OCCASIONED BY A LADY'S MAKING A COPY OF VERSES IN ancient Greece, when Sappho sung And touched with matchless art the lyre, And all Parnassus formed the quire. But sweeter notes and softer lays 369. And ushers in the morn; The wife around her husband Her arms, and begs his stay; 'My dear, it rains, and hails, and snows, You will not hunt to-day?' H. FELTON. A brushing fox in yonder wood A cartload there last week, And a-hunting we will go.' Away he goes, he flies the rout, Their steeds all spur and switch, Some are thrown in, and some And some thrown in the ditch; At length his strength to faintness worn, Then, hungry, homeward we return, Then a-drinking we will go. H. FIELDING. 370. IN THE MUSES' PATHS I STRAY IN the Muses' paths I stray; Among their groves and by their sacred springs My hand delights to trace unusual things, And deviates from the known and common way: Faintly the inimitable rose, Fill up an ill-drawn bird, or paint on glass The Sovereign's blurred and undistinguished face, The threatening angel, and the speaking ass. ANNE FINCH, COUNTESS OF WINCHELSEA (The Spleen). 371. TO DEATH O KING of Terrors! whose unbounded sway The king, the priest, the prophet, all are thine, But trembles at thy swords, thy racks, thy wheels, Gently thy fatal sceptre on me lay, And take to thy cold arms, insensibly, thy prey. 372. TO SILVIA SILVIA, let us from the crowd retire, For what to you and me (Who but each other do desire) Is all that here we see? Apart we'll live, though not alone; Those who in deserts live with one If in that one they've all? The world a vast meander is, Where hearts confusedly stray; Where few do hit, whilst thousands miss, The happy mutual way. ANNE FINCH, COUNTESS OF WINCHELSEA (The Cautious Lovers). 373. FROM THE 'RUBAIYÁT OF OMAR KHAYYÁM’ AWAKE! for Morning in the Bowl of Night Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to flight, The Sultán's Turret in a Noose of Light. Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough, Think, in this battered Caravanserai Whose Doorways are alternate Night and Day, They say the Lion and the Lizard keep The Courts where Jamshýd gloried and drank deep; I sometimes think that never blows so red And this delightful Herb whose tender Green Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows To-morrow ?-Why, To-morrow I may be Oh, come with old Khayyám, and leave the Wise To talk; one thing is certain, that Life flies; One thing is certain, and the Rest is Lies; The Flower that once has blown for ever dies. Myself when young did eagerly frequent With them the Seed of Wisdom did I sow, There was a Door to which I found no Key: Some little Talk awhile of ME and THEE 'Tis all a Chequer-board of Nights and Days Where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays : Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays, And one by one back in the Closet lays. The Ball no Question makes of Ayes and Noes, And He that tossed Thee down into the Field, The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Oh, Thou, who didst with Pitfall and with Gin Thou wilt not with Predestination round Oh, Thou, who Man of baser Earth didst make, For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide, That even my buried Ashes such a Snare Indeed the Idols I have loved so long Have done my Credit in Men's Eye much wrong: Indeed, indeed, Repentance oft before I swore but was I sober when I swore ? And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore. And much as Wine has played the Infidel, Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire! E. FITZGERALD. 374. OH, THE SAD DAY! Он, the sad day! When friends shall shake their heads, and say Of miserable me :— Hark, how he groans! Look how he pants for breath! See how he struggles with the pangs of death!' When they shall say of these dear eyes : 'How hollow, oh, how dim they be! Mark how his breast doth rise and swell Against his potent enemy!' When some old friend shall step to my bedside, Touch my chill face, and thence shall gently slide, But when his next companions say: 'How does he do? What hopes? shall turn away, Then shall a gasp or two do more Than e'er my rhetoric could before: Persuade the world to trouble me no more- 375. SONG TO PAN T. FLATMAN. ALL ye woods and trees and He is great, and he is just, bowers, All ye virtues and ye powers In the pleasant springs or brakes, Move your feet To our sound Whilst we greet All this ground With his honour and his name blame. He is ever good, and must Roses, pinks, and loved lilies, Whilst we sing Ever holy, Ever honoured, ever young!' Thus great Pan is ever sung. J. FLETCHER (The Faithful Shepherdess). |