English

Love Child with Cold and missing in the skyes
The Other Sunn, flew to my Mistris Eyes
To warme him; but their Over Ardent light
Scorcht his gay wings and him bereft of Sight.
Thence he shrinkes down to shroud him in nir brest,
But the cold frost there bred him more unrest,
Quencht his brand, strooke him Numme through Evry part,
And sure had kild him had he reachd her hart.
But soone he left her, and was heard to crye,
O whither shall I now for shelter fly?
When this faire frame which I a Seat supposd,

Now how shall I do with my love and my pride;
Dear Dick, give me counsel, if friendship has any;
Prithee purge, or let blood! surly Richard replied,
And forget the coquette in the arms of your Nanny.

While I pleaded with passion how much I deserv'd,
For the pains and the torments of more than a year;
She look'd in an almanac, whence she observ'd,
That it wanted a fortnight to Bart'l'mew-fair.

My Cowley and Waller how vainly I quote,
While my negligent judge only hears with her eye!

“Lady, she is round the Needles”: now Saint Catherine's Cape they sight:
Now her head is set north-eastward; 'fore the beam the Foreland light.

“Look, we see the light from Southsea,”— and beyond the fancy goes,
Where e'en now the fated keel is gliding under dark Dunnose:

Swanlike gliding, as some cloud that, dark below, the storm-wind's hue,
Towers into silver summits, sailing o'er the tranquil blue.

O the change!— and in one hour!— when, swanlike, on the harbour's breast,

Between thin fingers of the pine
The fluid gold of sunlight slips,
And through the tamarack's grey-green fringe
Upon the level birch leaves drips.

Through all the still moist forest air
Slow trickles down the soft warm sheen,
And flecks the branching wood of ferns
With tender tints of pallid green,

To rest where close to moldered trunks
The red and purple berries lie,
Where tiny jungles of the moss
Their tropic forest rear on high.

Fast, fast asleep the woodland rests,

As one who reaches after toil and fight
A happy place, exalted peers among,
And yet remembers, not without delight,
The small beginnings whence his greatness sprung—
The breast on which he wept, to which he clung—
The spot where earth first opened on his sight—
The garden walk where first his play-shouts rung—
The spate hard by that tumbled down the height—
So Mary, Mother, on the sapphire throne,
Where thou art seated with thy Royal Child,
Thou treasurest in thy memory every stone
And rafter of that inn and manger wild,

The rude and the reckless wind,
ruthlessly strips
The leaf that last lingered on
old forest tree;
The widowed branch wails for
the love it has lost;
The parted leaf pines for
Its glories foregone.
Now sereing, in sadness, and
quite broken-hearted,
It mutters mild music, and
swan-like on-fleeteth
A burden of melody,
musing of death,
To some desert spot where,
unknown and unnoted,
Its woes and its wanderings may
both find a tomb,
Far far from the land where
it grew in its gladness,

To the sound of the waters moving,
The birds 'mid the bright flowers sing,
Oh! sweet is the bliss of loving,
And sharp is jealousy's sting.
Through these woods, where tranquillity reigneth,
To the sound of the streams sonorous,
The birds in musical chorus
Sing of the bliss that paineth;
The water that never remaineth,
But runneth in crystal glidings,
Whispereth ever the tidings
That never the heart disdaineth.

To the sound of the waters moving,
The birds 'mid the bright flowers sing,

When oppressed by Love's sweet sorrow,
At Juana's feet I pray,—
If I sigh and say—“To-day,”
She answers—“Oh! to-morrow!”

She weeps if any joy elates me;
If sad, she sings, and mirth comes o'er her;
And if I say that I adore her,
The cruel maiden says she hates me.
Whence then can I a solace borrow?
Except I die—and die I may—
For if I sigh and say—“To-day,”
She answers—“Oh, to-morrow!”

If, to see her eyes of brown,
I lift mine, she downward gazes;
But the maiden heavenward raises

Atomb by skilful hands is raised,
Close to a sainted shrine,
And there is laid a stalwart Knight,
The last of all his line.
Beside that noble monument,
A Squire doth silent stand,
Leaning in pensive wise upon
The cross-hilt of his brand.

Around him peals the harmony
Of friars at even-song,
He notes them not, as passing by
The hymning brothers throng:
And he hath watched the monument
Three weary nights and days,
And ever on the marble cold
Is fixed his steadfast gaze.

Tell me, fair maid, tell me truly,
How should infant Love be fed;
If with dewdrops, shed so newly
On the bright green clover blade;
Or, with roses plucked in July,
And with honey liquored?
O, no! O, no!
Let roses blow,
And dew-stars to green blade cling:
Other fare,
More light and rare,
Befits that gentlest Nursling.

Feed him with the sigh that rushes
'Twixt sweet lips, whose muteness speaks
With the eloquence that flushes
All a heart's wealth o'er soft cheeks;
Feed him with a world of blushes,