Whose native ray Can tame the wanton day Of gems that in their bright shades play,— Each ruby there Or pearl that dare appear, Be its own blush, be its own tear; A well-tamed heart, For whose more noble smart Love may be long choosing a dart; Eyes that bestow Full quivers on Love's bow, Yet pay less arrows than they owe; Smiles that can warm The blood, yet teach a charm That chastity shall take no harm; Blushes that been The burnish of no sin, Nor flames of aught too hot within ; Joys that confess Virtue for their Mistress, And have no other head to dress; Fears fond, and flight, As the coy bride's when night First does the longing lover right; Tears quickly fled And vain, as those are shed For dying maidenhed; Days that need borrow No part of their good morrow From a fore-spent night of sorrow, Days that, in spite Of darkness, by the light Of a clear mind are day all night; Nights sweet as they Made short by lovers' play, Yet long by the absence of the day; Life that dares send A challenge to his end, And when it comes say-Welcome, friend; Sidneian showers Of sweet discourse, whose powers Can crown old Winter's head with flowers; Soft silken hours, Open suns, shady bowers; 'Bove all, nothing within that lours; Whate'er delight Can make Day's forehead bright Or give down to the wings of Night. In her whole frame Have Nature all the name, Art and Ornament the shame! Her flattery Picture and poesy, Her counsel her own virtue be! I wish her store Of worth may leave her poor Of wishes; and I wish- -no more. Now, if Time knows That Her whose radiant brows Weave them a garland of my vows, Her whose just bays My future hopes can raise SIR JOHN DENHAM. A trophy to her present praise, Her that dares be What these lines wish to see, I seek no further-it is She. 'Tis She and here Lo I unclothe and clear My Wishes' cloudy character. May She enjoy it Whose merit dares apply it But modesty dares still deny it ! Such Worth as this is And determine them to kisses. Let her full glory, My fancies! fly before ye! Be you my fictions, but Her Story! SIR JOHN DENHAM. INVOCATION TO MORPHEUS. Morpheus, the humble God that dwells Hates gilded roofs and beds of down Come, I say, thou powerful God! And thy leaden charmed rod, Dipp'd in the Lethèan Lake, O'er his wakeful temples shake! Lest he should sleep and never wake. Nature! alas! why art thou so Obliged to thy greatest foe? Sleep, that is thy best repast, And both are the same thing at last. RICHARD LOVELACE. 1618-1658. THE GRASSHOPPER. To my noble friend Mr. Charles Cotton. O thou that swing'st upon the waving hair Dropp'd thee from heaven, where thou wast rear'd! The joys of earth and air are thine entire, That with thy feet and wings dost hop and fly; And when thy poppy works, thou dost retire To thy carved acorn-bed to lie. Up with the day, the sun thou welcomest then, But, ah! the sickle! golden ears are cropp'd, Sharp frosty fingers all your flowers have topp'd, Poor verdant fool, and now green ice! thy joys Their floods with an o'erflowing glass. Thou best of men and friends! we will create Our sacred hearths shall burn eternally, As Vestal flames; the North-Wind, he Shall strike his frost-stretch'd wings, dissolve, and fly This Ætna in epitome. Dropping December shall come weeping in, But, when in showers of old Greek we begin, Night, as clear Hesper, shall our tapers whip Thus richer than untempted kings are we TO ALTHEA. (FROM PRISON.) When Love with unconfinèd wings Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates,- And fetter'd to her eye,- When flowing cups run swiftly round, When healths and draughts go free, |