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 productions. The following passage from a contemporary of A kiss commended to the rose; Whispers some amorous story in her ear! At which, she rousing from her sleep, And further seems, as if this plaint "But if some courteous virgin shall "Pitying my fate, pull my sweet flow'r, 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? And rob thee of a new embrace, Not but all joy in thy brown hair But I must search the black and fair, Then, if when I have lov'd my round, 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; Up with the day, the sun thou welcom'st then, But ah, the sickle !-golden ears are crop'd; 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 Thou best of men and friends!-we will create Our sacred hearths shall burn eternally Dropping December shall come weeping in, But when in showers of old Greek we begin, Night, as clear Hesper shall our tapers whip, Thus richer than untempted kings are we, This is a very perfect specimen of our poet's best style, and at the same time abounds with his peculiar defects. It is impossible to deny that it exhibits the genuine poet, but there are passages hardly intelligible. A SONG. The Vintage to the Dungeon. Sing out, pent souls, sing cheerfully! Mirth frees you in captivity : Would you double fetters add, Besides your pinioned arms, you'll find Live then prisoners uncontrol'd! Drink o' th' strong, the rich, the old, And throats are free, Triumph in your bonds and pains, And dance to the music of your chains! We may easily conceive that the above was written during the confinement of the poet in the Gatehouse Prison, and that the generous writer did not confine himself to words only, but that he employed the means in his power to make the heart of the prisoner leap for joy. SONG. To ALTHEA, from Prison. To whisper at the grates: When I lie tangled in her hair, The birds that wanton in the air, When flowing cups run swiftly round Our careless heads with roses bound, Know no such liberty. When, like committed linnets, I With shriller throat shall sing He is, how great should be ;- Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; That for a hermitage: Enjoy such liberty. This song has been much, and very justly admired, and if he had composed nothing more, would have insured to Lovelace a place in the memory of all lovers H |