THE DROP OF DEW.

143

Because so long divided from the sphere,

Restless it rolls, and insecure,
Trembling lest it grow impure;

Till the warm sun pities its pain,

And to the skies exhales it back again.
So the soul, that drops that ray,

Of the clear fountain of eternal day,
Could it within the human flower be seen,
Remembering still its former height,
Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms green;
And, recollecting its own light,

Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express The greater heaven in a heaven less.

In how coy a figure wound,
Every way it turns away!
So, the world excluding round,
Yet receiving in the day:
Dark beneath, but bright above;

Here disdaining, there in love.

How loose and easy

hence to go,

How girt and ready to ascend!
Moving but on a point below,

It all about does upward bend.
Such did the manna's sacred dew distil,

White and entire, although congealed and chill; Congealed on earth; but does, dissolving, run Into the glories of the almighty sun.

Cupid and the Dial.

NE day, young frolic Cupid tried

ON

To scatter roses o'er the hours,

And on the dial's face to hide

The course of time with many flowers.

By chance his rosy wreaths had wound
Upon the hands, and forced them on;
And when he looked again, he found

Anon.

The hours had passed, the time was done.

"Alas!" said Love, and dropped his flowers, "I've lost my time in idle play;

The sweeter I would make the hours,

The quicker they are passed away."

Go, lovely Rose.

Go, lovely Rose!

Waller.

Tell her that wastes her time and me.

That now she knows,

When I resemble her to thee,

How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,

And shuns to have her graces spied,

That, hadst thou sprung

In deserts, where no men abide,

Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth

Of beauty from the light retired;

Bid her come forth,

Suffer herself to be desired,

And not blush so to be admired.

ry

(Additional stanza by H. K. White.)

Yet, though thou fade,

From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise,

And teach the maid,

That Goodness, Time's rude hand defies,
And Virtue lives, when Beauty dies.

Sur la Mort d'une jeune Fille.

Malesherbes.

Elle était de ce monde, où les plus belles choses Ont le pire destin!

Et rose-elle a vécu ce que vivent les roses— L'espace d'un matin.

A Midsummer Legend.

Mary Howitt.

AND where have you been, my Mary,

And where have you been from me?' 'I've been to the top of the Caldon-Low, The Midsummer night to see !'

'And what did you see, my Mary,
All up on the Caldon-Low?'

'I saw the blithe sunshine come down,
And I saw the merry winds blow.'

And what did you hear, my Mary,
All up on the Caldon-Hill?'

'I heard the drops of the water made,
And the green corn ears to fill.'

'Oh, tell me all, my Mary—

All, all that ever you

For

know

you must have seen the fairies,

Last night on the Caldon-Low.'