True;

-a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field,—

And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such,

As

you too shall adore;

I could not love thee, dear, so much,

Lov'd I not honour more.

SONG.

TO AMARANTH▲.

Amarantha sweet and fair,

Ah! braid no more that shining hair!
As my curious hand or eye,
Hovering round thee let it fly.

Let it fly as unconfin'd

As its calm ravisher, the wind;
Who hath left his darling th' east,
To wanton o'er that spicy nest!

Every tress must be confest,
But neatly tangled at the best;
Like a clue of golden thread,
Most exquisitely ravelled.

Do not then wind up that light

In ribands,--and o'ercloud in night,

Like the sun in's early ray;

But shake your head and scatter day!

ODE.

To LUCASTA.-The Rose.

Sweet, serene, sky-like flower,
Haste to adorn her bower:
From thy long cloudy bed
Shoot forth thy damask head.

New startled blush of Flora,
The grief of pale Aurora,
Who will contest no more ;-
Haste, haste to strew her floor.

Vermilion ball that's given
From lip to lip in heaven;
Love's couch's coverlid;-
Haste, haste to make her bed.

Dear offspring of pleas'd Venus,
And jolly, plump Silenus ;-
Haste, haste to deck the hair
Of th' only, sweetly fair.

See! rosy is her bower,-
Her floor is all this flower,-

Her bed a rosy nest,—

By a bed of roses press'd.

But early as she dresses,

Why fly you her bright tresses?
Ah! I have found I fear;

Because her cheeks are near.*

Poets in all ages have sought to combine the most delightful of human passions, with the most beautiful of nature's

SONG.

Why should you swear I am forsworn,

Since thine I vow'd to be?

Lady, it is already morn,

And 'twas last night I swore to thee
That fond impossibility.

productions. The following passage from a contemporary of
Lovelace's, Sir Edward Sherburne, has very great merit.
The bee through flow'ry gardens goes,
Buzzing, to drink the morning's tears;
And from the early lily bears

A kiss commended to the rose;
And like a wary messenger,

Whispers some amorous story in her ear!

At which, she rousing from her sleep,
Her chaster flame seems to declare
To him again;-whilst dew her fair
And blushing leaves in tears doth steep,-
The sorrow that her heart doth waste,
That she's so far from her dear lover placed.

And further seems, as if this plaint
In her mute dialect she made :-
"Alas! I shall with sorrow fade,
"And pine away in this restraint,
"Unless my too, too rigorous fate
66 My constant, faithful love commiserate.

"But if some courteous virgin shall

"Pitying my fate, pull my sweet flow'r,
"'Ere by a sad and fatal hour

"My honours fade away and fall;

"I nothing more shall then desire,

"But gladly without murmuring expire."

Peace, sweetest queen of flowers !-now see

Sylvia, queen of my love, appear;

Who for my comfort brings with her

What will thy wishes satisfy;

For her white hand intends to grace thee,

And in her sweeter breast, sweet flower, to place thee!

Where was Mr. Campbell's industry when he overlooked this fine old poet?

Have I not lov'd thee much, and long;
A tedious twelve hours space ?
I must all other beauties wrong,

And rob thee of a new embrace,
Could I still doat upon thy face.

Not but all joy in thy brown hair
By others may be found;

But I must search the black and fair,
Like skilful mineralists that sound
For treasures in unplough'd-up ground.

Then, if when I have lov'd my round,
Thou prov'st the pleasant she;
With spoils of meaner beauties crown'd,

I laden will return to thee,

Ev'n sated with variety.

ODE.

The Grasshopper.-To my noble friend, Mr. CHARLES COTTON.

Oh! thou that swing'st upon the waving hair

Of some well-filled oaten beard,

Drunk every night with a delicious tear,

Drop'd thee from heav'n where now thou 'rt rear'd.

The joys of earth and air are thine entire,

That with thy feet and wings dost hop and fly;
And when thy poppy works thou dost retire
To thy carv'd acorn bed to lie.

Up with the day, the sun thou welcom'st then,
Sport'st in the gilt-plats of his beams,
And all these merry days mak'st merry men,
Thyself, and melancholy streams.

But ah, the sickle !-golden ears are crop'd;
Ceres and Bacchus bid good night;

Sharp frosty fingers all your flow'rs have top'd,

And what scythes spar'd, winds shave off quite.

Poor verdant fool, and now green ice!-Thy joys
Large and as lasting as thy perch of grass,
Bid us lay in 'gainst winter's rain, and poise
Their floods, with an o'erflowing glass.

Thou best of men and friends!

-we will create A genuine summer in each other's breast; And spite of this cold time, and frozen fate, Thaw us a warm seat to our rest.

Our sacred hearths shall burn eternally
As vestal flames; the north-wind, he
Shall strike his frost-stretch'd wings, dissolve, and fly
This Ætna in epitome.

Dropping December shall come weeping in,
Bewail th' usurping of his reign;

But when in showers of old Greek we begin,
Shall cry, he hath his crown again.

Night, as clear Hesper shall our tapers whip,
From the light casements where we play,
And the dark hag from her black mantle strip,
And stick there everlasting day.

Thus richer than untempted kings are we,
That asking nothing, nothing need!
Though lord of all that seas embrace, yet he
That wants himself, is poor indeed!