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I am nor young nor fair; be, therefore, bold:

sorrow hath made me old,
deformed and wrinkled; all that I can crave

is quiet in my grave.
Such as live happy hold long life a jewel;

but to me thou art cruel,
if thou end not my tedious misery;

and I soon cease to be.
Strike, and strike home, then: pity unto me,

in one short hour's delay, is tyranny.

P. MASSINGER

139

AD SEIPSVM DE ADVENTV HYEMIS

SUM

UMMER’S last lingering rose is flown,

the leaf has withered from the tree;
I hear the coming winter moan

through the sad forest sullenly.
The north wind's rage soft Zephyr flies;

and all the songsters of the grove,
borne on his wing, 'mid brighter skies

trill their sweet lays of joy and love. Then quit we too the rural plain;

till spring, with coronal so gay, woo young Favonius back again,

and chide his coy, his long delay. Farewell ye flowers, ye streams, and thou

my home, than princely hall more dear, seat of my soul's delight, adieu !

I go—but leave my spirit here.

F. WRANGHAM

140

TO VIOLETS

WELCOME, maids of Honour,

in the spring;
and wait upon her.
She has Virgins many,

fresh and fair;

yet you are more sweet than any.

Ye are the maiden posies,

and so grac'd

to be plac'd
'fore damask roses.
Yet though thus respected,

by and by

ye do lie,
poor girls, neglected.

R. HERRICK

141

THE RULE OF LOVE

AN Tanda said th that my blood was cold

,

and that my kindly fire was fled,
and my poor withered heart was dead,

and that I might not sing of love ?-
how could I to the dearest theme,
that ever warmed a minstrels dream,

so foul, so false a recreant prove?
how could I name love's very name,
nor wake my heart to notes of flame!
in peace Love tunes the shepherd's reed;
in war he mounts the warrior's steed;
in halls, in gay attire is seen;
in hamlets, dances on the green.

SIR W. SCOTT

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OR lo the Sea that fleets about the land,

music and measure both doth understand;
for his great crystal eye is always cast
up to the moon, and on her fixed fast:
and as she danceth in her pallid sphere,
so danceth he about the centre here.
Sometimes his proud green waves in order set,
one after other, flow unto the shore,
which when they have with many kisses wet,
they ebb away in order as before;
and to make known his courtly love the more,
he oft doth lay aside his three-forked mace,
and with his arms the timorous Earth embrace.

SIR J. DAVIES

143 HAL

ARK! whence that rushing sound ?

'tis like the wondrous strain
that round a lonely ruin swells,
which, wandering on the echoing shore,

the enthusiast hears at evening:
'tis softer than the west wind's sigh;
'tis wilder than the unmeasured notes
of that strange lyre whose strings
the genii of the breezes sweep:

those lines of rainbow light
are like the moonbeams when they fall
through some cathedral window, but the teints

are such as may not find
comparison on earth.

P. B. SHELLEY

144

À NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH

OR can the parted body know,

nor wants the soul, these forms of woe;
as men who long in prison dwell
with lamps that glimmer round the cell,
whene'er their suffering years are run,
spring forth to greet the glittering sun:
such joy, though far transcending sense,
have pious souls at parting hence.
On earth, and in the body placed,
a few and evil years they waste:
but, when their chains are cast aside,
see the glad scene unfolding wide,
clap the glad wing and tower away,
and mingle with the blaze of day.

T. PARNELL

TO ENGLAND

145

OT yet enslaved, not wholly vile,

O Albion! O my mother isle!
thy valleys, fair as Eden's bowers,
glitter green with sunny showers;
thy grassy uplands' gentle swells

echo to the bleat of flocks;
(those grassy hills, those glittering dells,

proudly ramparted with rocks)

and Ocean mid his uproar wild
speaks safety to his island-child,

hence for many a fearless age

has social Quiet loved thy shore, nor ever proud invader's rage or sacked thy towers or stained thy fields with gore.

S. T. COLERIDGE

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WEET Echo, sweetest nymph, that livest unseen

within thy airy shell,
by slow Meander's margent green,
and in the violet-embroidered vale

where the love-lorn nightingale
nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well;
canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair
that likest thy Narcissus are?

Oh! if thou have
hid them in some flowery cave,

tell me but where,
sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere,

so mayest thou be translated to the skies,
and give resounding grace to all Heaven's harmonies.

J. MILTON

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TOT faster yonder rowers' might

Alings from their oars the spray,
not faster yonder rippling bright,
that tracks the shallop's course in light,

melts in the lake away,
than men from memory erase
the benefits of former days.
Then if in life's uncertain main

mishap shall mar thy sail;
if faithful, wise and brave in vain,
woe, want and exile thou sustain

beneath the fickle gale;
waste not a sigh on fortune changed,
on thankless courts or friends estranged.

SIR W. SCOTT

148

TO CONTEMPLATION

I
VIEW thee on the calmy shore

when Ocean stills his waves to rest;
or when slow-moving on the surges hoar
meet with deep hollow roar

and whiten o'er his breast;
or lo ! the moon with softer radiance gleams,
and lovelier heave the billows in her beams.
When the low gales of evening moan along,

.I love with thee to feel the calm cool breeze, and roam the pathless forest wilds among,

listening the mellow murmur of the trees full-foliaged, as they lift their arms on high and wave their shadowy heads in wildest melody.

R. SOUTHEY

149

ON THE WINTER SOLSTICE 1740

O

THOU my lyre, awake, arise,

and hail the sun's returning force;
even now he climbs the northern skies,
and health and hope attend his course.
Then louder howl the aerial waste,
be earth with keener cold embraced,
yet gentle hours advance their wing;
and Fancy, mocking Winter's might,
with flowers and dews and streaming light
already decks the new-born spring.
O fountain of the golden day,
could mortal vows promote thy speed,
how soon before thy vernal ray
should each unkindly damp recede!
how soon each hovering tempest ily,
whose stores for mischief arm the sky !

M, AKENSIDE

150

DAVID'S SONG TO MICHAL

WAKE, awake, my Lyre !

and tell thy silent master's humble tale
in sounds that may prevail ;
sounds that gentle thoughts inspire.

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