ST. PETER'S AT ROME. Vastness which grows, but grows to harmonize, All musical in its immensities ; A LADY'S CHAMBER. The moon shines dim in the open air, And not a moonbeam enters here. The chamber carved so curiously, Rich marbles, richer painting, shrines where But they without its light can see vies In air with earth's chief structures, though For a lady's chamber meet: The lamp with twofold silver chain their frame Sits on the firm-set ground, and this the cloud Is fastened to an angel's feet. must claim. The silver lamp burns dead and dim; In This, I fondly hoped to cusp, I neither seeke by bribes to please, Nor by desert to breed offence. Thus do I live; thus will I die ; Would all did so as well as I! SIR EDWARD DYER.* TO THE HON. CHARLES MONTAGUE. The worthless prey but only shows The joy consisted in the strife ; Whate'er we take, as soon we lose In Homer's riddle and in life. So, whilst in feverish sleeps we think We taste what waking we desire, The dream is better than the drink, Which only feeds the sickly fire. To the mind's eye things well appear, At distance through an artful glass; Bring but the flattering objects near, They're all a senseless gloomy mass. Seeing aright, we see our woes : Then what avails it to have eyes? From ignorance our comfort flows, The only wretched are the wise. 'T is much immortal beauty to admire, ; LORD EDWARD THUrlow. OF MYSELF. MATTHEW PRIOR. THIS only grant me, that my means may lie Rumor can ope the grave. Acquaintance I would have, but when 't depends Not on the number, but the choice, of friends. Books should, not business, entertain the light, And sleep, as undisturbed as death, the night. My house a cottage more Than palace; and should fitting be For all my use, no luxury. My garden painted o'er BEAUTY. FROM HYMN IN HONOR OF BEAUTY.” So every spirit, as it is most pure, Therefore wherever that thou dost behold A comely corpse, with beauty fair endued, Yet oft it falls that many a gentle mind With Nature's hand, not Art's; and pleasures Dwells in deformèd tabernacle drowned, yield, Horace might envy in his Sabine field. * This is frequently attributed to William Byrd. Bartlett, how ever, gives it to Sir Edward Dyer, referring to Hannah's Courtly Poets as authority; so, also, Ward, in his English Poets, Vol. I., 1880. Either by chance, against the course of kind, Or through unaptnesse in the substance found, Which it assumed of some stubborne ground, That will not yield unto her form's direction, But is performed with some foul imperfection. |