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What may not then our isle presume, While victory his crest does plume?

What may not others fear

If thus he crowns each year?

As Cæsar, he, ere long, to Gaul;

To Italy an Hannibal;

And to all states not free

Shall climacteric be.

The Pict no shelter now shall find
Within his parti-colored mind;
But, from this valor sad,
Shrink underneath the plaid-

Happy, if in the tufted brake
The English hunter him mistake,
Nor lay his hounds in near
The Caledonian deer.

But thou, the war's and fortune's son,

March indefatigably on;

And, for the last effect,
Still keep the sword erect!

Besides the force it has to fright
The spirits of the shady night,
The same arts that did gain
A power, must it maintain.

SONNET.

TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL.

John Milton.

CROMWELL, Our chief of men, who through a cloud
Not of war only, but detractions rude,

Guided by faith and matchless fortitude,

To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed, And on the neck of crownèd Fortune proud

Hast reared God's trophies, and his work pursued,
While Darwen stream with blood of Scots imbrued,
And Dunbar field resounds thy praises loud,

And Worcester's laureate wreath. Yet much remains
To conquer still; Peace hath her victories
No less renowned than War: new foes arise,
Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains.
Help us to save free conscience from the paw
Of hireling wolves, whose Gospel is their maw.

THE TWA CORBIES.

As I was walking all alane,

I heard twa corbies1 making a mane;
The tane unto the t'other say
"Where sall we gang and dine to-day?"

"In behint yon auld fail2 dyke,

I wot there lies a new-slain knight;

1 Corbies, crows.

2 Fail, turf.

And naebody kens that he lies there,

But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.

"His hound is to the hunting gane,
His hawk, to fetch the wild-fowl hame,
His lady's ta'en another mate,

So we may mak our dinner sweet.

"Ye'll sit on his white hause3-bane,
And I'll pick out his bonny blue een:
Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair

4

We'll theek our nest when it grows bare.

"Many a one for him makes mane,
But nane sall ken where he is gane;
O'er his white banes, when they are bare,
The wind sall blaw for evermair."

HE THAT LOVES A ROSY CHEEK.

Thomas Carew.

He that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,

Or from star-like eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain his fires;
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.

But a smooth and steadfast mind,
Gentle thoughts and calm desires,
4 theek, thatch.

8 hause, neck.

Hearts, with equal love combined:
Kindle never-dying fires.

Where these are not, I despise
Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.

CORINNA'S GOING A-MAYING.

Robert Herrick.

GET up, get up, for shame! the blooming Morn
Upon her wings presents the god unshorn.
See how Aurora throws her fair
Fresh-quilted colors through the air;
Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see

The dew bespangling herb and tree.

Each flower has wept, and bow'd toward the east, Above an hour since: yet you not drest,

Nay! not so much as out of bed?

When all the birds have matins said,

And sung their thankful hymns; 'tis sin,
Nay, profanation to keep in,

When as a thousand virgins on this day

Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May.

Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen
To come forth, like the spring-time fresh and green,
And sweet as Flora. Take no care

For jewels for your gown or hair;
Fear not, the leaves will strew

Gems in abundance upon you;

Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,
Against you come, some orient pearls unwept.
Come, and receive them while the light
Hangs on the dew-locks of the night;

And Titan on the eastern hill

Retires himself, or else stands still

Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying;
Few beads are best, when once we go a-Maying.

Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, mark
How each field turns a street, each street a park
Made green, and trimm'd with trees; see how
Devotion gives each house a bough,

Or branch; each porch, each door, ere this,
An ark, a tabernacle is,

Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove;

As if here were those cooler shades of love. .
And sin no more, as we have done, by staying;
But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.

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THE bird is little more than a drift of the air brought into form by plumes; the air is in all its quills, it breathes through its whole frame and flesh, and glows with air in its flying, like a blown flame: it rests upon the air, subdues it, surpasses it, outraces it; is the air, conscious of itself, conquering itself, ruling itself.

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