The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet,
The glowing violet,

The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears:
Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed,
And daffodillies fill their cups with tears,
To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.
For, so to interpose a little ease,

Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise :
Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas
Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurl'd,
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,
Where thou perhaps, under the whelming tide,
Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world;
Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,
Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,
Where the great vision of the guarded mount
Looks towards Namanco's and Bayona's hold;

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Look homeward, angel, now, and melt with ruth:
And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth.

Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more,

For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,

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Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor;
So sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed,

And yet anon repairs his drooping head,

And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:

So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,

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Through the dear might of Him that walk'd the waves,
Where, other groves and other streams along,

With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,
And hears the unexpressive nuptial song

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In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.
There entertain him all the saints above,
In solemn troops, and sweet societies,
That sing, and, singing, in their glory move,
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.

MILTON.

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THE ROSE.

Go, lovely rose !

Tell her, that wastes her time and me,

That now she knows,

Then die! that she

The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee:

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How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair.

WALLER.

TO ALL YOU LADIES NOW AT LAND.

To all you ladies now at land,

We men at sea indite;

But first would have you understana

How hard it is to write:

The Muses now, and Neptune too,

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We must implore to write to you.

Roll up and down our ships at sea.

Then if we write not by each post,
Think not we are unkind;
Nor yet conclude our ships are lost

By Dutchmen, or by wind:
Our tears we'll send a speedier way;
The tide shall bring them twice a day.

The King, with wonder and surprise,

Will swear the seas grow bold; Because the tides will higher rise, Than e'er they did of old:

But let him know, it is our tears

Bring floods of grief to Whitehall stairs.

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Should foggy Opdam chance to know

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Our sad and dismal story;

The Dutch would scorn so weak a fce,

And quit their fort at Goree:

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TO ALL YOU LADIES NOW AT LAND.

For what resistance can they find

From men who've left their hearts behind? 30

Let wind and weather do its worst,

Be you to us but kind;

Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse,

No sorrow we shall find:

'T is then no matter how things go,

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Or who's our friend, or who's our foe.

To pass our tedious hours away,

We throw a merry main;
Or else at serious ombre play;
But why should we in vain

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Each other's ruin thus pursue?

We were undone when we left you.

But now our fears tempestuous grow,
And cast our hopes away;

Whilst you, regardless of our woe,

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Sit careless at a play;

Perhaps, permit some happier man

To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan.

When any mournful tune you hear,
That dies in every note;

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As if it sigh'd with each man's care,

For being so remote;

Think then how often love we've made

Το

you, when all those tunes were play'd.

In justice you cannot refuse

To think of our distress;

When we for hopes of honour lose

Our certain happiness:

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All those designs are but to prove
Ourselves more worthy of your love.

And now we've told you all our loves,
And likewise all our fears;

In hopes this declaration moves

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CELIA and I the other day

Walk'd o'er the sand-hills to the sea:
The setting sun adorn'd the coast,
His beams entire, his fierceness lost;
And, on the surface of the deep,
The winds lay only not asleep :
The nymph did like the scene appear,
Serenely pleasant, calmly fair:
Soft fell her words, as flew the air.
With secret joy I heard her say,
That she would never miss one day

A walk so fine, a sight so gay.

But, O, the change! the winds grow high;
Impending tempests charge the sky;
The lightning flies, the thunder roars,
And big waves lash the frighten'd shores.
Struck with the horror of the sight,

She turns her head, and wings her flight;
And, trembling, vows she 'll ne'er again
Approach the shore, or view the main.

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