English

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

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

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:

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,

Sabrina fair,
——Listen where thou art sitting
Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave,
——In twisted braids of lilies knitting
The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair;
——Listen for dear honour's sake,
——Goddess of the silver lake,
Listen and save!

——Listen and appear to us,
——In name of great Oceanus,
——By the earth-shaking Neptune's mace,
——And Tethys' grave majestic pace;
——By hoary Nereus' wrinkled look,
——And the Carpathian wizard's hook;
——By scaly Triton's winding shell,

For a little while,
A heartsick season,
Blind fate's unreason
Withheld thy face,—
For a sunless space
Thy voice, thy smile.

But now on the hills
There is health and laughter.
No more hereafter
The voiceless pain.
There's mirth in the rain,
There's May in the rills.

Now earth's far corners
No more withhold thee;
No more enfold thee
The fetters of change;
And thou art stranger
To the tears of mourners.

For me and thee
No more—no longer—
The hopeless hunger,

There's a beautiful Artist abroad in the world,
And her pencil is dipped in heaven,—
The gorgeous hues of Italian skies,
The radiant sunset's richest dyes,
The light of Aurora's laughing eyes,
Are each to her pictures given.

As I walked abroad yestere'en, what time
The sunset was fairest to see,
I saw her wonderful brush had been
Over a maple tree—half of it green—
And the fairest coloring that ever was seen
She had left on that maple tree.

There was red of every possible hue,
There was yellow of every dye,

Her home is far, oh! far away!
The clear light in her eyes
Hath haught to do with earthly day,
'Tis kindled from the skies.
Let her depart!

She looks upon the things of earth,
Even as some gentle star
Seems gazing down on grief or mirth,
How softly, yet how far!
Let her depart!

Her spirit's hope—her bosom's love—
Oh! could they mount and fly!
She never sees a wandering dove,
But for its wings to sigh.
Let her depart!

She never hears a soft wind bear
Low music on its way,

Now at the grave of Summer stands
A priest, in purple vestments stoled,
And through the hills, his lifted hands,
There runs a rosary of gold.