Ben Jonson.

Born 1574. Died 1637.

SONG TO CELIA.

DRINK to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.

;

The thirst, that from the soul doth rise,
Doth ask a drink divine:

But might I of love's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee, late, a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there

It could not withered be.

But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sent it back to me:

Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.

William Cowper.

Born 1731. Died 1800.

BOADICEA.*

WHEN the British warrior queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought, with an indignant mien,
Counsel of her country's gods,

Sage beneath the spreading oak
Sat the Druid, hoary chief;
Every burning word he spoke
Full of rage, and full of grief.

Princess! if our aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties

All the terrors of our tongues.

Rome shall perish—write that word
In the blood that she has spilt;

Perish, hopeless and abhorred,

Deep in ruin as in guilt.

*Boadicea, Queen of the Iceni. When Britain was invaded by the Romans she was taken prisoner by them, and eventually poisoned herself.

Rome, for empire far renowned,

Tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride shall kiss the groundHark! the Gaul is at her gates!

Other Romans shall arise,

Heedless of a soldier's name;

Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, Harmony the path to fame.

Then the progeny that springs
From the forests of our land,
Armed with thunder, clad with wings,
Shall a wider world command.

Regions Cæsar never knew

Thy posterity shall sway;

Where his eagles never flew,
None invincible as they.

Such the bard's prophetic words,
Pregnant with celestial fire,
Bending as he swept the chords
Of his sweet but awful lyre.

She, with all a monarch's pride,
Felt them in her bosom glow:
Rushed to battle, fought, and died,
Dying, hurled them at the foe.

Ruffians, pitiless as proud,

Heaven awards the vengeance
Empire is on us bestowed,
Shame and ruin wait for you.

James Thomson.

Born 1700. Died 1748.

A SUMMER'S DAY.

FROM THE SEASONS: SUMMER.

Now, flaming up the heavens, the potent Sun
Melts into limpid air the high-raised clouds,
And morning fogs, that hovered round the hills
In party-coloured bands; till wide unveiled

The face of Nature shines, from where Earth seems,
Far stretched around, to meet the bending Sphere.
Half in a blush of clustering roses lost,
Dew-dropping Coolness to the shade retires;
There, on the verdant turf, or flowery bed,
By gelid founts and careless rills to muse;
While tyrant Heat, dispreading through the sky,
With rapid sway his burning influence darts
On man, and beast, and herb, and tepid stream.

Who can unpitying see the flowery race, Shed by the morn, their new-flushed bloom resign, Before the parching beam? So fade the fair, When fevers revel through their azure veins. But one, the lofty follower of the Sun, Sad when he sets, shuts up her yellow leaves, Drooping all night; and, when he warm returns, Points her enamoured bosom to his ray.

The daw,

Home, from his morning task, the swain retreats;
His flock before him stepping to the fold:
While the full-uddered mother lows around
The cheerful cottage, then expecting food,
The food of innocence and health!
The rook and magpie, to the grey-grown oaks
That the calm village in their verdant arms,
Sheltering, embrace, direct their lazy flight;
Where on the mingling boughs they sit embowered,
All the hot noon, till cooler hours arise.
Faint, underneath, the household fowls convene;
And, in a corner of the buzzing shade,

The house-dog, with the vacant greyhound, lies
Out-stretched and sleepy. In his slumbers one
Attacks the nightly thief, and one exults
O'er hill and dale; till, wakened by the wasp,
They starting snap. Nor shall the Muse disdain
To let the little noisy summer-race

Live in her lay, and flutter through her song:
Not mean though simple; to the Sun allied,

From him they draw their animating fire.