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SIR EDWARD SHERBURNE.

This learned translator was born in 1818, and was constant

to the royal cause during the reign of Charles I. in whose armies he held the post of commissary-general of artillery. From March 1654, till October 1659, he travelled abroad with his pupil, Sir John Coventry. As a reward for his loyalty he was knighted by Charles If. in 1682: but suffered inconvenience on James II.'s abdication. His “ Poems “ and Translations, amorous, lusory, moral, and divine," printed in 1651, 12mo. exhibit marks of considerable genius, which, however, is not sufficiently regulated by judgment. He translated three tragedies from Seneca, viz. Medea, Troades, and Phædra and Hippolitus, and the philosophical poem of Manilius, with notes, 1675, folio. The poet Stanley was his friend and kinsman.

ICE AND FIRE,

Naked love did to thine eye,
Chloris, once, to warm him, fly:
But its subtle flame and light
Scorch'd his wings, and spoil'd his sight.

Forc'd from thence, he went to rest
In the soft couch of thy breast :

But there met a frost so great,
As his torch extinguish'd straight.

When poor Cupid thus (constrain'd His cold bed to leave) complain'd “ Alas! what lodging 's here for me, 66 If all ice and fire she be ?"

THE SURPRISE.

There's no dallying with love,

Though he be a child, and blind; Then let none the danger prove,

Who would to himself be kind : Smile he does when thou dost play, But his smiles to death betray.

Lately with the boy I sported;

Love I did not, yet love feign'd; Had no mistress, yet I courted;

Sigh I did, yet was not pain'd : 'Till at last this love in jest Prov'd in earnest my unrest.

When I saw my fair-one first,

In a feigned fire I burn'd;

But true flames my poor heart pierc'd,

When her eyes on mine she turn’d:
So a real wound I took
For my counterfeited look.

None who loves not, then, make shew :

Love's as ill deceiv'd as fate; Fly the boy, he'll cog and woo,

Mock him, and he wounds thee straight, Ah! who dally boast in vain; False love wants not real pain,

LOVE ONCE, LOVE EVER,

SHALL I, hopeless, then pursue

A fair shadow that still flies me
Shall I still adore and woo

A proud heart that does despise me?
I a constant love may so,
But, alas! a fruitless, shew.

Whilst these thoughts my soul possess,

Reason passion would o'ersway,

Bidding me my flames suppress,

Or divert some other way; But what reason would pursue, That my heart runs counter to.

So a pilot, bent to make

Search for some unfound-out land, Does with him the magnet take,

Sailing to the unknown strand; But that (steer which way he will) To the loved north points still.

[Extract from the Sun-rise."]

Thou youthful goddess of the morn,

Whose blush they in the east adore,

Daughter of Phæbus, who before Thy all-enlightening sire art born! Haste, and restore the day to me, That

my

love's beauteous object I may see!

Too much of time the night devours ;

The cock's shrill voice calls thee again :

Then quickly mount thy golden wain, Drawn by the softly-sliding hours,

And make apparent to all eyes
With what enamel thou dost paint the skies.

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Ah, now I see the sweetest dawn!

Thrice welcome to my longing sight!

Hail, divine beauty, heavenly light; I see thee through yon cloud of lawn Appear, and as thy star does glide, Blanching with rays the east on every side!

Dull silence, and the drowsy king

Of sad and melancholy dreams,

Now fly before thy cheerful beams, The darkest shadows vanquishing : The owl, that all the night did keep A hooting, now is fled, and gone to sleep.

But all those little birds, whose notes

Sweetly the listening ear enthrall,

To the clear water's murmuring fall Accord their disagreeing throats ; The lustre of that greater star Praising, to which thou art but harbinger.

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