THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.

OME live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, and hills and fields,
The woods or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers and a kirtle

Embroider'd o'er with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love. 77

A belt of straw and ivy-buds,

With coral clasps and amber studs.
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my love.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning.
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.

FLOWERS.

FLOWERS Image forth the boundless love

God bears his children all,

Which ever droppeth from above,

Upon the great and small :

Each blossom that adorns our path,

So joyful and so fair,

Is but a drop of love divine,

That fell and flourished there.

ILIMON.

COMMON BRAMBLE.

THOUGH Woodbines flaunt and roses grow
O'er all the fragrant bowers,

Thou need'st not be ashamed to show
Thy satin-threaded flowers,

For dull the eye, the heart as dull,

That cannot feel how fair,

Amid all beauty, beautiful,

Thy tender blossoms are.

E. ELLIOTT.

FLOWERS.

THANK God! when forth from Eden,

The weeping pair were driven, That unto earth, though cursed with thorns The little flower was given. That Eve, when looking downward,

To face her God afraid,

Beheld the scented violet,

The primrose in the shade.

MARY HOWITT.

THE HAREBELL.

ITH drooping bells of clearest blue,
Thou didst attract my childish view,
Almost resembling

The azure butterflies that flew,

Where on the heath thy blossoms grew So lightly trembling.

Where feathery fern, and golden broom, Increase the sand-rock cavern's gloom, I've seen thee tangled,

'Mid tufts of purple heather bloom, By vain Arachne's treacherous loom, With dew-drops spangled.

'Mid ruins tumbling to decay,

Thy flowers their heavenly hues display,

Still freshly springing

Where pride and pomp have pass'd away,

On mossy tomb and turret grey,

Like friendship clinging.

When glow-worm lamps illume the scene, And silvery daisies dot the green,

Thy flowers revealing;

Perchance to soothe the fairy-queen, With faint sweet tones, on night serene, Thy soft bells pealing.

But most I love thine azure braid,
When softer flowers are all decayed,
And thou appearest

Stealing beneath the hedgerow shade,
Like joys that linger as they fade,
Whose last are dearest.

Thou art the flow'r of memory
The pensive soul recalls in thee
The year's past pleasures;

And led by kindred thought will flee,
Till back to careless infancy

The path she measures.

Beneath autumnal breezes bleak,
So faintly fair, so sadly meek,

I've seen thee bending;

Pale as the pale blue veins that streak Consumption's thin transparent cheek, With death hues blending.