ON HIS DECEASED WIFE.

METHOUGHT I saw my late-espoused Saint, Brought to me, like Alcestis, from the grave; Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave, Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint. Mine, as whom wash'd from spot of child-bed taint, Purification in the' Old Law did save;

And such as yet, once more, I trust to have Full sight of her, in Heaven without restraint,Came vested all in white, pure as her mind: Her face was veil'd, yet to my fancied sight Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shin'd So clear, as in no face with more delight. But O! as to embrace me she inclin'd,

I wak'd-she fled, and day brought back my pain.

SONG.

On May Morning.

NO OW the bright morning star, day's harbinger,
Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her
The flow'ry May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose.
Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire
Mirth and youth and warm desire;
Woods and groves are of thy dressing,
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

EDMUND WALLER.

UPON THE

DEATH OF THE LORD PROTECTOR.

WEm E must resign! Heav'n his great soul does claim
In storms, as loud as his immortal fame:
His dying groans, his last breath, shakes our isle,
And trees uncut fall for his funeral pile;
About his palace their broad roots are tost
Into the air.-So Romulus was lost!
New Rome in such a tempest miss'd her king,
And from obeying fell to worshipping.
On Eta's top thus Hercules lay dead,
With ruin'd oaks and pines about him spread.
The poplar, too, whose bough he wont to wear
On his victorious head, lay prostrate there.
Those his last fury from the mountain rent:
Our dying hero from the continent
Ravish'd whole towns; and forts from Spaniards reft,
As his last legacy to Britain left.
The ocean, which so long our hopes confin'd,
Could give no limits to his vaster mind;
Our bounds' enlargement was his latest toil,
Nor hath he left us prisoners to our isle;
Under the tropic is our language spoke,
And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
From civil broils he did us disengage,
Found nobler objects for our martial rage;
And, with wise conduct, to his country show'd
The ancient way of conquering abroad.

Ungrateful then! if we no tears allow
To him that gave us peace and empire too.
Princes that fear'd him grieve, concern'd to see
No pitch of glory from the grave is free.
Nature herself took notice of his death,
And, sighing, swell'd the sea with such a breath,
That, to remotest shores her billows roll'd,
The' approaching fate of their great ruler told.

THE STORY OF PHEBUS AND DAPHNE APPLIED.

THYRSIS, a youth of the inspired train,

Fair Sacharissa lov'd, but lov'd in vain : Like Phœbus sung the no less amorous boy; Like Daphne she, as lovely, and as coy! With numbers he the flying nymph pursues, With numbers such as Phœbus' self might use! Such is the chase when Love and Fancy leads, O'er craggy mountains, and through flowery meads; Invok'd to testify the lover's care, Or form some image of his cruel fair. Urg'd with his fury, like a wounded deer, O'er these he fled; and now approaching near, Had reach'd the nymph with his harmonious lay, Whom all his charms could not incline to stay. Yet what he sung in his immortal strain, Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain: All but the nymph that should redress his wrong, Attend his passion, and approve his song, Like Phœbus thus, acquiring unsought praise, He catch'd at love, and fill'd his arms with bays.

TO AMORET.

FAIR! that you may truly know
What you unto Thyrsis owe,

I will tell you how I do
Sacharissa love and you.
Joy salutes me when I set
My blest eyes on Amoret;
But with wonder I am strook,
While I on the other look.

If sweet Amoret complains,
I have sense of all her pains;
But for Sacharissa I
Do not only grieve, but die.

All that of myself is mine,
Lovely Amoret! is thine:
Sacharissa's captive fain
Would untie his iron chain,
And those scorching beams to shun,
To thy gentle shadow run.

If the soul had free election
To dispose of her affection,
I would not thus long have borne
Haughty Sacharissa's scorn:
But 'tis sure some pow'r above,
Which controls our wills in love!

If not love, a strong desire
To create and spread that fire
In my breast, solicits me,
Beauteous Amoret! for thee.

'Tis anıazement more than love,
Which her radiant eyes do move:
If less splendour wait on thine,
Yet they so benignly shine,
I would turn my dazzled sight
To behold their milder light:
But as hard 'tis to destroy
That high flame, as to enjoy;
Which how easily I may do,
Heav'n (as easily scal'd) does know!
Amoret! as sweet and good
As the most delicious food,
Which but tasted does impart
Life and gladness to the heart.
Sacharissa's beauty's wine,
Which to madness doth incline;
Such a liquor as no brain
That is mortal can sustain.
Scarce can I to Heav'n excuse
The devotion which I use
Unto that adored dame;
For 'tis not unlike the same
Which I thither ought to send;
So that if it could take end,

1

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It would to Heaven itself be due,
To succeed her and not you;
Who already have of me
All that's not idolatry;

Which, though not so fierce a flame,
Is longer like to be the same.

Then smile on me, and I will prove
Wonder is shorter-liv'd than love.

ANGER, in

OF LOVE.

hästy words or blows,

Itself discharges on our foes: And sorrow, too, finds some relief In tears, which wait upon our grief: So every passion, but fond love, Unto its own redress does move; But that alone the wretch inclines To what prevents his own designs; Makes him lament, and sigh, and weep, Disorder'd, tremble, fawn, and creep; Postures which render him despis'd, Where he endeavours to be priz'd. For women (born to be controll'd) Stoop to the forward and the bold; Affect the haughty and the proud, The gay, the frolic, and the loud. Who first the generous steed opprest, Not kneeling did salute the beast; But with high courage, life, and force, Approaching, tam'd the' unruly horse. Unwisely we the wiser East Pity, supposing them opprest With tyrants' force, whose law is will, By which they govern, spoil, and kill: Each nymph, but moderately fair, Commands with no less rigour here. Should some brave Turk, that walks among His twenty lasses bright and young,