Oldalképek
PDF
ePub

Or like a wind that chafes the flood, MARQUIS OF MONTROSE.
Or bubbles which on water stood :
Even such is man, whose borrowed light

[1612 - 1650.]
Is straight called in, and paid to-night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies; I'LL NEVER LOVE THEE MORE.
The spring entombed in autumn lies;
The dew dries up, the star is shot;

My dear and only love, I pray
The flight is past,
- and man forgot.

That little world of thee
Be governed by no other sway

But purest monarchy:

For if confusion have a part,
ELEGY.

Which virtuous souls abhor,

I'll call a synod in my heart,
SLEEP on, my love, in thy cold bed,

And never love thee more.
Never to be disquieted!
My last good night! Thou wilt not wake As Alexander I will reign,
Till thy fate shall overtake;

And I will reign alone;
Till age, or grief, or sickness must My thoughts did evermore disdain
Marry iny body to that dust

A rival on my throne. It so much loves, and fill the room

He either fears his fate too much, My heart keeps empty in thy tomb.

Or his deserts are small,

Who dares not put it to the touch, Stay for me there! I will not fail

To gain or lose it all.
To meet thee that hollow vale.
And think not much of my delay:
I am already on the way,
And follow thee with all the speed
Desire can make, or sorrow breed.

JAMES SHIRLEY.
Each minute is a short degree,
And every hour a step towards thee.

(1596 - 1666.)
At night, when I betake to rest,
Next morn I rise nearer my west

DEATH THE LEVELLER. Of life, almost by eight hours' sail, Than when sleep breathed his drowsy gale. The glories of our blood and state Thus from the sun my vessel steers, Are shadows, not substantial things; And my day's compass downward bears :

There is no armor against fate; Nor labor I to stem the tide

Death lays his icy hand on kings: Through which to thee I swiftly glide.

Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down, "T is true, with shame and grief I yield, And in the dust be equal made Thou, like the van, first took'st the field, With the poor crooked scythe and spade. And gotten liast the victory, In thus adrenturing to die

Some men with swords may reap the field, Before me, whose more years might crave And plant fresh laurels where they A just precedence in the grave.

kill; But hark ! my pulse, like a soft drum, But their strong nerves at last must yield; Beats my approach, tells thee I come: They tame but one another still: And slow howe'er my marches be,

Early or late I shall at last sit down by thee.

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath The thought of this bids me go on,

When they, pale captives, creep to death. And wait any dissolution With hope and comfort. Dear, forgive The garlands wither on your brow; The crime, -- I am content to live

Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Dividel, with but half a heart,

Upon Death's purple altar now Till we shall meet, and never part.

See where the victor-victim bleeds:

SIR THOMAS BROWNE.

RICHARD CRASHAW.

29

Your heads must come

To the cold tornb; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

EDWARD HERBERT, (EARL OF

CHERBURY.)

Whilst I do rest, my soul advance;
Make my sleep a holy trance :
That I may, my rest being wrought,
Awake into soine holy thought,
And with as active vigor run
My course, as doth the nimble sun.
Sleep is a death; 0, make me try,
By sleeping, what it is to die:
And as gently lay my head
On my grave as now my bed.
Howe'er I rest, great God, let me
Awake again at last with thee.
And thus assured, behold I lie
Securely, or to wake or die.
These are my drowsy days; in vain
I do now wake to sleep again :
O, come that hour when I shall never
Sleep thus again, but wake forever.

[1581- 1648.)

RICHARD CRASHAW.

CELINDA. WALKING thus towards a pleasant grove, Which did, it seemed, in new delight The pleasures of the time unite To give a triumph to their love, They stayed at last, and on the grass Reposéd so as o'er his breast She bowed her gracious head to rest, Such a weight as no burden was. Long their tixed eyes to heaven bent, Unchanged they did never move, As if so great and pure a love No glass but it could represent. “These eyes again thine eyes shall see, Thy hands again these hands infold, And all chaste pleasures can be told, Shall with us everlasting be. Let then no doubt, Celinda, touch, Much less your fairest mind invade; Were pot our souls immortal made, Our equal loves can make them such."

(1605 - 1650.)

WISHES.

WHOE'ER she be,
That not impossible She
That shall command my heart and me;

Where'er she lie,
Locked up from mortal eye
In shady leaves of destiny,

Till that ripe birth
Of studied Fate stand forth,
And teach her fair steps to our earth;

SIR THOMAS BROWNE.

(1605 – 1682.)

| Till that divine Ilea take a shrine Of crystal flesh, through which to shine:

EVENING HYMN.

Meet you her, my Wishes, Bespeak her to my blisses, And be ye called, my absent kisses.

The night is come; like to the day,
D-part not thou, gieat God, away.
Lut not my sins, black as the night,
Eclipse the lustre of thy light.
Keep in my horizon : for to me
The sun makes not the day, but thee.
'Thon whose nature cannot sleep,
On my temples sentry keep:
Guard me 'gainst those watchful foes,
Whose rves are open while mine close.
Let no dreams my head infest
But such as Jacob's temples blest.

I wish her beauty
That owes not all its duty
To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie:
Something more than
Taffeta or tissue can,
Or rampant feather, or rich fan.

[blocks in formation]

When love with unconfinéd wings

Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings

To whisper at my grates ; When I lie tangled in her hair,

And fettered to her eye, The birds that wanton in the air

Know no such liberty.

ers.

Whate'er delight
Can make day's forehead bright
Or give down to the wings of night.
Soft silken hours,
Open suns, shady bowers;
'Bove all, nothing within that lowers.
Days, that need borrow
No part of their good morrow
From a fore-spent night of sorrow :
Days, that in spite
Of darkness, by the light
Of a clear mind are day all night.
Life, that dares send
A challenge to his end;
And when it comes, says,

• Welcome, friend."

Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take

That for a hermitage :
If I have freedom in my love,

And in my soul am free,
Angels alone that soar above

Enjoy such liberty.

TO LUCASTA.

Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind,

That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast, and quiet mind,

To war and arms I fly.

I wish her store
Of worth may leave her poor
Of wishes; and I wish — no more.

True: a new mistress now I chase,

The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace

A sword, a horse, a shield.

[blocks in formation]
[graphic][merged small][merged small]
« ElőzőTovább »