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GEORGE HERBERT, born 1593, died 1632. Sweet Day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky, Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night,

For thou must die !

Sweet Rose, whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
Thy root is ever in its grave,-

And thou must die !
Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie;
My music shows you


your closes,–

And all must die ! Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like season'd timber, never gives, But when the whole world turns to coal,

Then chiefly lives !


RICHARD LOVELACE, born 1618, died 1658. When love with unconfined wings

Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings

To whisper at my grates ;
When I lie tangled in her hair,

And fetter'd to her eye,
The birds that wanton in the air,

Know no such liberty.
When flowing cups run swiftly round,

With no allaying Thames,
Our careless heads with roses bound,

Our hearts with loyal flames ;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,

When healths and draughts are free, Fishes that tipple in the deep,

Know no such liberty.

When linnet-like, confined, I

With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty,

And glories of my king :
When I shall voice aloud how good

He is, how great should be,-
Enlarged winds that curl the flood,

Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage ;
Minds innocent and quiet take

That for a hermitage :
If I have freedom in my love,

And in my soul am free,-
Angels alone,—that soar above,

Enjoy such liberty.

This song to Althea will live as long as the English language.-ROBERT SOUTHEY.


From Alison's “ Hour's Recreations in Music," 1606.

In hope a king doth go to war ;

In hope a lover lives full long;
In hope a merchant sails full far;

In hope just men do suffer wrong ;
In hope the ploughman sows his seed :
Thus hope helps thousands at their need.
Then faint not, heart, among the rest ;
Whatever chance, hope thou the best.


SIMON WASTELL, from “The Microbiblia," 1623.

Like as the damask rose you see,
Or like the blossom on the tree,
Or like the dainty flower in May,
Or like the morning of the day,

Or like the sun, or like the shade,
Or like the gourd which Jonas had.
E’en such is man ;-whose thread is spun,
Drawn out, and cut, and so is done.-
The rose withers, the blossom blasteth,
The flower fades, the morning hasteth,
The sun sets, the shadow flies,
The gourd consumes,and man he dies !


Like to the grass that's newly sprung,
Or like a tale that's new begun,
Or like the bird that's here to-day,
Or like the pearled dew of May,
Or like an hour, or like a span,
Or like the singing of a swan.
E'en such is man ;-who lives by breath,
Is here, now there, in life and death.-
The grass withers, the tale is ended,
The bird is flown, the dew's ascended,
The hour is short, the span is long,
The swan's near death,-man's life is done!



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Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee
Jest and youthful Jollity;
Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,
Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles,
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,
And love to live in dimple sleek;
Sport that wrinkled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides.

Ha! ha! ha! ha!

The music of this song was composed by Handel for the Oratorio of “Comus," and adapted to this purpose from the beautiful poem of “L'Allegro,"

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Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger,
Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her
The flowery May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose.
Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire !
Woods and groves are of thy dressing :
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing,
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long !


EDMUND WALLee, born 1603, died 1687.
Go, lovely Rose!

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

And shuns to have her graces spied,
That had'st 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.

Then die ! that she

The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee,-

How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair.

[Yet, though thou fade,

From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise ;
And teach the maid

That goodness Time’s rude hand defies,-
That virtue lives when beauty dies.]

The last stanza was added by Henry Kirke White, and is the crowning grace of a beautiful poem, which would scarcely have been complete without it.

Anonymous. From the Tixall Poetry, temp. Charles I.
We dance on hills above the wind,
And leave our footsteps there behind,
Which shall to after ages last,
When all our dancing days are past.

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