And, hugging close, we will not feare Lust entering here;

Where all desires are dead or cold, As is the mould; And all affections are forgot,

Or trouble not. Here needs no court for our request, Where all are best; All wise, all equal, and all just Alike i' th' dust. Nor need we here to feare the frowne Of court or crown; Where fortune bears no sway o'er things,

There all are kings. And for a while lye here concealed, To be revealed, Next, at that great platonick yeere, And then meet here. HERRICK.

Of the unsteady planets. O'tis.well With him! but who knows what the coming hour

Veiled in thick darkness brings for us!

That anguish will be wearied,down, I know;

What pang is permanent with man? from the highest

As from the vilest thing of every day He learns to wean himself; for the strong hours

Conquer him. Yet I feel what I have lost

In him. The bloom is vanished from my life.

For O! he stood beside me, like my youth,

Transformed for me the real to a dream,

Clothing the palpable and familiar With golden exhalations of the dawn.

Whatever fortunes wait my future toils,

The beautiful is vanished- - and re

turns not.

Each lovely scene shall thee restore, For thee the tear be duly shed; Beloved till life can charm no more, And mourned till Pity's self be dead.

COLLINS.

DIRGE FOR DORCAS.

COME pitie us, all ye who see
Our harps hung on the willow-tree;
Come pitie us, ye passers-by,
Who see or hear poor widows crie;
Come pitie us, and bring your eares
And eyes to pitie widows' teares.

And when you are come hither,
Then we will keep

A fast, and weep
Our eyes out all together,

For Tabitha, who dead lies here,
Clean washt, and laid out for the bier.
O modest matrons, weep and waile!
For now the corne and wine must

HE is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,
Like a summer-dried fountain,
When our need was the sorest.
The fount, re-appearing,

From the raindrop shall borrow,
But to us comes no cheering,
To Duncan no morrow!

The hand of the reaper

Takes the ears that are hoary; But the voice of the weeper Wails manhood in glory. The autumn winds rushing Waft the leaves that are searest; But our flower was in flushing When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the correi,

Sage counsel in cumber, Red hand in the foray,

How sound is thy slumber! Like the dew on the mountain, Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain, Thou art gone, and forever!

SCOTT.

FEAR NO MORE THE HEAT O' TH' SUN.

FEAR no more the heat o' th' sun, Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy

wages.

Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.