Teach us sprite or bird,

Things more true and deep
What sweet thoughts are thine:

Than we mortals dream,
I have never heard

Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? Praise of love or wine,

We look before and after, That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

And pine for what is not:
Chorus Hymenæal,

Our sincerest laughter
Or triumphal chaunt,

With some pain is fraught; (thought. Matched with thine would be all

Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest But an empty vaunt,

Yet if we could scorn A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

Hate, and pride, and fear; What objects are the fountains

If we were things born

Not to shed a tear,
Of thy happy strain ?
What fields or waves, or mountains ?

I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
What shapes of sky or plain?. [pain?

Better than all measures What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of

Of delightful sound,

Better than all treasures
With thy clear keen joyance,

That in books are found,
Languor cannot be:

Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground !
Shadow of annoyance
Never came near thee:

Teach me half the gladness Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.

That thy brain must know,

Such harmonious madness
Waking or asleep,

From my lips would flow,
Thou of death must deem

The world should listen then, as I am listening now.

LORD THURLOW.

So swiftly from the impious king she fled,

“ I tell you, you shall walk the shades of night, And swiftly has e'er since pursu'd her flight, And hear the song, that can turn back the day, Still weeping for the cruel rage, that shed

For hell, Zerbino, opens to my might,
The guiltless soul of Itys, in despite

And upward to the morning I can stray:
Of that vile king;-but whither am I led

The muse I am, that offer to your sight
In soft description from the wand'ring knight?

The banks of Lethe, and the starry way:
Zerbino through the valley took his way:

No harm shall meet you on your sacred road;
The zephyrs with his golden crest did play,

For virtue in all worlds hath her abode. As much delighted with the beauteous fruit,

“ 'Tis virtue, not your golden arms, can save That, like a banquet, on his helm y-shone,

Your soul from Evil, that with wand'ring flight When joyous marriage doth with parents suit,

Doth journey on the wing of Care, and brave
And the sweet music is so touch'd, and blown

The fine perdition of the beamy light;
From shawm, and trumpet, dulcimer, and lute,

For rest is not her consort, by the wave
That Jealousy with love doth look thereon ;

Of Stygian darkness, or the crystal height;
And Hymen with a golden song doth tell,

But with an iron plume she beats the air,
How the pure marriage doth with angels dwell!

Incessant on her journey of despair:
The shrill cicada deafen'd with her song

“ Not feared by the mind, whose beauteous thought

Is dear to angels, and with angel's wing
The sultry air, and made the hills to quake;
The fishes to the depth of rivers throng,

O'er-shadow'd, when to depths of darkness

brought,
The birds within the leaves a descant make;
The heat doth do their pretty music wrong:

And fed with nectar of immortal spring:

Then come, Zerbino, without fear of aught,
Now, quitting the cold woods, the speckled snake,

As Virgil did of old, the poet's king,
Exulting in the burning light, displays

Ascend with me into the crystal air,
His forked tongue, and revels in the blaze.

And see what love, and what delights are there. Enduring not the flashing beams of day,

“ I will you show the palace of the moon,
The knight betook him to a flow'ry shade,
Wherein in gentle slumber as he lay,

And take you in the track of Phæbus' car,
The restless fancy such amusement made,

In all bis glorious altitude at noon;
With revel in his thoughts, and elfish play,

Where you may wonder, how each little star,
It seem'd he wander'd in a beauteous glade,

Like pearl, upon the milky air is strewn;

And see the world diminish'd from afar:
Where silv'ry orange, and the myrtle sweet,

Awake, Zerbino, for the sun is high,
In soft embraces o'er his head did meet.

And we ere night must to Olympus fly.
He deem'd he heard, and so he truly did,

“ Awake, Zerbino!" and the knight awoke, A song, of sweetness to ascend the sky,

And saw before him, on the flow'ry ground, And rest amid the bliss to us forbid,

The beauteous Muse, that like an angel spoke, Until indeed our latest moments fly,

More soft than is in spring the thunder's sound: And all, that to our earthly sight was hid,

A golden plume from each fair shoulder broke, In radiant prospect doth before us lie;

And with a laurel leaf her hair was bound;
He deem'd he heard a tender virgin sing

Her hair, that like Italian harvest shone,
This song of love, and anthem for a king.

When burning Ætna flameth them upon! “ O youthful guest, whose lineaments divine

She stood in height as stately, and as tall,
Bespeak you of the blood of kings to be,

As some fair temple, to Diana dear,
That softly wander on these shores of mine, On which the golden light of Heav'n doth fall,
Where all things of delight you well may see, That staineth with its face the silver year:
If to diviner wisdom you incline,

Round which, when Jove doth to his daughter call,
And thirst for fruit of immortality,

The golden-hoofed harts do start for fear,
Zerbino, to your sight I will declare

And Ay into the sacred woods again :
What wonders are in earth, in sea, in air.

So stood the Muse upon the flow'ry plain.

a

“ The silv'ry dragons to the team of thought,

That feed upon the pleasure of the air,
From out their silent caverns shall be brought,
And yoked to the wheel; do you prepare,
Zerbino, as when greatest things are wrought,
To fortify your breast with sacred prayer;
For in a little space you shall behold
The courts of amber, and the gates of gold!

And in her hand a myrtle branch she bore,

With bud and blossom beauteously adorn'd,
And shining leaves, a very plenteous store;
Which she had fairly pluck'd, and not suborn'd,
From off the bright, and ever-sacred floor,
With which the house of Phebus is adorn'd:
The little bees of that celestial air
Still murmur'd in its leaves, and blossoms fair.

Op whatso forehead she that myrtle laid,

Methinks, already on my reeds I blow, In yet unpractis'd youth, and flow'ring age,

And charm the world with glory of my song; That sacred head was by her counsel sway'd: For winter now is gone, and with it woe, Nor can he in the foaming chase engage,

And sparkling summer will be here ere long; Nor practise yet the gainful merchant's trade, Then cast I here away the winter's wrong: Nor seek of mighty war the iron rage,

This day I call the fairest of the year, Nor yet to love can yield his spirit pure;

That shows the soft delights of spring are near. But is her pupil, and must so endure.

MENALCAS.

But wisest kings, that with a sacred eye

Behold their subjects, and allot to each
Their gracious smiles, and equal majesty,
With condescension of their awful speech,
When they approve th' immortal poësy,
Protect the man, that can with wisdom teach
What virtue to true spirits doth unfold,

By great example of the times of old.
They fill him with deep cups of Bacchus old,

And bless him with the fat of venison;
The while some ancient tale is strictly told,
And reverend age doth give its benison
To what the stately tables do uphold:
Then music, that is sure a denizen
Of Phæbus' court, with some immortal air,
The light digestion doth for him prepare.

So then upon the stringed harp he sings

A song, that may delight Olympian Jove,
Of something, which he learnt beside the springs
Of Helicon, that with eternal love
He fills the feast, and to sweet madness brings
The breast of him, who from his throne above
Doth bow his ear to catch the sacred song,
And drinketh with delight the music strong.

I know not, Thenot, sith thy speech is so,
Or happy, or unhappy thee to call;
But youthful minds cannot endure with woe,
But of soft joy, and hope are prodigal,
Whereby into more grief oftimes they fall:
But let not the like case in thee be found,
Who shall, I think, in happiness abound.
But, foolish boy, is summer then so near?
The grass-hoppers are wiser far than thee;
And Philomel can better count the year,
That finds it not of promise yet so free,
But foreign to our meads she still would be;
All prodigal delights before their time
Must perish in dark winter's baleful clime.
The wint'ry wind, which is but sleeping now,
Shall blow throughout the reeds, of which you boast,
Ere from the river's brink, to breathe your row,
You gather the soft stalks, that to their cost
Must to and fro in the wild storm be tost;
But not the less their music will be sweet, [meet.
When with the spring, and with your voice they
I think you see the summer in the face
Of that divine, and merest paragon;
That violet, to whom all plants are base,
That star, that is but joy to look upon,
With whom you would be in the world alone;
And fain would die, so in her sight to die,
And count it gain, and cheap felicity.
O happy shepherd, yet unhappy too!
'Twas here you saw the lovely summer smile;
Forgetful, that the coming days renew
The wasteful winter, while you so beguile
Yourself with love, and softly smoothe your style;
Wherein in silver songs we soon shall hear
Of whate'er crowns the forehead of the year.
The fault of age, which age may yet amend;
But wot you well, that women's hearts are light,
And purpose frail; when fairest they intend,
They oft are seen to wander from the right;
So folly, and so fraud their leaves may blight:
But some as lovely, and as fix'd in soul,
As that fair star, that lights the northern pole.
And so may she, to whom your vows are due,
With fair requital those sweet vows repay i
But lose not soul and honour in her view,
Nor think within her arms to make delay
Of time and season, that for none can stay;
For lovers, that the summer antedate,
Will scant endure, when those soft days abate.

A DIALOGUE OF TWO SHEPHERDS.

THENOT.

The softer season now will soon be here,
To clothe the world in purple, and in green;
And Philomel, that rules the warbling year,
Her gentle descants will ensue, between
The flow'ring orange, and the myrtle green;
And Phæbus, who too much his course delays,
Enthron'd in joy, will lengthen out the days.
Then shall we lie amid the meads again,
And crown our locks with garlands of the spring,
And from our slender pipes breathe out a strain
Of joyous welcome, and sweet revelling,
To which the shepherds, and their nymphs will sing;
And ever, 'gainst the warm and summer hours,
The laughing Pan we will y-bind in flow'rs.

For now, the bitter cold of winter past,
The lovely mavis singeth on the bough;
And I, who thought the cruel time surpast
All other ills, which I have felt till now,
To Pan, and Flora will renew my vow;
And eke to Phæbus, that with golden ray,
O happy light! doth over-crown the day.