Of sufferance comes ease.

Who wayles at paine of sorrowes deadly smarte,
By wayling much encreaseth sorrowes might:
In greatest griefes who shewes the quiets(t) harte,
By pacience driues sharpst griefe to speedy flight.
Repine, griefe growes, be still, griefe soone decayes:
Suffrance the salue for griefe at all assayes.

As Balles if throwne gainst stones do soone rebounde,
But fast they stick, if cast they be at durte:
So griefs nought harme where yeelding none is found:

Hail nymph of every novel grace,
Of airy step and varying pace;
With frolic smile, and meaning sly,
Beaming from thy roving eye!
With glance deriding wrinkled Care,
And sportive, comic, easy air;
Thy brow with many a feather crown'd,
In many a various climate found:
Thy robe of every rainbow hue,
As bright, as evanescent too;
Thy girdle by the Graces wove,
And breath'd on by the Queen of Love;

Thy cheeks the lily now disclose,
Now emulate the glowing rose:
Mirth from thine eye now flings his ray,

Sithe kindled coales close kept, continue longest quick,
And secret smarte with greater power, the pensiue mind doth prick.
Why should I cloke the griefe, from whence such passions grow,
Vnlesse my braine by Pen I purge, my brest they ouerflow.
When night with quyet pause, eche creature cals to rest,
Through quelling cares & pinching thoughts, I lye so sore oprest,
That from my setling downe, vntill the tyme I rise,
Sleepe hardly wins the force to close, my watchful drooping eies.
The Skrich Owle me besides, her dolefull tunes doth shreeke,

Fearless and firm, in anguish some have stood,
Whilst savage Cruelty has drank their blood!—
See the pale Stoic, to fulfil his part,
Must harden ev'ry nerve within his heart:
In walls of adamant, uprear'd by Pride,
Unmov'd he views a suff'ring world beside;
Whilst the fierce Indian, calm in stern repose,
Mocks at his mis'ry, and defies his foes!—
Not so—R ELIGION !—arm'd with Hope secure,
She bears distress, as angels might endure!
Meek, yet undaunted—with celestial mien,
She walks majestic thro' Affliction's scene.

Say! shou'd we mourn thee! oh exalted saint?
Tho' gen'rous friendship pours its mild complaint,
Tho' Gratitude, with soft assiduous care,
Seeks for thy grave, and strews its roses there;
Say, should we mourn thee? by Almighty Power
Releas'd, in mercy, from the suff'ring hour!
Ah no! thy Christian virtues shall impart
A balm most lement, while they wound the heart;
Thy Piety sincere—thy Friendship true,
Thy Charity, retir'd from public view!
Thy gen'rous kindness! eager to select
The worthy object of the world's neglect,

Medea now dishonour'd and forlorn,
Her breast by grief and indignation torn,
Exclaims, Where's now the faith he swore so strong?
Invokes each god, the witness of her wrong.
Her wasted strength no due repast repairs,
No peaceful slumber frees her mind from cares,
In bitter tears consuming all the time,
She broods incessant o'er her husband's crime;
Extended upon earth's cold bed she lies,
Nor raises from the ground her weeping eyes,
Of grief insatiate, and deaf to joy,
In vain her friends each soothing art employ:

Flower-shedding Spring, with a good servant's haste,
Is hurrying about, to make the many ways
That Summer will pass through, now wild and waste,
Pleasant as high-roads on blythe holidays;
The Bees, impatient of their honey toil,
Hover and hum about the unbudded flowers;
(O right-industrious they who whilst they moil
Rejoice, which Idlesse does not in his weedy bower!)
Millions of golden flowers yellow the hills,
That look and shine like gathered heaps of gold;
And birds, and buds, and leaves — river and rills —

IMITATED .

Rob'd like Diana, ready for the chase,
Her mind as spotless, and as fair her face,
Young Sylvia stray'd beneath the dowy dawn,
To course th' imperial stag o'er Windsor lawn:
There Cupid view'd her speeding o'er the plain,
The first and fairest of the rural train,
And, by a small mistake, the pow'r of Love
Thought her the virgin-goddess of the grove.
Soon aw'd with innocence, t' evade her sight
He fled, and dropp'd his quiver in the flight:

A.D. 1500.

Come, eveninge gale! the crimsonne rose
Is droopinge for thy sighe of dewe,
The hyacinthe wooes thy kisse to close
In slumberre sweete its eye of blue.

Shine, eveninge starre! the valley-streame
Hath loste the tinges of the sunne,
And lingers for thy pearlie beame,
To telle its bosome daye is done.

Rise, eveninge moone! thy holie raye

( " Gastibelza, l'homme a la carabine. " )

Gastibelza, the man with the carabine,
Sung in this wise:
" Hath one of you here known Dona Sabine
With the gentle eyes?
Ay, dance and sing! For the night draws nigh
O'er hill and lea.
— The wind that wails o'er yon mountain high
Will madden me.

" Hath one of you here known Dona Sabine,
To me so dear?
Her mother, the old, old Maugrabine,