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If thee thy brittle beauty so deceives,

Know then, the thing that swells thee is thy bane; For the same beauty doth in bloody leaves The sentence of thy early death contain.

Some clown's coarse lungs will poison thy sweet flower,

If by the careless plough thou shalt be torn, And many Herods lie in wait each hour,

To murder thee as soon as thou art born,

Nay, force thy bud to blow, their tyrant breath Anticipating life, to hasten death.

JOHN MILTON.

As the minor poems of Milton are too popular to require reprinting; the few following lines are only inserted here, for the purpose of exhibiting one short specimen of this great master.

SONG ON MAY MORNING.

Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose.

Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire Mirth, and youth, and warm desire! Woods and groves are of thy dressing, Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

RICHARD CRASHAW,

Author of "Steps to the Temple, with other Delights of the "Muses," 1646, seems to have resembled Herbert in his turn of mind, but possessed more fancy and genius. His translations have considerable merit, but his original poetry is full of conceit. The time of his birth is unknown. He was for some time a scholar of Pembroke, and a fellow of Peterhouse, Cambridge; and afterwards changing his religion, died a canon of Loretto, 1650.

His Latin poems were first printed in 1634, and have been much admired, though liable to the same objections as his English. For more particular information respecting Crashaw and his works, consult Headley, Dr. Anderson, and Mr. Hayley's account in the New Biog. Brit.

OUT OF CATULLUS.

COME and let us live, my dear,
Let us love, and never fear
What the sourest fathers say.
Brightest Sol, that dies to-day,
Lives again as blithe to-morrow:
But if we, dark sons of sorrow,

Set; O then, how long a night

Shuts the eyes of our short light!
Then let amorous kisses dwell
On our lips; begin, and tell

A thousand, and a hundred score,
An hundred, and a thousand more;
"Till another thousand smother

That, and that wipe off another.
Thus, at last, when we have number'd
Many a thousand, many a hundred,
We'll confound the reckoning quite,
And lose ourselves in wild delight:
While our joys so multiply
As shall mock the envious eye.

LOVE'S HOROSCOPE.

LOVE, brave virtue's younger brother,
Erst had made my heart a mother.
She consults the conscious spheres,
To calculate her young son's years:
She asks if sad or saving powers
Gave omen to his infant hours:

She asks each star that then stood by poor love shall live or die..

If

Ah

my heart! is that the way?

Are these the beams that rule thy day?
Thou know'st a face, in whose each look
Beauty lays ope love's fortune-book :
On whose fair revolutions wait
Th' obsequious motions of love's fate.
Ah, my heart! her eyes and she
Have taught thee new astrology!
Howe'er love's native hours were set,

Whatever starry synod met,

"Tis in the mercy

of her eye, If poor love shall live or die.

If those sharp rays, putting on
Points of death, bid love begone,
(Though the heav'ns in council sate
To crown an uncontrolled fate;
Though their best aspects, twin'd upon
The kindest constellation,

Cast amorous glances on his birth,
And whisper'd the confederate earth
pave his paths with all the good

To

That warms the bed of youth and blood ;)

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