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.

Richard Lovelace.

I

6. THE QUESTION.

DREAMED that, as I wandered by the way,
Bare winter suddenly was changed to spring,

And gentle odours led my steps astray,

Mixed with a sound of waters murmuring

Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay

Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling

Its green arms round the bosom of the stream,
But kissed it and then fled, as thou mightest in dream.

There grew pied wind-flowers and violets,

Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth,

The constellated flower that never sets;

Faint oxlips; tender blue bells, at whose birth

The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets
Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears,
When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears.

And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,

Green cow-bind, and the moonlight-coloured May, And cherry blossoms, and white cups, whose wine Was the bright dew yet drained not by the day;

And wild roses, and ivy serpentine,

With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray; And flowers azure, black, and streaked with gold, Fairer than any wakened eyes behold.

And nearer to the river's trembling edge

There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prankt with white, And starry river-buds among the sedge,

And floating water-lilies, broad and bright,
Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge

With moonlight beams of their own watery light;
And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green
As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.

Methought that of these visionary flowers

I made a nosegay, bound in such a way
That the same hues, which in their natural bowers
Were mingled or opposed, the like array
Kept these imprisoned children of the Hours
Within my hand,—and then, elate and gay,
I hastened to the spot whence I had come,
That I might there present it !—-oh! to whom?

Shelley.

7. AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE.

HOW sweet it were, if without feeble fright,

Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight,

An angel came to us, and we could bear

To see him issue from the silent air

At evening in our room, and bend on ours

His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers

News of dear friends, and children who have never
Been dead indeed,—as we shall know for ever.

Alas! we think not what we daily see
About our hearths,-angels, that are to be,
Or may be if they will, and we prepare
Their souls and ours to meet in happy air,—
A child, a friend, a wife whose soft heart sings
In unison with ours, breeding its future wings.
Leigh Hunt.

8. CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING.

GE

ET up, get up, for shame! the blooming morn
Upon her wings presents the God unshorn:
See how Aurora throws her fair

Fresh quilted colours through the air:
Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see

The dew bespangling herb and tree :

Each flower has wept, and bowed toward the east,
Above an hour since; yet you not drest;

Nay not so much as out of bed;
When all the birds have matins said,

And sung their thankful hymns: 'tis sin,
Nay, profanation, to keep in ;

When as a thousand virgins on this day
Spring sooner than the lark to fetch in May.

Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen
To come forth like the spring-time, fresh and green,
And sweet as Flora. Take no care
For jewels for your gown, or hair:
Fear not, the leaves will strew

Gems in abundance upon you:

'Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, Against you come, some orient pearls unwept :

Come, and receive them, while the light

Hangs on the dew-locks of the night,
And Titan on the eastern hill

Retires himself, or else stands still

Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying;
Few beads are best, when once we go a-Maying!

Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming, mark
How each field turns a street, each street a park
Made green, and trimmed with trees: see how
Devotion gives each house a bough,

Or branch; each porch, each door, ere this,
An ark, a tabernacle is,

Made up of whitethorn neatly interwove,

As if here were those cooler shades of love.

Can such delights be in the street,
And open fields, and we not see't?
Come, we'll abroad, and let's obey
The proclamation made for May,

And sin no more, as we have done by staying;
But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying!

There's not a budding boy or girl this day
But is got up and gone to bring in May:
A deal of youth, ere this, is come

Back, and with whitethorn laden home :
Some have dispatched their cakes and cream,
Before that we have left to dream.

And some have wept, and wooed, and plighted troth,
And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth :

Many a green gown has been given;

Many a kiss, both odd and even ;
Many a glance, too, has been sent

From out the eye, love's firmament;

Many a jest told of the keys betraying

This night, and locks picked; yet we're not a-Maying!

Come, let us go, while we are in our prime,

And take the harmless folly of the time :

We shall grow old apace, and die
Before we know our liberty:

Our life is short, and our days run

As fast away as does the sun,:

And as a vapour, or a drop of rain
Once lost, can ne'er be found again;

So when or you or I are made
A fable, song, or fleeting shade;
All love, all liking, all delight

Lies drowned with us in endless night.

Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying,
Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying!

Herrick.

9.

PHYLLIS.

N petticoat of green,

IN

Her hair about her een;
Phyllis beneath an oak

Sat milking her fair flock:

'Mongst that sweet-strained moisture, (rare delight,)
Her hand seemed milk, in milk it was so white.

Drummond of Hawthornden.

ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE, SISTER TO SIR PHILIP Sidney.

NDERNEATH this marble hearse
the

UNDE

Lies the subject of all verse,

Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother.
Death, ere thou hast slain another,
Learned and fair, and good as she,
Time shall throw his dart at thee.

II. TO CONSTANTIA

SINGING.

Ben Jonson.

HUS to be lost, and thus to sink and die,

THU

Perchance were death indeed!-Constantia, turn!

In thy dark eyes a power like light doth lie,

Even though the sounds which were thy voice, which burn Between thy lips, are laid to sleep;

Within thy breath, and on thy hair, like odour it is yet,

And from thy touch like fire doth leap.

Even while I write, my burning cheeks are wet,
Alas, that the torn heart can bleed, but not forget!

A breathless awe, like the swift change

Unseen but felt in youthful slumbers,

Wild, sweet, but uncommunicably strange,

Thou breathest now in fast ascending numbers.