Eyes of blue and hair of gold,
Cheeks all brown with summer tan,
Lips that much of laughter hold,
That is mother's little Man.

Shining curls like chestnut brown,
Long-lashed eyes, demure and staid,
Sweetest face in all the town,
That is mother's little Maid.

Dainty room with snow-white beds,
Where, like flowers with petals curled,
Rest in peace two dreaming heads,
That—is mother's little World!

Pity the sorrows of the poor blind,
For they can but little comfort find;
As they walk along the street,
They know not where to put their feet.
They are deprived of that earthly joy
Of seeing either man, woman, or boy;
Sad and lonely through the world they go,
Not knowing a friend from a foe:
Nor the difference betwixt day and night,
For the want of their eyesight;
The blind mother cannot see her darling boy,
That was once her soul's joy
By day and night,
Since she lost her precious sight;
To her the world seems dark and drear,

Alone on arid Phrygian sands
Pale Niobe a statue stands,
And Progne, all her sorrows done,
A flitting swallow twitters on.
But if I underwent, I wis,
Some pleasing metamorphosis,
Ah sweet! thy mirror I would be
That thou might'st often gaze at me.
And I would be thy silken vest,
That thou might'st fold me to thy breast;
Would that I were a cooling wave
Thy soft and rosy limbs to lave.
Thy perfume I would be, my fair,
Mixed in the torrents of thy hair;
I fain would be thy girdle placed
Chastely around thy shapely waist;

She stands
In the quiet darkness,
This troubled woman
Bowed by
Weariness and pain
Like an
Autumn flower
In the frozen rain,
Like a
Wind-blown autumn flower
That never lifts its head

High as a star, yet lowly as a flower,
Unknown she takes her unassuming place
At Earth's proud masquerade—the appointed hour
Strikes, and, behold, the marvel of her face.

Divinest Syren, cruell faire;
Cause of my life, and my despaire;
Griefe that descends to words is weake;
But mine is full and cannot speake:
For how can Fate more cruell be,
Then to grant life, denying thee?
Yet I in death hope to adore
Those joyes without which life is poore:
My reason's banish'd by my paine;
Who can lose thee, and it retaine?
How soon was my calme soule dejected,
And ruine suffer'd ere expected!
But since that blisse which once was mine,
Thou to another wilt resigne,
Be happy in thy choice; whilst I
In unregarded ashes lye,

To the Ocean now I fly,
And those happy climes that ly
Where day never shuts his eye,
Up in the broad fields of the sky:
There I suck the liquid ayr
All amidst the Gardens fair
Of Hesperus, and his daughters three
That sing about the golden tree:
Along the crisped shades and bowres
Revels the spruce and jocond Spring,

The Graces, and the rosie-boosom'd Howres,
Thither all their bounties bring,
That there eternal Summer dwels,
And West winds, with musky wing
About the cedar'n alleys fling
Nard, and Cassia's balmy smels.

I HAD not thought to have unlockt my lips
In this unhallow'd air, but that this Jugler
Would think to charm my judgement, as mine eyes,
Obtruding false rules pranckt in reasons garb.
I hate when vice can bolt her arguments,
And vertue has no tongue to check her pride:
Impostor do not charge most innocent nature,
As if she would her children should be riotous
With her abundance, she good cateress
Means her provision onely to the good
That live according to her sober laws,
And holy dictate of spare Temperance:
If every just man that now pines with want

Sweet Echo, sweetest Nymph that liv'st unseen
Within thy airy shell
By slow Meander's margent green,
And in the violet imbroider'd vale
Where the love-lorn Nightingale
Nightly to thee her sad Song mourneth well.
Canst thou not tell me of a gently Pair
That likest thy Narcissus are?
O if thou have
Hid them in som flowry Cave,
Tell me but where,
Sweet Queen of Parly, Daughter of the Sphear,
So maist thou be translated to the skies,
And give resounding grace to all Heav'ns Harmonies.

The Star that bids the Shepherd fold,
Now the top of Heav'n doth hold,
And the gilded Car of Day,
His glowing Axle doth allay
In the steep Atlantick stream,
And the slope Sun his upward beam
Shoots against the dusky Pole,
Pacing toward the other goal
Of his Chamber in the East.
Meanwhile welcome Joy, and Feast,
Midnight shout, and revelry,
Tipsy dance, and Jollity.
Braid your Locks with rosy Twine
Dropping odours, dropping Wine.
Rigour now is gone to bed,
And Advice with scrupulous head,
Strict Age, and sour Severity,