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'Now saye, English captaine, what woldest thou give
'Ye captaines couragious, of valour so bold,
'No captaine of England; behold in your sight
'But art thou a woman, as thou dost declare,
The Prince of Great Parma heard of her renowne,
But this virtuous mayden despised them all :
Then to her owne country shee backe did returne,
RELIQUES OF ANCIENT ENGLISH POETRY.
Elizabeth of Bohemia
You meaner beauties of the night,
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 Thinking your passions understood
By your weak accents; what's your praise
So when my Mistress shall be seen
THERE is a garden in her face
SIR H. WOTTON.
Where roses and white lilies blow;
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
Her eyes like angels watch them still;
Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill
All that approach with eye or hand, These sacred cherries to come nigh, -Till Cherry Ripe themselves do cry!
PACK, clouds, away, and welcome day
Wake from thy nest, Robin Red-breast,
And from each hill, let music shrill,
Death the Leveller
THE glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
Death lays his icy hand on kings :
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
They stoop to fate,
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:
To the cold tomb,
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.
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;
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 !
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,
But for all the gold in fair Scotland,
'OI was sworn so late yestreen,
The side was stey, and the bottom deep,
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
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,-
Lone wandering, but not lost.
All day thy wings have fann'd,
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.