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264

BUTI

THE DEATH OF ASTROPHEL
UT that immortall spirit, which was deckt

with all the dowries of celestiall grace,
by soveraine choyce from th’ hevenly quires select,
and lineally derived from Angels race,

O! what is now of it become aread ?

Ay me! can so divine a thing be dead ?
Ah! no: it is not dead, ne can it die,
but lives for aie in blissfull Paradise,
where like a new-borne babe it soft doth lie,
in bed of lillies wrapt in tender wise ;

and compast all about with roses sweet,

and daintie violets from head to feet. There thousand birds, all of celestiall brood, to him do sweetly caroll day and night ; and with straunge notes, of him well understood, lull him asleep in Angelick delight;

whilest in sweet dreame to him presented bee immortall beauties, which no eye may see.

E. SPENSER

265

HOPE

I

PRAISED the Earth, in beauty seen

with garlands gay of various green ;
I praised the sea, whose ample field
shone glorious as a silver shield;
and earth and ocean seem'd to say,
“Our beauties are but for a day.”
I praised the sun, whose chariot rolld
on wheels of amber and of gold ;
I praised the moon, whose softer eye
gleam'd sweetly through the summer sky;
and moon and sun in answer said,
“Our days of light are numbered.”
O God! O good beyond compare!
if thus Thy meaner works are fair,
if thus Thy bounties gild the span
of ruin'd earth and sinful man,
how glorious must the mansion be,
where Thy redeem'd shall dwell with Thee !

R. HEBER

266

TO MY LORD OF LEICESTER

NOT

OT that thy trees at Penshurst groan

oppressed with their timely load;
and seem to make their silent moan,

that their great Lord is now abroad:
they, to delight his taste or eye,
would spend themselves in fruit, and die.
Not that thy harmless deer repine,

and think themselves unjustly slain
by any other hand than thine,

whose arrows they would gladly stain: no, nor thy friends, which hold too dear that peace with France, which keeps thee there. All these are less than that great cause

which now exacts your presence here;
wherein there meet the divers laws

of public and domestic care:
for one bright Nymph our youth contends,
and on your prudent choice depends.

E. WALLER

267

HYMN TO DIANA

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UEEN and Huntress, chaste and fair,

now the sun is laid to sleep,
seated in thy silver chair,
state in wonted manner keep;

Hesperus entreats thy light,

goddess excellently bright.
Earth, let not thy envious shade

dare itself to interpose;
Cynthia's shining orb was made
heaven to clear when day did close:

bless us then with wished sight,

goddess excellently bright.
Lay thy bow of pearl apart

and thy crystal-shining quiver:
give unto the flying hart
space to breathe, how short soever:

thou that makest a day of night,
goddess excellently bright!

B. JONSON

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R when the winter torrent rolls

down the deep-channel'd rain course, foamingly,
dark with its mountain spoils,
with bare feet pressing the wet sand,

there wanders Thalaba,
the rushing flow, the flowing roar,

filling his yielded faculties,
a vague, a dizzy, a tumultuous joy.

Or lingers it a vernal brook,

gleaming o'er yellow sands?
beneath the lofty bank reclined,
with idle eye he views its little waves

quietly listening to the quiet flow;
while in the breathings of the stirring gale

the tall canes bend above,
floating like streamers on the wind
their lank uplifted leaves.

R. SOUTHEY

269

IONA
HERE, as to shame the temples decked

skill of
Nature herself, it seemed, would raise
a minster to her Maker's praise:
not for a meaner use ascend
her columns, or her arches bend;
nor of a theme less solemn tells
that mighty -surge that ebbs and swells,
and still between each awful pause,
from the high vault an answer draws,
in varied tone prolonged and high,
that mocks the organ's melody.
Nor doth its entrance front in vain
to old Iona's holy fane,
that Nature's voice might seem to say,
'Well hast thou done, frail child of clay!
thy humble powers that stately shrine
tasked high and hard-but witness mine.'

SIR W. SCOTT

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FAIR pledges

of a fruitful tree,

why do ye fall so fast?

Your date is not so past,
but you may stay yet here awhile
to blush and gently smile,

and go at last.
What, were ye born to be

an hour or half's delight,

and so to bid good night?
'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth,
merely to show your worth,

and lose you quité.
But you are lovely leaves, where we

may read how soon things have

their end, though ne'er so brave;
and after they have shown their pride,
like you, awhile, they glide
into the grave.

R. HERRICK

271

SONG FOR THE SPINNING-WHEEL

WIFTLY turn the murmuring wheel!

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when the weary fingers feel
help, as if from faery power ;
dewy night o'ershades the ground;
turn the swift wheel round and round!
Now beneath the starry sky
couch the widely-scattered sheep;-
ply the pleasant labour, ply!
for the spindle, while they sleep,
runs with motion smooth and fine,
gathering up a trustier line.
Short-lived likings may be bred
by a glance from fickle eyes;
but true love is like the thread
which the kindly wool supplies,
when the flocks are all at rest
sleeping on the mountain's breast.

W. WORDSWORTH

272

BYTE

273

BUT

MORNING SOUNDS
UT who the melodies of morn can tell ?

the wild brook babbling down the mountain-side ;
the lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell;
the pipe of early shepherd dim descried
in the low valley; echoing far and wide
the clamorous horn along the cliffs above;
the hollow murmur of the ocean-tide;
the hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love,
and the full choir that wakes the universal grove.
The cottage-curs at early pilgrim bark;
crown'd with her pail the tripping milk-maid sings;
the whistling ploughman stalks afield; and hark!
down the rough slope the ponderous waggon rings;
through rustling corn the hare astonished springs ;
slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour;
the partridge bursts away on whirring wings;
deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower,
and shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tower.

J. BEATTIE
ORPHEUS
UT when through all the infernal bounds,

which flaming Phlegethon surrounds,
Love, strong as Death, the Poet led

to the pale nations of the dead,
what sounds were heard,
what scenes appeared,
o'er all the dreary coasts !

dreadful gleams,
dismal screams,
fires that glow,
shrieks of woe,
sullen moans,

hollow groans,
and cries of tortured ghosts !
But hark! he strikes the golden lyre;
and see! the tortured ghosts respire,

see, shady forms advance !
thy stone, O Sisyphus, stands still,
Ixion rests upon his wheel,

and the pale spectres dance ;
the Furies sink upon their iron beds,
and snakes uncurled hang listening round their heads.

A. POPE F. S. II.

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