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Nor let the water rising high,
As thou wad'st in, make thee cry
And sob; but ever live with me,
And not a wave shall trouble thee!

SONG TO PAN.

ALL ye woods, and trees, and bowers,
All ye virtues and ye powers

That inhabit in the lakes,

In the pleasant springs or brakes,
Move your feet

To our sound,

Whilst we greet

All this ground

With his honour and his name
That defends our flocks from blame.

He is great, and he is just,
He is ever good, and must

Thus be honoured.

Daffodillies,

Roses, pinks, and loved lilies,

Let us fling,

Whilst we sing,

Ever holy,

Ever holy,

Ever honoured, ever young!

Thus great Pan is ever sung.

THE SATYR'S LEAVE-TAKING.

HOU divinest, fairest, brightest,

THOU

Thou most powerful maid, and whitest,

Thou most virtuous and most blessed,

Eyes of stars, and golden tressèd
Like Apollo! tell me, sweetest,
What new service now is meetest
For the Satyr? Shall I stray
In the middle air, and stay

The sailing rack, or nimbly take
Hold by the moon, and gently make
Suit to the pale queen of night
For a beam to give thee light?
Shall I dive into the sea,

And bring thee coral, making way
Through the rising waves that fall
In snowy fleeces? Dearest, shall
I catch thee wanton fawns, or flies
Whose woven wings the summer dyes
Of many colours? get thee fruit,

Or steal from Heaven old Orpheus' lute?
All these I'll venture for, and more,
To do her service all these woods adore.

Holy virgin, I will dance

Round about these woods as quick
As the breaking light, and prick
Down the lawns and down the vales
Faster than the wind-mill sails.
So I take my leave, and pray
All the comforts of the day,
Such as Phoebus' heat doth send
On the earth, may still befriend
Thee and this arbour!*

*The functions of the Satyr in this pastoral and the Attendant Spirit in Comus are identical; and there are few passages in Milton finer or more exquisite than this last address of the Satyr. The farewell of the Attendant Spirit is a direct imitation, and the lines toward the end are inferior in beauty to the original. The couplet,

'But now my task is smoothly done,

I can fly, or I can run,'

is transplanted almost verbally from the first speech of the Satyr:

'I must go, and I must run,

Swifter than the fiery sun.'

As a whole, however, the last speech of the Attendant Spirit transcends its prototype in magnificence of versification, and the gorgeous loveliness of its imagery.

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THE LOVER'S LEGACY TO HIS CRUEL MISTRESS.

GO, happy heart! for thou shalt lie

Intombed in her for whom I die,

Example of her cruelty.

Tell her, if she chance to chide
Me for slowness, in her pride,

That it was for her I died.

If a tear escape her eye,
'Tis not for my memory,
But thy rites of obsequy.
The altar was my loving breast,
My heart the sacrificed beast,
And I was myself the priest.

Your body was the sacred shrine,
Your cruel mind the power divine,

Pleased with the hearts of men, not kine.

THE WARNING OF ORPHEUS.

RPHEUS I am, come from the deeps below,

ORP

To thee, fond man, the plagues of love to show.

To the fair fields where loves eternal dwell

There's none that come, but first they pass through hell:
Hark, and beware! unless thou hast loved, ever
Beloved again, thou shalt see those joys never.
Hark! how they groan that died despairing!
Oh, take heed, then!

Hark, how they howl for over-daring!

All these were men.

They that be fools, and die for fame,

They lose their name;
And they that bleed
Hark how they speed.

* Ascribed to Fletcher.

Now in cold frosts, now scorching fires

They sit, and curse their lost desires;

Nor shall these souls be free from pains and fears, "Till women waft them over in their tears.

0円

TO VENUS.

H, fair sweet goddess, queen of loves,
Soft and gentle as thy doves,

Humble-eyed, and ever rueing

These poor hearts, their loves pursuing!
Oh, thou mother of delights,
Crowner of all happy nights,

Star of dear content and pleasure,
Of mutual loves the endless treasure!
Accept this sacrifice we bring,

Thou continual youth and spring;

Grant this lady her desires,

And every hour we'll crown thy fires.

THE BATTLE OF PELUSIUM.

ARM, arm, arm, arm! the scouts are all come in;

Keep your ranks close, and now your honours win.

Behold from yonder hill the foe appears;

Bows, bills, glaves, arrows, shields, and spears!
Like a dark wood* he comes, or tempest pouring;
Oh, view the wings of horse the meadows scouring.
The van-guard marches bravely. Hark, the drums!
Dub, dub.

They meet, they meet, and now the battle comes:

The

* One of the commentators proposes to read cloud for wood. These emendations are very provoking, because they are supported by a certain show of reason. But the writers of this hurricane song were not thinking of the literal reason of the matter, but of the suggestiveness of the image. And they have succeeded better than their critic. coming of the dark wood is grander than the cloud. The rout and uproar of battle are admirably depicted. There are few specimens of this kind in these Dramatic Songs. The most animated and picturesque is a Sea-fight by Dryden.

See how the arrows fly,
That darken all the sky!
Hark how the trumpets sound,
Hark how the hills rebound,

Tara, tara, tara, tara, tara!

Hark how the horses charge! in, boys, boys, in!
The battle totters; now the wounds begin:
Oh, how they cry!

Oh, how they die!

Room for the valiant Memnon, armed with thunder!
See how he breaks the ranks asunder!
They fly! they fly! Eumenes has the chase,
And brave Polybius makes good his place.
To the plains, to the woods,

To the rocks, to the floods,

They fly for succour.

Follow, follow, follow!

Hark how the soldiers hollow! Hey, hey!

Brave Diocles is dead,
And all his soldiers fled;
The battle's won, and lost,
That many a life hath cost.

THE LOYAL SUBJECT.*

THE BROOM-MAN'S SONG.

BROOM, broom, the bonny broom!
Come, buy my birchen broom:

In the wars we have no more room,
Buy all my bonny broom!

For a kiss take two;

If those will not do,

For a little, little pleasure,
Take all my whole treasure:
If all these will not do't,
Take the broom-man to boot.
Broom, broom, the bonny broom!
* By Fletcher.

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