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"Now saye, English captaine, what woldest thou give
RELIQUES OF ANCIENT ENGLISH Poetry.
Elizabeth of Bohemia
You meaner beauties of the night,
Which poorly satisfy our eyes
You common-people of the skies,
Ye violets that first
appear, By your pure purple mantles known, Like the proud virgins of the year,
As if the spring were all your own, What are you when the Rose is blown? Ye curious chanters of the wood,
That warble forth dame Nature's lays
By your weak accents; what's your praise
In form and beauty of her mind,
Tell me, if she were not design'd Th’ eclipse and glory of her kind ?
SIR H. WOTTON,
Cherry Ripe THERE is a garden in her face
Where roses and white lilies blow ; A heavenly paradise is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow ;
Of orient pearl a double row,
They look like rose-buds filld with snow :
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
All that approach with eye or hand, These sacred cherries to come nigh, -Till Cherry Ripe themselves do cry!
With night we banish sorrow,
To give my Love good-morrow. Wings from the wind, to please her mind,
Notes from the Lark I'll borrow; Bird prune thy wing, Nightingale sing, To give my Love good-morrow ;
To give my Love good-morrow
Notes from them all I'll borrow.
Sing birds in every furrow,
Give my fair Love good-morrow :
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow!
To give my Love good-morrow
Death the Leveller
Are shadows, not substantial things ;
Sceptre and Crown
Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill ; But their strong nerves at last must yield ; They tame but one another still :
Early or late
They stoop, to And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds ; Upon Death's purple altar now, See where the victor-victim bleeds :
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb,
J. SHIRLEY. h Annan Water ANNAN Water's wading deep,
And my Love Annie's wondrous bonny ; And I am loath she should wet her feet,
Because I love her best of ony. He's loupen on his bonny gray,
He rode the right gate and the ready; For all the storm he wadna stay,
For seeking of his bonny lady. And he has ridden o’er field and fell,
Through moor, and moss, and many a mire ; His spurs of steel were sair to bide,
And from her four feet flew the fire. My bonny gray, now play your part !
If ye be the steed that wins my dearie, With corn and hay ye'll be fed for aye,
And never spur shall make you wearie.' The gray was a mare, and a right gude mare ;
But when she wan the Annan Water, She could not have ridden the ford that night
Had a thousand merks been wadded at her. “O boatman, boatman, put off your boat,
Put off your boat for golden money!' But for all the gold in fair Scotland,
He dared not take him through to Annie '( I was sworn so late yestreen,
Not by a single oath, but mony !
Or never could I face my honey,
The side was stey, and the bottom deep,
From bank to brae the water pouring ; The bonny gray mare she swat for fear,
For she heard the water-kelpy roaring. He spurr'd her forth into the flood,
I wot she swam both strong and steady ; But the stream was broad, and her strength did fail, And he never saw his bonny lady!
To a Waterfowl
WHITHER, 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?
Vainly the fowler's eye
Thy figure floats along.
Seek'st thou the plashy brink
On the chafed ocean side ?
There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,The desert and illimitable air,
Lone wandering, but not lost.
All day thy wings have fann'd,
Though the dark night is near.
And soon that toil shall end ; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend
Soon o'er thy shelter'd nest.
Thou'rt gone—the abyss of heaven Hath swallow'd up thy form-yet on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.