Hail active Nature's watchful life and health! Her joy, her ornament, and wealth! Hail to thy husband Heat, and thee! Thou the world's beauteous bride, the lusty bridegroom he! Say, from what golden quivers of the sky Do all thy winged arrows fly? Swiftness and power by birth are thine; From thy great Sire they came, thy Sire, the Word divine. Thou in the moon's proud chariot, proud and gay, And all the year dost with thee bring Of thousand flowery lights thine own nocturnal spring. Thou, Scythian-like, dost round thy lands above And still as thou in pomp dost go, The shining pageants of the world attend thy show. Nor amidst all these triumphs dost thou scorn And with those living spangles gild, (O greatness without pride!) the bushes of the field. At thy appearance, Grief itself is said To shake his wings, and rouse his head; And cloudy care has often took * A gentle beamy smile reflected from thy look. All the world's bravery, that delights our eyes, Thou the rich dye on them bestowest, Thy nimble pencil paints this landscape as thou goest. A crimson garment in the rose thou wearest; A crown of studded gold thou bearest; The virgin lilies, in their white, Are clad but with the lawn of almost naked light. The violet, Spring's little infant, stands Girt in thy purple swaddling bands: On the fair tulip thou dost dote; Thou clothest it in a gay and parti-coloured coat. Through the soft ways of heaven, and air, and sea, Like a clear river thou dost glide, And with thy living stream through the close channels slide. Solitude. IT is not that my lot is low, In woods and glens I love to roam, COWLEY. Yet when the silent evening sighs, The autumn leave is sere and dead, I would not be a leaf, to die The woods and winds, with sudden wail, I've none to smile when I am free, Yet in my dreams a form I view, Isaac Ashford. NEXT to these ladies, but in nought allied, At no man's question Isaac looked dismayed: KIRKE WHITE. Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace; Pride, in the power that guards his country's coast, In fact, a noble passion, misnamed Pride. I feel his absence in the hours of prayer, No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer, A wise good man contented to be poor. The Skylark. BIRD of the wilderness, Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! Blest is thy dwelling-place, Oh, to abide in the desert with thee! Wild is thy lay and loud, Far in the downy cloud, Love gives it energy, love gave it birth; Where art thou journeying? Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. CRABBE. |