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I neither seeke by bribes to please,
Nor by desert to breed offence.
Thus would I double my life's fading space ;
And in this true delight,
But boldly say each night,
SIR EDWARD DYER.
TO THE HON. CHARLES MONTAGUE.
Our hopes, like towering falcons, aim
At objects in an airy height; But all the pleasure of the game
Is afar off to view the flight.
The worthless prey but only shows
The joy consisted in the strife; Whate'er we take, as soon we lose
In Homer's riddle and in life.
So, whilst in feverish sleeps we think
We taste what waking we desire, The dream is better than the drink,
Which only feeds the sickly fire.
'T is much immortal beauty to admire,
LORD EDWARD THURLOW,
To the mind's eye things well appear,
At distance through an artful glass ; Bring but the flattering objects near,
They ’re all a senseless gloomy mass. Seeing aright, we see our woes :
Then what avails it to have eyes ? From ignorance our comfort flows,
The only wretched are the wise.
So every spirit, as it is most pure,
And hath in it the more of heavenly light,
So it the fairer body doth procure
For of the soul the body form doth take ;
For soul is form, and doth the body make. The unknown are better than ill known : Rumor can ope the grave.
Therefore wherever that thou dost behold Acquaintance I would have, but when 't depends A comely corpse, with beauty fair endued, Not on the number, but the choice, of friends.
Know this for certain, that the same doth hola Books should, not business, entertain the light, Fit to receive the seed of virtue strewed ;
A beauteous soul, with fair conditions thewed, And sleep, as undisturbed as death, the night.
For all that fair is, is by nature good ;
That is a sign to know the gentle blood.
Yet oft it falls that many a gentle mind With Nature's hand, not Art's; and pleasures Dwells in deformed tabernacle drowned, yield,
Either by chance, against the course of kind, Horace might envy in his Sabine field.
Or through unaptnesse in the substance found,
Which it assumed of some stubborne ground, * This is frequently attributed to William Byrd. Bartlett
, how. That will not yield unto her form's direction, ever, gives it to Sir Edward Dyer, referring to Hannah's Courtly Poets as authority. so, also, Ward, in his English Poets, Vol. 1., 1880. | But is performed with some foul imperfection.
A FANCY FROM FONTENELLE. “De mémoires de Roses on n'a point vu mourir le Jardinier.” The Rose in the garden slipped her bud, And she laughed in the pride of her youthful blood, As she thought of the Gardener standing by — “ He is old—so old! And he soon must die!”
The full Rose waxed in the warm June air,
But the breeze of the morning blew, and found
And I wove the thing to a random rhyme :
í heur in my heart, I hear in its ominous puises,
Cowards and laggards fall back; but alert to the saddle,
The road is through dolor and dread, over crags and morasses;
I hear in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses,
LOUISE I MOGEN GUINEY.
And oft it falls (aye me, the more to rue !)
I weigh not fortune's frown or smile;
I joy not much in earthly joys ;
I am not fond of fancy's toys :
I quake not at the thunder's crack ;
I tremble not at news of war ;
I shrink not at a blazing star;
envy none, I none disdain.
Thought is deeper than all speech,
Feeling deeper than all thought; Souls to souls can never teach
What unto themselves was taught.
I see ambition never pleased ;
I see some Tantals starved in store ;
I see even Midas gape for more ;
I fawn not on the great (in show);
Neither too lofty nor too low :
We are spirits clad in veils ;
Man by man was never seen ; All our deep communing fails
To remove the shadowy screen.
Heart to heart was never known ;
Mind with mind did never meet; We are columns left alone
Of a temple once complete.
FROM " FAREWELL TO FOLLIE," 1617.
Like the stars that gem the sky,
Far apart, though seeming near, In our light we scattered lie ;
All is thus but starlight here.
What is social company
But a babbling summer streamn? What our wise philosophy
But the glancing of a dream ?
SWEET are the thoughts that savor of content;
The quiet mind is richer than a crown ; Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent, The
poor estate scorns Fortune's angry frown: Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such
bliss, Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss. The homely house that harbors quiet rest,
The cottage that affords no pride or care, The mean, that 'grees with country music best,
The sweet consort of mirth's and music's fare. Obscured life sets down a type of bliss ; A mind content both crown and kingdom is.
Only when the sun of love
Melts the scattered stars of thought, Only when we live above
What the dim-eyed world hath taught, Only when our souls are fed
By the fount which gave them birth, And by inspiration led
Which they never drew from earth,
We, like parted drops of rain,
Swelling till they meet and run, Shall be all absorbed again,
Melting, flowing into one.
Swell, curled waves, high as Jove's roof;
That innocence is tempest proof ; Though surly Nerens frown, my thoughts are calm; Then strike, Affliction, for thy wounds are balm,
CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH.