English

I.

Come, Chloris , to Aminta 's breast retire;
Let thy soft sorrow's sympathetic dew,
Shed its damp influence on love's smoaky fire,
In both our bosoms, the same end pursue,
And both, at once, with purer flames inspire.
Let it, miraculously strong, this double wonder do!
At once, quench love , and light up friendship , too.
Since tender passions prove too weak,
To lift thy sinking hope;
And ev'n thy downy nature cannot break
That stubborn flint, which binds, with narrow scope,
Philander 's rocky heart.

AS RELATED BY SERGEANT LEIGH ON THE NIGHT HE GOT HIS CAPTAINCY AT THE RESTORATION .

I'll tell you a story: but pass the — jack, —
And let us make merry to-night, my men.
Aye, those were the days when my beard was black —
I like to remember them now and then;
Then Miles was living, and Cuthbert there —
On his lip was never a sign of down;
But I carry about some braided hair,
That has not yet changed from the glossy brown
That it show'd the day when I broke the heart
Of the bravest of destriers, — Britomarte. —

If, fix'd on yours, my eyes, in pray'r, you see,
You must not call my zeal idolatry!
For, since our maker's throne is plac'd so high,
That only, in his works, the god we spy:
And what's most bright, most gives him to our view,
I look most near him, when I look on you .

" Where shall we go for our garlands glad
At the falling of the year,
When the burnt-up banks are yellow and sad,
When the boughs are yellow and sere?
Where are the old ones that once we had,
And when are the new ones near?
What shall we do for our garlands glad
At the falling of the year? "

" Child! can I tell where the garlands go?
Can I say where the lost leaves veer

( " ASHTAROTH . " )

We severed in autumn early,
Ere the earth was torn by the plough;
The wheat and the oats and the barley
Are ripe for the harvest now.
We sunder'd one misty morning,
Ere the hills were dimm'd by the rain,
Through the flowers those hills adorning —
Thou comest not back again.

My heart is heavy and weary
With the weight of a weary soul;

HAVING THE SMALL-POX ,

Soon after the recovery of Mrs. Mohun.

Scarce could the general joy for Mohun appear,
But new attempts shew other dangers near;
Beauty's attack'd in her imperial fort,
Where all her Loves and Graces kept their court;
In her chief residence besieg'd at last,
Laments to see her fairest fields laid waste.
On things immortal all attempts are vain;
Tyrant Disease! 't is loss of time and pain;
Glut thy wild rage, and load thee with rich prize,

What's a good conscience, Eccho, canst say? Ay!
Say then, and what 'tis manifest. A feast!
Where is't? i'th' understanding wholly? O lye!
Is it then, Eccho, in my brest? My rest!
Rest? is't from pain or sin, say whether? Either!
If both, 'tis heaven on earth, a saint's bliss. Yes!
Is't in our own or others powers? Ours!
O then a jewel 'tis, rich and bright. Right!
Then tell me how shall I come by it? Buy it .
If gold will buy't gold I'l provide. O wide!
If gold will not, what else will do it? Do it!

How strong is love! what tongue expresse it can,
Or heart conceive, since it made God a man?
How strong is love! which made the God-man dye,
That man might live with God eternally?
Lord! let this love of Thine my heart inspire
With love again, as sparks rise from the fire.
Thy love's a sun, give me a beam from thence,
Which may both light and heat alike dispence,
Light to direct others the surest way
That leads to heaven and everlasting joy:
Heat to preserve in me a constant motion
Of fervent zeal to Thee, and pure devotion;

Love is a treacherous heat, a smothering spark,
Blown up, by children's breath, who shun the dark:
At first, the fire is innocently bright,
Glows gently gay, and scatters warm delight:
But left, neglected, and unquench'd, too long,
The nourish'd flame grows terrible and strong;
'Till, blazing fierce, it spreads on every side,
And burns its kindler, with ungrateful pride,

Who thought this snake would e're have found
An entrance into this inclosed ground,
Or that a serpent here should hide his head
Under this sweet and flowry bed:

But 'tis no newes, for long ago
(It was the divels trick man to entice)
A greater serpent made its way into
A better garden, Paradise.

And ever since there is no place
Of pleasure which we would impropriate,
But that therein the serpent showes his face,
Though we discover him too late.

We see him not before we feel