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EDMUND WALLER. 1605–1687.

song.

Go, lovely rose! Tell her, that wastes her time and me,

That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,

That, hadst thou sprung
In deserts, where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth
Of beauty, from the light retired:

Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.

Then die that she
The common fate of all things rare

May read in thee:
How small a part of time they share,
That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

ON A GirdLE,

THAT which her slender waist confined, Shall now my joyful temples bind:

No monarch but would give his crown, His arms might do what this has done.

It was my heaven's extremest sphere,
The pale which held that lovely deer:
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love,
Did all within this circle move :

A narrow compass! and yet there
Dwelt all that's good and all that's fair:
Give me but what this riband bound,
Take all the rest the sun goes round.

HENRY WAU GHAN. 1695.
EARLY rising AND PRAYEr.

WHEN first thy eyes unveil, give thy soul leave
To do the like; our bodies but forerun
The spirit's duty: true hearts spread and heave
Unto their God as flowers do to the sun;
Give him thy first thoughts then, so shalt thou keep
Him company all day, and in him sleep.

Yet never sleep the sun up; prayer should
Dawn with the day: there are set awful hours
"Twixt heaven and us; the manna was not good
After sun-rising; far day sullies flowers:
Rise to prevent the sun; sleep doth sins glut,
And heaven's gate opens when the world's is shut.

Walk with thy fellow-creatures: note the hush
And whisperings among them. Not a spring
Or leaf but hath his morning hymn; each bush
And oak doth know I AM. Canst thou not sing?
Oh leave thy cares and follies! go this way,
And thou art sure to prosper all the day.

Serve God before the world; let him not go
Until thou hast a blessing; then resign
The whole unto him, and remember who
Prevail'd by wrestling ere the sun did shine:

Pour oil upon the stones, weep for thy sin,
Then journey on, and have an eye to heav'n.
Mornings are mysteries : the first, world's youth,
Man's resurrection, and the future's bud,
Shrowd in their births; the crown of life, light, truth,
Is styled their star; the stone and hidden food :
Three blessings wait upon them, one of which
Should move-they make us holy, happy, rich.
When the world's up, and every swarm abroad,
Keep well thy temper, mix not with each clay ;
Despatch necessities; life hath a load
Which must be carried on, and safely may :
Yet keep those cares without thee; let the heart
Be God's alone, and choose the better part.

THE TIMBER.

SURE thou didst flourish once, and many springs,

Many bright mornings, much dew, many showers, Pass'd o'er thy head; many light hearts and wings,

Which now are dead, lodged in thy living towers.

And still a new succession sings and flies,

Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches Towards the old and stiĩl enduring skies, shoot

While the low violet thrives at their root.

THE RAINBOW. STILL young and fine, but what is still in view We slight as old and soil'd, though fresh and new. How bright wert thou when Shem's admiring eye Thy burnish'd flaming arch did first descry;

When Zerah, Nahor, Haran, Abram, Lot,
The youthful world's gray fathers, in one knot
Did with intentive looks watch every hour
For thy new light, and trembled at each shower!
When thou dost shine, darkness looks white and fair;
Forms turn to music, clouds to smiles and air;
Rain gently spends his honey-drops, and pours
Balm on the cleft earth, milk on grass and flowers.
Bright pledge of peace and sunshine, the sure tie
Of thy Lord's hand, the object of his eye!
When I behold thee, though my light be dim,
Distant and low, I can in thine see him,
Who looks upon thee from his glorious throne,
And minds the covenant betwixt all and One.

THE WREATH.
SINCE I in storms most used to be,

And seldom yielded flowers,
How shall I get a wreath for thee

From these rude barren hours ?
The softer dressings of the spring,

Or summer's later store,
I will not for thy temples bring,

Which thorns, not roses, wore :
But a twined wreath of grief and praise,

Praise soil'd wiin tears, and tears again
Shining with joy, like dewy days,

This day I bring for all thy pain,
Thy causeless pain; and as sad death,

Which sadness breeds in the most vain,
Oh not in vain! now beg thy breath,
Thy quick’ning breath, which gladly bears

Through saddest clouds to that glad place
Where cloudless quires sing without tears,

Sing thy just praise, and see thy face.

John DRY DEN. 1631–1700.
Alexander's FEAst.

‘Twas at the royal feast for Persia won
By Philip's warlike son:
Aloft in awful state
The godlike hero sate
On his imperial throne:
His valiant peers were placed around;
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound:
(So should desert in arms be crown'd)
The lovely Thais, by his side,
Sate, like a blooming Eastern bride,
In flower of youth and beauty's pride.
Happy, happy, happy pair! .
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
None but the brave deserves the fair.

Timotheus, placed on high
Amid the tuneful quire,
With flying fingers touch'd the lyre:
The trembling notes ascend the sky,
And heavenly joys inspire.
The song began from Jove,
Who left his blissful seats above,
(Such is the power of mighty love).
A dragon's fiery form belied the god,
Sublime on radiant spires he rode,
When he to fair Olympia press'd,
And while he sought her snowy breast:
Then round her slender waist he curl’d, [world.
And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the
The listening crowd admire the lofty sound,
A present deity, they shout around;
A present deity, the vaulted roofs rebound:

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