But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave,
And after they have shown their pride
Like you, awhile, they glide
Into the grave.

HONOUR AND LOVE.

TELL me not, sweet, I am unkind,
That from the memory

Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,
To war and arms I fly.

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.

Yet this inconstancy is such
As you too shall adore,

I could not love thee, dearest, much

Lov'd I not honour more.

HERRICK.

LOVELACE.

MAY MORNING.

Now the bright morning-star, day's harbinger,
Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her
The flowery 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.

MILTON.

ODE TO THE GENIUS OF HARMONY.

THERE lies a shell beneath the waves,
In many a hollow winding wreath'd,
Such as of old,

Echoed the breath that warbling sea-maids breath'd ;
This magic shell

From the white bosom of a syren fell,

As once she wander'd by the tide that laves
Sicilia's sands of gold.

It bears

Upon its shining side, the mystic notes

Of those entrancing airs,

The genii of the deep were wont to swell, When heaven's eternal orbs their midnight music roll'd! Oh! seek it, wheresoe'er it floats;

And, if the power

Of thrilling numbers to thy soul be dear,
Go, bring the bright shell to my bower,
And I will fold thee in such downy dreams,
As lap the spirit of the seventh sphere,
When Luna's distant tone falls faintly on his ear!
And thou shalt own,

That, through the circle of creation's zone,
Where matter darkles or where spirit beams;
From the pellucid tides, that whirl
The planets through their maze of song,
To the small rill, that weeps along
Murmuring o'er beds of pearl;

From the rich sigh

Of the sun's arrow through an evening sky,
To the faint breath the tuneful osier yields
On Afric's burning fields ;

Oh! thou shalt own this universe divine
Is mine!

That I respire in all and all in me,
One mighty mingled soul of boundless harmony!
Welcome, welcome, mystic shell!

Many a star has ceas'd to burn,
Many a tear has Saturn's urn

O'er the cold bosom of the ocean wept,

Since thy aerial spell

Hath in the waters slept!

I fly,

With the bright treasure to my choral sky,
Where she, who wak'd its early swell,
The syren, with a foot of fire,

Walks o'er the great string of my Orphic Lyre,
Or guides around the burning pole

The winged chariot of some blissful soul!
While thou,

Oh son of earth! what dreams shall rise for thee!
Beneath Hispania's sun,

Thou'lt see a streamlet run,

Which I have warm'd with dews of melody;
Listen!—when the night wind dies

Down the still current, like a harp it sighs!
A liquid chord is every wave that flows,
An airy plectrum every breeze that blows!
There, by that wondrous stream,

Go, lay thy languid brow!

And I will send thee such a godlike dream, Such-mortal! mortal! hast thou heard of him, Who many a night, with his primordial lyre, Sate on the chill Pangænan mount,

And looking to the orient dim,

Watch'd the first flowing of that sacred fount, From which his soul had drunk its fire!

Oh! think what visions, in that lonely hour,

Stole o'er his musing breast!
What pious ecstasy,

Wafted his prayer to that eternal Power,
Whose seal upon this world imprest
The various forms of bright divinity!

Or, dost thou know what dreams I wove,
'Mid the deep horror of that silent bower,
Where the rapt Samian slept his holy slumber?
When, free

From every earthly chain,

From wreaths of pleasure and from bonds of pain,
His spirit flew through fields above,

Drank at the source of nature's fontal number,
And saw, in mystic choir, around him move
The stars of song, Heaven's burning minstrelsy!
Such dreams, so heavenly bright,

I swear

By the great diadem that twines my hair,
And by the seven gems that sparkle there,
Mingling their beams

In a soft iris of harmonious light,

Oh, mortal! such shall be thy radiant dreams!

MOORE