's Fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw, and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps, and amber studs :
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee, and be thy love.

But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee, and be thy love.

SIR WALTER RaleigH.

TO THE UNSATISFIED.

WHY thus longing, thus forever sighing
For the far-off, unattained and dim,
While the beautiful, all round thee lying,
Offers up its low perpetual hymn?

Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching,

All thy restless yearnings it would still: Leaf and flower, and laden bee, are preaching, Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill.

Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee

Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw; If no silken cord of love hath bound thee

To some little world, through weal and woe;

If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten,
No fond voices answer to thine own;
If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten
By daily sympathy and gentle tone.

Not by deeds that win the crowd's applauses,
Not by works that give thee world-renown,

Not by martyrdom, or vaunted crosses,

Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown.

TO THE UNSATISFIED.

Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely,
Every day a rich reward will give;
Thou wilt find by hearty striving only,
And truly loving, thou canst truly live.

Dost thou revel in the rosy morning,

When all nature hails the lord of light,
And his smile, the mountain-tops adorning,
Robes yon fragrant fields in radiance bright?

Other hands may grasp the field and forest,
Proud proprietors in pomp may shine;

But with fervent love if thou adorest,

Thou art wealthier- all the world is thine!

Yet if through earth's wide domains thou rovest,
Sighing that they are not thine alone,

Not those fair fields, but thyself thou lovest,
And their beauty, and thy wealth, are gone.

Nature wears the color of the spirit;

Sweetly to her worshipper she sings;
All the glow, the grace she doth inherit,
Round her trusting child she fondly flings.

HARRIET WINSLOW.

DIRGE IN CYMBELINE.

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing Spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear,

To vex with shrieks this quiet grove; But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.

No withered witch shall here be seen, No goblins lead their nightly crew; The female fays shall haunt the green, And dress thy grave with pearly dew.

The redbreast oft, at evening hours,
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gathered flowers,

To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds and beating rain
In tempests shake the sylvan cell,

Or midst the chase, on every plain,

The tender thought on thee shall dwell,

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