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Then to the well-trod stage anon,
TO THE NIGHTINGALE.
O Nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still! Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill, While the' jolly Hours lead on propitious May. Thy liquid notes, that close the eye of Day,
First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill,
Portend success in love: 0if Jove's will Have link'd that amorous power to thy soft lay,
Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate Foretel my hopeless dooos in some grove nigh;
As thou, from year to year, hast sung too late For my relief, yet hadst no reason why.
Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate, Both them I serve, and of their train am I.
ON HIS DECEASED WIFE. METHOUGHT I saw my late-espoused Saint,
Brought to me, like Alcestis, from the grave; Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave, Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint. Mine, as whom wash'd from spot of child-bed taint,
Purification in the Old Law did save;
And such as yet, once more, I trust to have Full sight of her, in Heaven without restraint,
Came vested all in white, pure as her mind : Her face was veild, yet to my fancied sight
Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shin'd So clear, as in no face with more delight.
But O! as to embrace me she inclin'd, I wak'd-she fed, and day brought back my pain.
On May Morning. Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger,
Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flow'ry May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose.
Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
DEATH OF THE LORD PROTECTOR. We must resign! Heav'n his great soul does claim
In storms, as loud as his immortal fame: His dying groans, his last breath, shakes our isle, And trees uncut fall for his funeral pile; About his palace their broad roots are tost Into the air.-So Romulus was lost! New Rome in such a tempest miss'd her king, And from obeying fell to worshipping. On Eta's top thus Hercules lay dead, With ruin'd oaks and pines about him spread. The poplar, too, whose bough he wont to wear On his victorious head, lay prostrate there. Those his last fury from the mountain rent: Our dying hero from the continent Ravish'd whole towns; and forts from Spaniards reft, As his last legacy to Britain left. The ocean, which so long our hopes confin'd, Could give no limits to his vaster mind; Our bounds' enlargement was his latest toil, Nor hath he left us prisoners to our isle ; Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke. From civil broils he did us disengage, Found nobler objects for our martial rage ; And, with wise conduct, to his country show'd The ancient way of conquering abroad.
Ungrateful then ! if we no tears allow To him that gave us peace and empire too. Princes that fear'd him grieve, concern'd to see No pitch of glory from the grave is free. Nature herself took notice of his death, And, sighing, swell’d the sea with such a breath, That, to remotest shores her billows rollid, The approaching fate of their great ruler told.
THE STORY OF PHOEBUS AND DAPHNE
a youth of the inspired train, Fair Sacharissa lov'd, but lov'd in vain : Like Phæbus sung the no less amorous boy ; Like Daphne she, as lovely, and as coy! With numbers he the flying nymph pursues, With numbers such as Phæbus' self might use! Such is the chase when Love and Fancy leads, O'er craggy mountains, and through flowery meads; Invok'd to testify the lover's care, Or form some image of his cruel fair. Urg'd with his fury, like a wounded deer, O'er these he fled ; and now approaching near, Had reach'd the nymph with his harmonious lay, Whom all his charnis could not incline to stay. Yet what he sung in his immortal strain, Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain : All but the nymph that should redress his wrong, Attend his passion, and approve his song, Like Phæbus thus, acquiring unsought praise, He catch'd at love, and fill'd his arms with bays.
TO AMORET. FAIR! that you may truly know
What you unto Thyrsis owe,
Joy salutes me when I set
If sweet Amoret complains,
All that of myself is mine,
If the soul had free election
If not love, a strong desire
"Tis amazement more than love, Which her radiant eyes do move : If less splendour wait on thine, Yet they so benigaly shine, I would turn my dazzled sight To behold their milder light: But as hard 'tis to destroy That high flame, as to enjoy; Which how easily I may do, Heav'n (as easily scald) does know!
Amoret! as sweet and good
Sacharissa's beauty's wine,
Scarce can I to Heav'n excuse