The strange music of the waves, This black den, which rocks emboss, The rude portals, that give light She hath taught me by her might Therefore then, best earthly bliss, Let my life no longer be, Than I am in love with thee! Though our wise ones call it madness, Thou dost teach me to contemn, What makes knaves and fools of them! THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION. SHALL I, wasting in despair, Be she fairer than the day, What care I how fair she be ? Shall my foolish heart be pin'd, If she be not so to me, Shall a woman's virtues move ROBERT HERRICK. BORN 1591-DIED ABOUT 1662. HERRICK was the son of a goldsmith in London. He studied at Cambridge, took orders, and obtained the living of Dean Prior in Devonshire, which he lost on the commencement of the civil wars. At the Restoration he was reappointed to his vicarage, but died soon afterwards. There is a sparkling Anacreontic gaiety in some of Herrick's lighter effusions which places him at the head of a class of English lyrists. Of this deposed churchman Philips says, with quaintness not the less amusing for the slight infusion of party bitterness, "He was not particularly influenced by any nymph or goddess, except his Maid Prue, though he has occasionally shewn a pretty flowery and pastoral gale of fancy." SONG. GATHER the rose-buds while ye may, And this same flower that smiles to-day The glorious lamp of heav'n, the sun, The age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse and worst Then be not coy, but use your time, THE NIGHTLY CHARM. HER eyes the glow-worm lend thee, Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. No Will o' th' Wisp mislight thee; -Not making a stay, Since ghost there is none to affright thee. Let not the dark thee cumber; Will lend thee their light, Like tapers clear without number. Then, Julia, let me woo thee, My soul I'll pour into thee. THE MAD MAID'S SONG. GOOD morrow to the day so fair: Good morning to this primrose too; That will with flow'rs the tomb bestrew Ah, woe is me! woe, woe is me! I'll seek him in your bonnet brave, Nay, now I think they've made his grave I'll seek him there; I know ere this "The cold, cold earth doth shake him ; But I will go, or send a kiss By you, sir, to awake him. Pray hurt him not; though he be dead, |