To whom our vows and wishes bend,
Heer our solemn search hath end.

Fame that her high worth to raise,
Seem'd erst so lavish and profuse,
We may justly now accuse
Of detraction from her praise,
Less than half we find exprest,
Envy bid conceal the rest.

Mark what radiant state she spreds,
In circle round her shining throne,
Shooting her beams like silver threds,
This this is she alone,

Sitting like a Goddes bright,
In the center of her light.

Might she the wise Latona be,
Or towred Cybele,

Mother of a hunderd gods;

Juno dare's not give her odds;

Who had thought this clime had held
A deity so unparalel'd?

6.

Ο

ii

Song

'ER the smooth enameld green

Where no print of step hath been, Follow me as I sing,

NYMPHS and Shepherds dance no more

By sandy Ladons Lillied banks.

On old Lycæus or Cyllene hoar,
Trip no more in twilight ranks,
Though Erymanth your loss deplore,
A better soyl shall give ye thanks.
From the stony Mænalus,

Bring your Flocks, and live with us,
Here ye shall have greater grace,

To serve the Lady of this place.

Though Syrinx your Pans Mistress were,

Yet Syrinx well might wait on her.

Such a rural Queen

All Arcadia hath not seen.

J. Milton

8.

The Merry Beggars

OME, come; away! the spring,

COME,

By every
bird that can but sing,
Or chirp a note, doth now invite
Us forth to taste of his delight,
In field, in grove, on hill, in dale;
But above all the nightingale,

Who in her sweetness strives t' outdo

The loudness of the hoarse cuckoo.

'Cuckoo,' cries he; 'jug, jug, jug,' sings she;

From bush to bush, from tree to tree:

Why in one place then tarry we?

Come away! why do we stay?
We have no debt or rent to pay;
No bargains or accounts to make,
Nor land or lease to let or take:

Or if we had, should that remore us
When all the world's our own before us,
And where we pass and make resort,

It is our kingdom and our court.

'Cuckoo,' cries he; ‘jug, jug, jug,' sings she;
From bush to bush, from tree to tree:

Why in one place then tarry we?

R. Brome

9.

The Garden

HOW vainly men themselves amaze,
To win the palm, the oak, or bays;

And their incessant labours see
Crowned from some single herb, or tree,
Whose short and narrow-vergèd shade
Does prudently their toils upbraid;
While all the flowers and trees do close,
To weave the garlands of repose!

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
And Innocence, thy sister dear?
Mistaken long, I sought you then
In busy companies of men.
Your sacred plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow;
Society is all but rude.

To this delicious solitude.

No white nor red was ever seen
So amorous as this lovely green.
Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,
Cut in these trees their mistress' name:
Little, alas! they know or heed,
How far these beauties her's exceed!
Fair trees! wheres'e'er your bark I wound,
No name shall but your own be found.

When we have run our passion's heat, Love hither makes his best retreat.

The gods, that mortal beauty chase,
Still in a tree did end their race;
Apollo hunted Daphne so,

Only that she might laurel grow;
And Pan did after Syrinx speed,
Not as a nymph, but for a reed.

What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine; The nectarine, and curious peach, Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on melons, as I pass, Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass.

Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, Withdraws into its happiness;

The mind, that ocean where each kind
Does straight its own resemblance find;
Yet it creates, transcending these,
Far other worlds, and other seas,
Annihilating all that's made

To a green thought in a green shade.

Here at the fountain's sliding foot,
Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root,
Casting the body's vest aside,
My soul into the boughs does slide:
There, like a bird, it sits and sings,