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
"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 Etna 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!

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!
Care shackles you in liberty;-

Mirth frees you in captivity :

Would you double fetters add,
Else why so sad?

Besides your pinioned arms, you'll find
Grief too can manacle the mind.

Live then prisoners uncontrol'd!

Drink o' th' strong, the rich, the old,
Till wine too hath your wits in hold;
Then if still your jollity,

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.
When love with unconfined wings
Hovers within my gates;
And my divine Althea brings

To whisper at the grates:

When I lie tangled in her hair,
And fetter'd in 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 go free;-
Fishes that tipple in the deep,

Know no such liberty.

When, like committed linnets, 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 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