One in whose gentle bosom I

Could pour my secret heart of woes, Like the care-burthened honey-fly,

That hides his murmurs in the rose,

My earthly comforter! whose love
So indefeasible might be,

That when my spirit wonned above,
Hers could not stay, for sympathy.

EDMUND WALLER.

Born 1605. Died 1687.

THE ROSE'S MESSAGE.

Go, 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 graces spied,
That had'st 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 herself 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 wondrous sweet and fair!

YOUTH AND AGE.

THE seas are quiet when the winds are o'er, So calm are we when passions are no more! For then we know how vain it was to boast . Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost,

Clouds of affection from our younger eyes

Conceal that emptiness which age descries ;
The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed,

Lets in new light through chinks that time has made.

Stronger by weakness, wiser men become

As they draw near to their eternal home;

Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view,
That stand upon the threshold of the new.

ROBERT HERRICK.

Born 1594. Died 1674.

A THANKSGIVING TO GOD.
LORD, thou hast given me a cell,
Wherein to dwell;

A little house, whose humble roof
Is weather-proof;

Under the spars of which I lie
Both soft and dry;

Where thou, my chamber for to ward,
Hast set a guard

Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep
Me, while I sleep.

Low is my porch, as is my fate;
Both void of state;

And yet the threshold of my door
Is worn by the poor,

Who thither come, and freely get

Good words, or meat.

Like as my parlour, so my hall
And kitchen's small.

A little buttery and therein
A little bin,、

Which keeps my little loaf of bread
Unchipt, unflead,

Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar

Make me a fire,

Close by whose living coal I sit,
And glow like it.

Lord, I confess too, when I dine,

The pulse is thine,

And all those other bits that be
There placed by thee;

The worts, the purslain and the mess
Of water-cress,

Which of thy kindness thou hast sent;
And my content

Makes these and my beloved beet

To be more sweet.

"Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth,

And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink,
Spiced to the brink.

Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand.
That soils my land,

And giv'st me for my bushel sown,
Twice ten for one;

Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay
Her egg each day;

Besides my healthful ewes to bear
The twins each year;

The while the conduits of my kine
Run cream for wine:

All these and better thou dost send
Me to this end,—

That I should render, for my part,
A thankful heart;

Which, fired with incense, I resign
As wholly thine;

-But the acceptance, that must be,
My Christ, by thee.

TO BLOSSOMS.

FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree,

Why do ye fall so fast?

Your date is not so past,

But you may stay yet here awhile,
To blush and gently smile;
And go at last.

What, were ye born to be

An hour or half's delight;
And so to bid good-night?

'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth
Merely to show your worth,
And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have

Their end, though ne'er so brave :
And after they have shown their pride,
Like you, a-while-they glide
Into the grave.

RICHARD LOVELACE.

Born 1618. Died 1658.

TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON.

WHEN Love with unconfinèd wings
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings

To whisper at the grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair,

And fettered to her eye,
The birds that wanton in the air

Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round

With no allaying Thames,

Our careless heads with roses crowned, Our hearts with loyal flames;

When thirsty grief in wine we steep,

When healths and draughts go free,

Fishes that tipple in the deep

Know no such liberty.

When, like committed linnets, I

With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty

And glories of my King;

When I shall voice aloud how good
He is, how great should be,
Enlarged winds that curl the flood
Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage :
If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone, that soar above,
Enjoy such liberty.

GOING TO THE WARS.

TELL me not, sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery

Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind
To wars and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field,

And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such
As you too shall adore--

I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more.

JAMES SHIRLEY.

Born 1596. Died 1667.

A DIRGE.

THE glories of our blood and state

Are shadows, not substantial things;

There is no armour against fate;

Death lays his icy hand on kings,

Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill : But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another still: