He that hath found some fledged bird's nest, may

know

At first sight if the bird be flown;

But what fair field or grove he sings in now,

That is to him unknown.

And yet as angels, in some brighter dreams,
Call to the soul when man doth sleep,

So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,

And into glory peep.

O Father of eternal life, and all

Created glories under thee !

Resume thy spirit, from this world of thrall,
Into true liberty!

Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill
My perspective still, as they do pass;
Or else remove me hence unto that hill
Where I shall need no glass.

HENRY VAUGHAN.

1614-1695.

ON SPRING.

SONNET.

WEET Spring! Thou comest with all thy-goodly train,

Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flowers;

The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain, The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their showers.

Sweet Spring, thou comest,-but, ah ! my pleasant hours

And happy days with thee come not again;
The sad memorials only of my pain

Do with thee come, which turn my sweets to

sours.

Thou art the same which thou wert still beforeDelicious, healthful, amiable, fair

But she whose breath embalm'd thy wholesome air
Is gone-nor gold nor gems can her restore.
Neglected virtue! seasons go and come,
While thine forgot lie buried in a tomb.

WM. DRUMMOND.

MELANCHOLY.

ENCE, all ye vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly.
There's nought in this life sweet,

If man were wise to see 't,

But only melancholy

Oh, sweetest melancholy!

Welcome folded arms and fixèd eyes,
A sight that piercing mortifies,
A look that's fasten'd on the ground,
A tongue chain'd up without a sound,
Fountain heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves,
Moonlight walks when all the fowls
Are warmly housed, save bats and owls;
A midnight bell, a parting groan,

These are the sounds we feed upon,

Then stretch our bones in a still, gloomy valley,-.

Nothing so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.

F. BEAUMONT. :

PATIENCE.

OWN! stormy passions, down! nor more Let your rude waves invade the shore Where blushing Reason sits, and hides Her from the fury of your tides: Fit only 'tis where you bear sway That fools or frantics do obey; Since judgment, if it not resists, Will lose itself in your blind mists.

Fall easie, Patience! fall like rest,
Whose soft spells charm a troubled breast;
And where those rebels you espy,

Oh, in your silken cordage tie
Their malice up-so shall I raise
Altars to thank your power, and praise
The sovereign virtue of your balm,
Which cures a tempest by a calm.

BISHOP KING.

THE LOVER'S APPEAL.

SONG.

ND wilt thou leave me thus ?
Say nay say nay! for shame,
To save thee from the blame
Of all my grief and græme.

And wilt thou leave me thus ?
Say nay! say nay!

And wilt thou leave me thus,
That hath loved thee so long
In wealth and woe among?
And is thy heart so strong
As for to leave me thus ?
Say nay! say nay!

And wilt thou leave me thus,
That hath given to thee my heart,

Never for to depart,

Neither for pain nor smart?

And wilt thou leave me thus ?

Say nay! say nay!

SIR T. WYAT.

1503-1543.