X.

Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song! And let the young Lambs bound

As to the tabor's sound!

We in thought will join your throng,
Ye that pipe and ye that play,

Ye that through your hearts to-day

Feel the gladness of the May!

What though the radiance which was once so bright

Be now for ever taken from my sight,

Though nothing can bring back the hour

Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;

We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy

Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;

In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.

XI.

And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and

Groves,

Forebode not any severing of our loves!

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquished one delight

To live beneath your more habitual sway.

I love the Brooks which down their channels

fret,

Even more than when I tripped lightly as they; The innocent brightness of a new-born Day

Is lovely yet;

The Clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober colouring from an eye

That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; Another race hath been, and other palms are

won.

Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
Hutchinson's Text.

100.

SIR HENRY WOTTON.

On his Mistress, the Queen of Bohemia.

You meaner beauties of the night,

That poorly satisfy our eyes,

More by your number, than your light,

You common people of the skies;

What are you when the moon shall rise?

You curious chanters of the wood,
That warble forth Dame Nature's lays,
Thinking your passions understood

By your weak accents; what's your praise,
When Philomel her voice shall raise?

You violets that first appear,

By your pure purple mantles known,
Like the proud virgins of the year,
As if the spring were all your own;
What are you when the rose is blown?

So, when my mistress shall be seen
In form and beauty of her mind;
By virtue first, then choice, a Queen,
Tell me if she were not design'd
Th' eclipse and glory of her kind?

1845 Edition.