If, dear Anthea, my hard fate it be,
To live some few sad hours after thee
Thy sacred corse with odours I will burne,
And with my laurel crown thy golden urne.
Then holding up (there) such religious things,
As were, time past, thy holy fillettings;
Near to thy reverend pitcher I will fall
Down dead for grief, and end my woes withal;
So three on one small plot of ground shall lie,—
Anthea, Herrick, and his Poetry.
BY SIR HENRY WOTTON.
You meaner beauties of the night,
Which poorly satisfy our eyes
More by your number than your light;—
You meaner beauties of the skies,
What are you when the sun doth rise?
Ye violets, that first appear,
By your pure purple mantles known,
Like the proud virgins of the year,
As if the spring were all your own,—
What are you when the rose is blown ?
Ye curious chaunters of the wood,
That warble forth dame Nature's lays, Thinking your passions understood
By your weak accents, what's your praise, When Philomel her voice doth raise?
So, when my mistress shall be seen,
In sweetness of her looks and mind;
By virtues first,-then choice,-a queen;
Tell me, if she was not design'd
Th' eclipse and glory of her kind?
As o'er Asteria's fields I rove,
The blissful seat of peace and love,
Ten thousand beauties round me rise,
And mingle pleasure with surprise.
By Nature blest in every part,
Adorn'd with every grace of art,
This Paradise of blooming joys,
Each raptur'd sense, at once, employs.
But when I view the radiant queen
Who form'd this fair enchanting scene;
Pardon, ye grots! ye crystal floods !
Ye breathing showers! ye shady woods!
Your coolness now no more invites,
No more your murmuring stream delights; Your sweets decay, your verdure 's flown, My soul's intent on her alone.
This scene, fair Anne, this starry hour,
Are like our loves should always be :
The moonbeam seeks the fairest flower,
To smile upon,-and smiles on thee.
The clouds that dimm'd the day have ceas'd
To veil yon brilliant azure sky:
Showing that Nature owns, at least,
One tint that emulates thine eye.
The Zephyr's breath, so like thine own,
In rosy sweetness leaves its fair
And timid aspen-leaf alone,
To wanton 'mid thy lighter hair.
The dews that on the hairbells seem
Like tears bedimming Beauty's eyes,
Beneath thy step no longer gleam,—
For, thou appearing, sorrow dies.
Calm as thyself is all below,
Pure as thyself is all above;
Dear as thyself the world seems now,-
For all's like thee,-and all is love.
Humid seal of soft affections,
Tend'rest pledge of future bliss,
Dearest tie of young connections,
Love's first snow-drop, virgin kiss!
Speaking silence-dumb confession,
Passion's birth, and infant's play,
Dove-like fondness, chaste concession,
Glowing dawn of brighter day.
Sorrowing joy,-adieu's last action,
When lingering lips no more must join,
What words can ever speak affection
So thrilling and sincere as thine?
Almeria's face, her shape, her air,
With charms resistless, wound the heart;
In vain you for defence prepare,
When from her eyes Love throws his dart.
So strong, so swift, the arrow flies,
Such sure destruction flying makes ;
The bold opposer quickly dies!
The fugitive it overtakes!
Nor stratagem, nor force, avails,-
No feign'd submission sets you free;
One look o'er all your art prevails,—
There's no way safe, but not to see!
For such the magic of her arms,
And wounding, she does so allure;
The inexperienc'd court their charms,
The wounded never wish a cure.
ON HEARING A YOUNG LADY FREQUENTLY
EXCLAIM, "THE DEVIL!"
The charms of Ella who shall dare deny,-
Youth decks her cheek, and love informs her eye;
Her mouth would mollify a heart of flint,
So truly tempting, that the Devil's in't.
ON THE SAME OCCASION.
Around her lips the ready Devils fly,
Mix with her words, and bask beneath her eye;
Pleas'd that so sweet a station shonld be giv'n,
They half forget they ever fell from Heav'n.
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