I DO confess thou 'rt smooth and fair, And I might have gone near to love thee,
Had I not found the lightest prayer That lips could speak, had power to move thee:
But I can let thee now alone,
As worthy to be loved by none.
I do confess thou 'rt sweet; yet find
Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets,
Thy favors are but like the wind,
That kisses everything it meets; And since thou canst with more than one, Thou 'rt worthy to be kissed by none.
The morning rose that untouched stands Armed with her briers, how sweetly smells!
But plucked and strained through ruder hands,
PACK clouds away, and welcome day,
With night we banish sorrow;
Sweet air, blow soft; mount, larks, aloft,
To give my love good-morrow.
Wings from the wind to please her mind,
Notes from the lark I 'il borrow;
Bird, prune thy wing; nightingale, sing,
To give my love good-morrow.
Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast;
Sing, birds, in every furrow;
And from each hill let music shrill
Give my fair love good-morrow.
Blackbird and thrush in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow;
You pretty elves, among yourselves,
Sing my fair love good-morrow.
No more her sweetness with her dwells, I SOUGHT thee round about, O thou my
But scent and beauty both are gone, And leaves fall from her, one by one.
Such fate, erelong, will thee betide, When thou hast handled been awhile,
Like sere flowers to be thrown aside:
And I will sigh, while some will smile, To see thy love for more than one Hath brought thee to be loved by none.
O LULL me, lull me, charming air!
My senses rock with wonder sweet:
Like snow on wool thy fallings are;
Soft, like a spirit's, are thy feet!
Grief who need fear
That hath an ear?
Down let him lie
And slumbering die,
And change his soul for harmony!
Offended with my question, in full choir, I answered: The all-potent, sole, imAnswered, "To find thy God thou must
Surpassing sense;
Unspeakable, inscrutable, eternal,
Lord over all;
The only terrible, strong, just, and true, Who hath no end, and no beginning knew.
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood:
Even such is man, whose borrowed light
Is straight called in, and paid to-night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies;
The spring entombed in autumn lies;
The dew dries up, the star is shot;
The flight is past, and man forgot.
SLEEP on, my love, in thy cold bed,
Never to be disquieted!
My last good night! Thou wilt not wake
Till I thy fate shall overtake;
Till age, or grief, or sickness must
Marry my body to that dust
It so much loves, and fill the room
My heart keeps empty in thy tomb.
Stay for me there! I will not fail
To meet thee in that hollow vale.
And think not much of my delay:
I am already on the way,
And follow thee with all the speed
Desire can make, or sorrow breed.
Each minute is a short degree,
And every hour a step towards thee.
At night, when I betake to rest,
Next morn I rise nearer my west
Of life, almost by eight hours' sail,
Than when sleep breathed his drowsygale.
Thus from the sun my vessel steers,
And my day's compass downward bears:
Nor labor I to stem the tide
Through which to thee I swiftly glide.
'Tis true, with shame and grief I yield,
Thou, like the van, first took'st the field,
And gotten hast the victory,
In thus adventuring to die
Before me, whose more years might crave
A just precedence in the grave.
But hark my pulse, like a soft drum,
Beats my approach, tells thee I come:
And slow howe'er my marches be,
I shall at last sit down by thee.
The thought of this bids me go on,
And wait my dissolution
With hope and comfort. Dear, forgive
The crime, I am content to live
Divided, with but half a heart,
Till we shall meet, and never part.
I'LL NEVER LOVE THEE MORE.
My dear and only love, I pray
That little world of thee
Be governed by no other sway
But purest monarchy:
For if confusion have a part,
Which virtuous souls abhor,
I'll call a synod in my heart,
And never love thee more.
As Alexander I will reign,
And I will reign alone;
My thoughts did evermore disdain
A rival on my throne.
He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
Who dares not put it to the touch,
To gain or lose it all.
DEATH THE LEVELLER.
THE glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armor against fate; Death lays his icy hand on kings: Sceptre and crown
Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another still: Early or late
They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath When they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow;
Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon Death's purple altar now
See where the victor-victim bleeds:
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb;
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.
EDWARD HERBERT, (EARL OF CHERBURY.)
WALKING thus towards a pleasant grove,
Which did, it seemed, in new delight
The pleasures of the time unite
To give a triumph to their love,
They stayed at last, and on the grass
Reposed so as o'er his breast
She bowed her gracious head to rest,
Such a weight as no burden was.
Long their fixed eyes to heaven bent,
Unchangéd they did never move,
As if so great and pure a love
No glass but it could represent.
"These eyes again thine eyes shall see,
Thy hands again these hands infold,
And all chaste pleasures can be told,
Shall with us everlasting be.
Let then no doubt, Celinda, touch,
Much less your fairest mind invade;
Were not our souls immortal made,
Our equal loves can make them such."
THE night is come; like to the day,
Depart not thou, great God, away.
Let not my sins, black as the night,
Eclipse the lustre of thy light.
Keep in my horizon: for to me
The sun makes not the day, but thee.
Thon whose nature cannot sleep,
On my temples sentry keep:
Guard me 'gainst those watchful foes,
Whose eyes are open while mine close.
Let no dreams my head infest
But such as Jacob's temples blest.
Whilst I do rest, my soul advance;
Make my sleep a holy trance:
That I may, my rest being wrought,
Awake into some holy thought,
And with as active vigor run
My course, as doth the nimble sun.
Sleep is a death; O, make me try,
By sleeping, what it is to die:
And as gently lay my head
On my grave as now my bed.
Howe'er I rest, great God, let me
Awake again at last with thee.
And thus assured, behold I lie
Securely, or to wake or die.
These are my drowsy days; in vain
I do now wake to sleep again:
O, come that hour when I shall never
Sleep thus again, but wake forever.
That not impossible She
That shall command my heart and me;
Where'er she lie,
Locked up from mortal eye In shady leaves of destiny,
Till that ripe birth
Of studied Fate stand forth,
And teach her fair steps to our earth;
Till that divine
Idea take a shrine
Of crystal flesh, through which to shine:
Meet you her, my Wishes, Bespeak her to my blisses,
And be ye called, my absent kisses.
I wish her beauty
That owes not all its duty
To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie:
Something more than
Taffeta or tissue can,
Or rampant feather, or rich fan.
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