The little birds in copse and hatch
Were singing as their throats would break;
The little nestlings in the thatch
Were crying hungrily awake;
The little bantam on the green,
With sunlight ruddy in his comb,
Went strutting eager to be seen:
And thou, my love, wast coming home!

The beauteous warbling of the birds,
The simple things they had to say,
The callow beaks, so full of words,
Did make a music of the day:
That bit o' sunbeam bright as blood,
So like a feather in the comb,
Through all creation seemed to flood,

The angry winds not aye
Do cuff the roaring deep,
And though heavens often weep,
Yet do they smile for joy when comes dismay:
Frosts do not ever kill the pleasant flow'rs,
And love hath sweets when gone are all the soures.
This said a shepheard, closing in his armes
His deare, who blusht to feele love's new alarmes.

BY MRS. ANNE P. DINNIES .

Come, rouse thee, dearest! — 't is not well
To let the spirit brood
Thus darkly o'er the cares that swell
Life's current to a flood.
As brooks, and torrents, rivers, all,
Increase the gulf in which they fall,
Such thoughts, by gathering up the rills
Of lesser griefs, spread real ills;
And, with their gloomy shades, conceal
The land-marks Hope would else reveal.

Come, rouse thee, now — I know thy mind,

I.

Strephone, in vaine thou bring thy rimes and songs,
Deckt with grave Pindar's old and withered flow'rs;
In vaine thou count'st the faire Europa's wrongs,
And her whom Jove deceiv'd in golden show'rs.
Thou hast slept never under mirtles' shed,
Or if that passion hath thy soule opprest,
It is but for some Grecian mistris dead.
Of such old sighs thou dost discharge thy brest,
How can true love with fables hold a place?
Thou who with fables dost set forth thy love,
Thy love a pretty fable needs must prove,

Quite weary'd with the business of the Day,
To unfrequented Shades I took my way,
And by a murmuring Stream supinely lay.
Soft thoughts confusedly revell'd in my Breast,
Till by composing Slumbers I was bless'd.
Husht was my Sences as the unhaunted Grove,
And all the Vision of my Soul was Love;
Methoughts I saw a soft Celestial Youth,
Whose Eyes speak Love, and smiles Eternal Truth:
Gay as the Spring in all its vernal Pride,
With Amorous Joy sit panting by my side.
I gaz'd with Wonder at a Form so bright,

" Oh, why do ye stand so still, lad,
In yon strange cloak of green?
And why have ye shut with a will, lad,
Them eyes as were once so keen? "

" There's a grumble of guns on the hill, lass;
But under it, where I lie,
The ground of my grave is still, lass;
And stiller beneath am I. "

" Ah, ye do well to be still, lad,
For weary your days have been,
With grumble o' guns on the hill, lad;
But why have ye got on green? "

" In the country where I have been, lass,
All blotted with blood and clay,

Love, like Original Sin, in all does dwell,
Fools sighs in private, and the Witty tell;
Boast they'r fond Passions in repeated Rhymes,
That other Reigning Mischief of the Times:
The Learn'd asham'd to own their Amorous Pain,
Vent the warm Raptures in a Pious strain,
Sigh, Languish, Die, (tho' for a Mortal fair,)
In Lays Divine, like Quarles and Arwaker .

In vain alas ye search your artless Books,
A lover's Fates writ in his Mistris's Looks;
Tis to no purpose that ye gaze ith' Skys,
There are no Stars like her propitious Eyes.
When Hearts are lost to set a Figure vain,
None but the Thief knows if you'll hav't again.
Your Venus ask, not Mercury 's Aid intreat,
For he knows nothing of an amorous Cheat:
'Tis she alone that can the Mystery tell,
Read but her Looks they are infallible;
Consult the upper World for Death and Wars,
She is Love's Heaven, her Eyes the only Stars:

Iff this be love, to fyxe the Eyes onn grownde
To fetch deepe sighes, and softely make my mone
To sheedd not bloode yett have a mortall wounde
To take delighte to muse and walke alone
To burne in flames, yet nott Consume by fyre
Yf this be love, such love desarves his hyre

To feele a harme conceald from whence itt growes
To lyke in harte, yett feare to shewe the same
To seeke releefe from whence I reape my woes
To cloake my inwarde greyfe with outewarde game
To fayne dislik yett languyshe in Desyre

Sonnett

Nott the disdaynes of her prowde youthly mynde
which laughes at love, and scornes to tread his trace
Nor my desyres that saile againste the winde
nor yett my death, depainted in her face
Nor yett my hope ready to suffer wracke
with broken masts devoyde off sayle or sturne
Nor all the cares that do surcharge my Backe
nor that straunge flame wherwith my vaines do burn
Nor all my teares lett fall to quench that fire