Page images
PDF
EPUB

TRUTH THE SOUL OF BEAUTY.

179

TRUTH THE SOUL OF BEAUTY.

O HOW much more doth beauty beauteous seem
By that sweet ornament that truth doth give!
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye
As the perfumèd tincture of the roses,.
Hang on such thorns and play as wantonly

When summer's breath their maskèd buds discloses;
But, for their virtue only is their show,

They live unwooed, and unrespected fade;
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so:
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made.
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth.

W. Shakespeare.

180

THE PAINS OF MEMORY.

THE PAINS OF MEMORY.

ALEXIS, here she stayed; among these pines, Sweet hermitress, she did alone repair;

Here did she spread the treasure of her hair,

More rich than that brought from the Colchian mines; She sat her by these muskèd eglantines,

(The happy place the print seems yet to bear)—
Her voice did sweeten here thy sugar'd lines,

To which winds, trees, beasts, birds, did lend an ear;
Me here she first perceived, and here a morn
Of bright carnations did o'erspread her face;
Here did she sigh, here first my hopes were born,
And first I got a pledge of promised grace;
But ah! what served it to be happy so,
Sith passed pleasures double but new woe?

W. Drummond.

ON HIS BLINDNESS.

181

ON HIS BLINDNESS.

WHEN I consider how my light is spent

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,—
Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?
I fondly ask:-But Patience, to prevent

That murmur, soon replies; God doth not need
Either man's work, or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: His state

Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:-
They also serve who only stand and wait.

J. Milton.

182

TO MR. LAWRENCE.

TO MR. LAWRENCE.

LAWRENCE, of virtuous father virtuous son,
Now that the fields are dank and ways are mire,
Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire
Help waste a sullen day, what may be won

From the hard season gaining? Time will run
On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire
The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire
The lily and rose, that neither sow'd nor spun.

What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,
Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise
To hear the lute well touch'd, or artful voice

Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air?
He who of those delights can judge, and spare
To interpose them oft, is not unwise.

J. Milton.

IN PRAISE OF DAPHNE.

IN PRAISE OF DAPHNE.

My Daphne's hair is twisted gold,
Bright stars a-piece her eyes do hold,
My Daphne's brow enthrones the graces,
My Daphne's beauty stains all faces,
On Daphne's cheek grow rose and cherry,
But Daphne's lip a sweeter berry;

Daphne's snowy hand but touched does melt,
And then no heavenlier warmth is felt;
My Daphne's voice tunes all the spheres,
My Daphne's music charms all ears;
Fond am I thus to sing her praise,
These glories now are turned to bays.

HER GOLDEN HAIR.

AMARANTHA, sweet and fair,

O braid no more that shining hair!
Let it fly, as unconfined

As its calm ravisher, the wind;
Who hath left his darling east
To wanton o'er that spicy nest.
Ev'ry tress must be confest,
But neatly tangled at the best—
Like a clew of golden thread
Most excellently ravelled;

Do not, then, wind up that light
In ribbons, and o'ercloud in night,
Like the sun's in early ray;

J. Lylye.

But shake your head, and scatter day!

Colonel Lovelace.

183

« PreviousContinue »