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Meadows trim with daisies pied,
Shallow brooks and l ivers wide.
Towers and battlements it sees
Bosomed high in tufted trees,
Where perhaps some beauty lies,
The cynosure of neighboring eyes.
Hard by, a cottage-chimney smokes,
From betwixt two aged oaks,
Where Corydon and Thyrsis met,
Are at their savory dinner set
Of herbs, and other country messes,
Which the neat-handed Phyllis
dresses:

And then in haste her bower, she leaves,

With Thestylis to bind the sheaves;

Or, if the earlier season lead,

To the tanned haycock in the mead.

Sometimes, with secure delight, The upland hamlets will invite, When the merry bells ring round, And the jocund rebecks sound To many a youth, and many a maid Dancing in the chequered shade; And young and old come forth to

play On a sunshine holiday, Till the livelong daylight fail; Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, With stories told of many a feat, How Fairy Mab the junkets eat; She was pinched and pulled, she

said.

And he by friar's lantern led;
Tells how the drudging goblin sweat
To earn his cream-bowl duly set,
When in one night, ere glimpse of
morn.

His shadowy flail had thrashed the corn.

That ten day-laborers could not end; Then lies him down the lubber fiend,

And, stretched out all the chimney's length.

Basks at the fire his hairy strength, And crop-full out of doors he flings, Ere the first cock his matin rings. Thus done the tales, to bed they creep,

By whispering winds soon lulled asleep.

Towered cities please us then, And the busy hum of men,

Where throngs of knights and barons bold

In weeds of peace high triumphs hold,

With store of ladies, whose bright

eyes

Rain influence, and judge the prize
Of wit, or arms, while both contend
To win her grace, sh all com-
mend.

There let Hymen oft appear
In saffron robe, with taper clear,
And pomp, and feast, and revelry,
With masque and antique Pageantry,
Such sights as youthful poets dream,
On summer eves, by haunted stream.
Then to the well-trod stage anon,
If Jonson's learned sock be on,
Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's
child,

Warble his native wood-notes wild.

And ever against eating cares Lap me in soft Lydian airs, Married to immortal verse, Such as the melting soul may pierce In notes with 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; That Orpheus' self may heave his

head

From golden slumber on a bed
Of heaped Elyslan flowers, and hear
Such strains as would have won the
ear

Of Pluto, to have quite set free
His half-regained Eurydice.

These delights if thou canst give, Mirth, with thee I mean to live.

IE PENSKllOSO.

Hence, vain deluding joys,
The brood cf folly, without father
bred!

How little you bestead,
Or fill the fixed mind with all your

toys!

Dwell in some idle brain,

[graphic]

And fancies fond with gaudy shapes

possess, As thick and numberless As the gay motes that people the sunbeams, Or likest hovering dreams, The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train.

But hail, thou goddess, sage and
holy!

Hail, divinest Melancholy!
Whose saintly visage is too bright
To hit the sense of human sight,
And therefore to our weaker view
O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's
hue:

Black, but such as in esteem
Prince Memnon's sister might be-
seem,

Or that starred Ethiop queen, that strove

To set her beauty's praise above
The sea-nymphs, and their powers

offended:
Yet thou art higher far descended;
Thee bright-haired Vesta long of yore
To solitary Saturn bore;
His daughter she (in Saturn's reign
Such mixture was not held a stain).
Oft in glimmering bowers and glades
He met her, and in secret shades
Of woody Ida's inmost grove,
While yet there was no fear of Jove.
Come, pensive nun, devout and pure,
Sober, steadfast, and demure,
All in a robe of darkest grain,
Flowing with majestic train,
And sable stole of cypress lawn.
Over thy decent shoulders drawn.
Come, but keep thy wonted state,
With even step and musing gait,
And looks commercing with the

skies,

Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:
There, held in holy passion still,
Forget thyself to marble, till
With a sad leaden downward cast,
Thou fix them on the earth as fast;
And join with thee calm peace and
quiet,

Spare Fast, that oft with Gods doth diet,

And hears the Muses in a ring
Aye round about Jove's altar sing;

And add to these retired Leisure, That in trim gardens takes his pleasure;

But first and chiefest with thee bring,
Him that yon soars on golden wing,
Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,
The Cherub Contemplation;
And the mute Silence hist along,
'Less Fhilomel will deign a song,
In her sweetest, saddest plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of Night,
While Cynthia checks her dragon
yoke,

Gently o'er the accustomed oak; Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly,

Most musical, most melancholy! Thee, chantress, oft the woods

among, I woo to hear thy even-song; And missing thee, I walk unseen On the dry smooth-shaven green, To behold the wandering moon, Riding near her highest noon, Like one that had been led astray Through the heavens' wide pathless

way;

And oft, as if her head she bowed,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.

Oft on a plat of rising ground
I hear the far-off curfew sound,
Over some wide-watered shore,
Swinging slow with sullen roar.

Or if the air will not permit,
Some still, removed place will fit,
Where glowing embers through the
room

Teach light to counterfeit a gloom;
Far from all resort of mirth,
Save the cricket on the hearth,
Or the bellman's drowsy charm,
To bless the doors from nightly harm.

Or let my lamp at midnight hour Be seen on some high lonely tower, Where I may oft outwatch the Bear, With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere

The spirit of Plato, to unfold
What worlds, or what vast regions
hold [sook
The immortal mind, that hath for-
Her mansion in this fleshly nook;
And of those demons that are found
In fire, air, flood, or under ground,

Whose power hath a true consent
With planet, or with element.

Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy
In sceptred pall come sweeping by,
Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line,
Or the tale of Troy divine.
Or what (though rare) of later age,
Ennobled hath the buskined stage.

But, O sad Virgin! that thy power
Might raise Musieus from his bower,
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
Such notes as. warbled to the string,
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek,
And made hell grant what love did

Or call up him that left half told
The story of Cambuscan bold,
Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
And who had Canace to wife,
That owned the virtuous ring and
glass;

And of the wondrous horse of brass,
On which the Tartar king did ride;
And if aught else great bards beside
In sage and solemn tunes have sung,
Of tourneys and of trophies hung;
Of forests and enchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the
ear.

Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale
career,

'Till civil-suited Morn appear,
Not tricked and frounced as she was
wont

With the Attic boy to hunt,
But kerchiefed in a comely cloud,
While rocking winds are piping loud,
Or ushered with a shower still,
When the gust hath blown his fill,
Ending on the rustling leaves,
With minute drops from off the
eaves.

And when the sun begins to fling His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring To arched walks of twilight groves, And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,

Of pine or monumental oak, Where the rude axe with heaved stroke

Was never heard, the Nymphs to daunt,

Or fright them from their hallowed haunt.

There in close covert by some brook,
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from day's garish eye,
While the bee with honeyed thigh,
That at her flowery work doth sing,
And the waters murmuring.
With such consort as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feathered sleep:
And let some strange mysterious
dream

Wave at his wings in airy stream

Of lively portraiture displayed,

Softly on my eyelids laid:

And as I wake, sweet music breathe

Above, about, or underneath.

Sent by some spirit to mortals good,

Or the unseen genius of the wood.

But let my due feet never fail To walk the studious cloister's pale, And love the high embowed roof, With antic pillars massy proof, And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light. There let the pealing organ blow, To the full-voiced choir below, In service high, and anthems clear, As may with sweetness, through

mine ear, Dissolve me into ecstasies, And bring all heaven before mine

eyes.

And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell. Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every star that heaven doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew; Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain.

These pleasures, Melancholy, give, And I with thee will choose to live.

SONG ON MA T MORNINO.

Now the bright morning star, day's

harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and

leads with her The flowery May, who from her

green lap throws The yellow cowslip, and the pale

primrose.

Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire

Mirth and youth and warm desire; Woods and groves are of thy dressing,

Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.

Thus we salute thee with our early song.

And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

STANZAS FROM "HYMN ON THE
NATIVITY."

It was the winter wild.
While the heaven-born child

All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies; Nature in awe to Him Had doffed her gaudy trim, With her great Master so to sympathize:

It was no season then for her
To wanton with the sun, her lusty
Paramour.

Only with speeches fair
She woos the gentle air

To hide her guilty front with innocent Snow. And on her naked shame, Pollute with sinful blame. The saintly veil of maiden white to throw,

Confounded that her Maker's eyes Should look so near upon her foul deformities.

But He, her fears to cease,
Sent down the meek-eyed Peace;
She, crowned with olives green,

came softly sliding
Down through the turning sphere
His ready harbinger.
With turtle wing the amorous

clouds dividing, And. waving wide her myrtle wand, She strikes a universal peace through

sea and land.

No war, or battle's sound,
Was heard the world around:

The idle spear and shield were high up hung, The hooked chariot stood, Unstained with hostile blood, The trumpet spake not to the armed throng, And kings sat still with awful eye, As if they surely knew their sovereign Lord was by.

But peaceful was the night,
Wherein the Prince of light
His reign of peace upon the earth
began:

The winds with wonder whist
Smoothly the waters kissed,
Whispering new joys to the mild
ocean,

Who now hath quite forgot to rave, While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.

ON HIS BLINDNESS.

When I consider how my light is spent

Ere half my days, in this dark

world and wide, And that one talent which is death

to hide,

Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, lest he returning chide:

"Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?"

I fondly ask: but Patience, to prevent

That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need Either man'swork or his owngifts; who best

Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding

speed,

And post o'er land and ocean without rest;

They also serve who only stand and wait."

ON REACHING TWENTY-THREE.

How soon hath Time, the subtle

thief of youth, Stolen on his wing my three-and

twentieth year! My hasting days fly on with full

career,

But my late spring no bud or blossom sheweth. Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth.

That I to manhood am arrived so near,

And inward ripeness doth much less appear,

That some more timely-happy spirits indu'th. Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,

It shall be still in strictest measure even

To that same lot, however mean or high,

Toward which Time leads me, and

the will of Heaven; All is, if I have grace to use it so, As ever in my great Task-master's

eye.

TO A VIRTUOUS VOUNG LADY.

Lady, that in the prime of earliest youth

Wisely hast shunned the broad

way and the green, And with those few art eminently

seen.

That labor up the hill of heavenly truth,

The better part with Mary and with Ruth

Chosen thou hast; and they that

overween. And at thy growing virtues fret

their spleen, No anger find in thee, but pity and

ruth.

Thy care is fixed, and zealously attends

To fill thy odorous lamp with deeds of light,

And hope that reaps not shame.

Therefore be sure Thou, when the bridegroom with his

feastful friends Passes to bliss at the mid-hour of

night,

Hast gained thy entrance, virgin wise and pure.

[From Paradise Lost.] THE BOWER OF ADAM AND EVE.

The roof

Of thickest covert was inwoven shade. Laurel and myrtle, and what higher grew

Of firm and fragrant leaf: on either side

Acanthus, and each odorous bushy shrub

Fenced up the verdant wall; each

beauteous flower, Iris all hues, roses, and jessamine Reared high their flourished heads

between, and wrought Mosaic: under foot the violet, Crocus, and hyacinth, with rich inlay Broidered the ground, more colored

than with stone Of costliest emblem. Other creature

here.

Beast, bird, insect, or worm, durst

enter none: Such was their awe of Man. In

shadier bower More sacred and sequestered, though

but feigned, Pan or Sylvanus never slept, nor

nymph

Nor Faunus haunted. Here, in close recess,

With flowers, garlands, and sweetsmelling herbs,

Espoused Eve decked first her nuptial bed.

And heavenly choirs the Hymenoe&n sung,

What day the genial angel to our sire Brought her in naked beauty more adorned,

More lovely than Pandora, whom the gods

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