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Give me now my lyre!

I feel the stirrings of a gift divine;
Within my bosom glows unearthly fire,
Lit by no skill of mine.

RICHARD CRASHAW.

Born, 1615; Died, 1652.

TEMPERANCE; OR, THE CHEAP
PHYSICIAN.

Go now, and with some daring drug
Bait thy disease; and whilst they tug,
Thou, to maintain their precious strife,
Spend the dear treasures of thy life.
Go, take physic, dote upon
Some big-named composition,
The' oraculous doctor's mystic bills-
Certain hard words made into pills:
And what at last shalt gain by these?
Only a costlier disease.

That which makes us have no need

Of physic, that's physic indeed.

Hark hither, reader! wilt thou see
Nature her own physician be?
Wilt see a man all his own wealth,
His own music, his own health;
A man whose sober soul can tell
How to wear her garments well;
Her garments that upon her sit,
As garments should do, close and fit;
A well-clothed soul that's not oppress'd

Nor choked with what she should be dress'd;

A soul sheathed in a crystal shrine,

Through which all her bright features shine;

As when a piece of wanton lawn,

A thin aërial veil, is drawn

O'er beauty's face, seeming to hide,

More sweetly shows the blushing bride ;—

A soul, whose intellectual beams

No mists do mask, no lazy steams;

A happy soul, that all the way

To heaven hath a summer's day?

Wouldst see a man whose well-warm'd blood

Bathes him in a genuine flood?

A man whose tunéd humours be

A seat of rarest harmony?

Wouldst see blithe looks, fresh cheeks, beguile

Age? Wouldst see December smile?
Wouldst see nests of new roses grow

In a bed of reverend snow?

Warm thoughts, free spirits flattering
Winter's self into a spring?

In him, wouldst see a man that can
Live to be old, and still a man?
Whose latest and most leaden hours

Fall with soft wings, stuck with soft flowers,
And when life's sweet fable ends,
Soul and body part like friends;
No quarrels, murmurs, no delay;
A kiss, a sigh, and so away;—
This rare one, reader, wouldst thou see?
Hark hither! and thyself be he.

POETS

OF THE RESTORATION.

&c.

Through the dear might of Him that walk'd the waves,
Where, other groves and other streams along,
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,
And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.
There entertain him all the saints above,
In solemn troops, and sweet societies,
That sing, and, singing, in their glory move,
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.

FROM "L'ALLEGRO."

AND, if I give thee honour due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crew,

To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreprovéd 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 sweetbriar, 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
Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn,
From the side of some hoar hill,

Through the high wood echoing shrill :

Sometimes 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 ploughman, near at hand,
Whistles o'er the furrow'd land,
And the milkmaid singeth blithe,
And the mower whets his scythe,
And every shepherd tells his tale
Under the hawthorn in the dale.

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures

While the landscape round it measures;

Russet lawns, and fallows grey,
Where the nibbling flocks do stray;
Mountains, on whose barren breast
The labouring clouds do often rest,
Meadows trim with daises pied,
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide.

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And ever, against eating cares,
Lap me in soft Lydian airs,
Married to immortal verse,

Such as the meeting soul may pierce,
In notes of 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.

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