Whose native ray

Can tame the wanton day

Of gems that in their bright shades play,—

Each ruby there

Or pearl that dare appear, Be its own blush, be its own tear;

A well-tamed heart,

For whose more noble smart Love may be long choosing a dart ;

Eyes that bestow

Full quivers on Love's bow, Yet pay less arrows than they owe;

Smiles that can warm

The blood, yet teach a charm That chastity shall take no harm;

Blushes that been

The burnish of no sin,

Nor flames of aught too hot within ;

Joys that confess

Virtue for their Mistress,

And have no other head to dress;

Fears fond, and flight,

As the coy bride's when night

First does the longing lover right;

Tears quickly fled

And vain, as those are shed

For dying maidenhed;

Days that need borrow

No part of their good morrow From a fore-spent night of sorrow,

Days that, in spite

Of darkness, by the light

Of a clear mind are day all night;

Nights sweet as they

Made short by lovers' play,

Yet long by the absence of the day;

Life that dares send

A challenge to his end,

And when it comes say-Welcome, friend;

Sidneian showers

Of sweet discourse, whose powers Can crown old Winter's head with flowers;

Soft silken hours,

Open suns, shady bowers;

'Bove all, nothing within that lours;

Whate'er delight

Can make Day's forehead bright Or give down to the wings of Night.

In her whole frame

Have Nature all the name,

Art and Ornament the shame!

Her flattery

Picture and poesy,

Her counsel her own virtue be!

I wish her store

Of worth may leave her poor Of wishes; and I wish-no more.

Now, if Time knows

That Her whose radiant brows Weave them a garland of my vows,

Her whose just bays

My future hopes can raise

A trophy to her present praise,

Her that dares be

What these lines wish to see,

I seek no further it is She.

'Tis She and here

Lo I unclothe and clear My Wishes' cloudy character.

May She enjoy it

Whose merit dares apply it

But modesty dares still deny it !

Such Worth as this is

Shall fix my flying wishes,

And determine them to kisses.

Let her full glory,

My fancies! fly before ye! Be you my fictions, but Her Story!

SIR JOHN DENHAM.
1615-1668.

INVOCATION TO MORPHEUS.

Morpheus, the humble God that dwells In cottages and smoky cells,

Hates gilded roofs and beds of down

And, though he fears no prince's frown,

Flies from the circle of a crown.

Come, I say, thou powerful God!

And thy leaden charmed rod,

Dipp'd in the Lethèan Lake,

O'er his wakeful temples shake!

Lest he should sleep and never wake.

Nature! alas! why art thou so

Obliged to thy greatest foe?

Sleep, that is thy best repast,
Yet of death it bears a taste:

And both are the same thing at last.

RICHARD LOVELACE.

1618-1658.

THE GRASSHOPPER.

To my noble friend Mr. Charles Cotton.

O thou that swing'st upon the waving hair
Of some well-filled oaten beard,
Drunk every night with a delicious tear

Dropp'd thee from heaven, where thou wast 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 carved acorn-bed to lie.

Up with the day, the sun thou welcomest then,
Sport'st in the gilt plaits of his beams;
And all these merry days makest merry men,
Thyself, and melancholy streams.

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

Sharp frosty fingers all your flowers have topp'd,
And what scythes spared 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 rains, 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 the 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.

TO ALTHEA.

(FROM PRISON.)

When Love with unconfinèd 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 to 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,