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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, say, Welcome, friend!

Sydneian showers

Of sweet discourse, whose powers

Can crown old winter's head with flowers.

Soft silken hours,

Open suns, shady bowers,

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'Bove all-nothing within that lowers.

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M

MONTROSE'S LOVE.

Y dear and only love, I pray That little world,—of THEE,— Be govern'd by no other sway Than purest Monarchy. For if confusion have a part,

Which virtuous souls abhor,
I'll call a Synod in mine heart,
And never love thee more.

As Alexander I will reign,
And I will reign alone;
My soul did evermore disdain
A rival on my throne.

He either fears his fate too much,

Or his deserts are small,

That dares not put it to the touch
To gain or lose it all.

And in the Empire of thy heart,

Where I should solely be,

If others do pretend a part,

Or dare to vie with me,
Or Committees if thou erect,
And go on such a score,
I'll laugh and sing at thy neglect,
And never love thee more.

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But if thou wilt prove faithful then,

And constant of thy word,

I'll make thee glorious by my pen,
And famous by my sword.

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I'll serve thee in such noble ways
Was never heard before;

I'll crown and deck thee all with bays,
And love thee more and more.

Marquis of Montrose.

A LOVER'S ABSENCE.

O carve our loves in myrtle rinds And tell our secrets to the woods, To send our sighs by faithful winds, And trust our tears unto the floods; To call where no man hears,

And think that rocks have ears;

To walk and rest, to live and die,

And yet not know whence, how or why;
To have our hopes with fears still check'd,
To credit doubts, and truth suspect;
This, this is that we may

A lover's absence say.

Follies without, are cares within;

Where eyes do fail, there souls begin.

William Cartwright.

THE MESSAGE OF THE ROSE.

O, lovely rose,

Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows

When I resemble her to thee

How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,

And shuns to have her grace spy'd,
That hadst thou sprung
In deserts, where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth

Of beauty from the light retired;

Bid her come forth,

Suffer her self to be desired,

And not blush so to be admired.

Then die, that she

The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee:

How small a part of time they share,

That are so wond'rous sweet and fair.

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We have short time to stay, as you,
We have as short a spring;

As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you, or any thing.

We die,

As your hours do, and dry

Away,

Like to the summer's rain;

Or as the pearls of morning's dew,
Ne'er to be found again.

Robert Herrick.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

WEET bird, that sing'st away the early hours
Of winters past, or coming void of care,

Well pleased with delights which present are,
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers:
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare
And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare,
A stain to human sense in sin that lowers.
What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs
(Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs,
And lift a reverent eye and thought to heaven?
Sweet, artless songster, thou my mind dost raise
To airs of spheres, yes, and to angels' lays.

William Drummond.

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