In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed;

The lily I condemned for thy hand,
And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair;
And roses fearfully on thorns did stand,
One blushing shame, another white despair;
A third, nor red nor white, had stolen of
both,

And to his robbery had annexed thy breath,
But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth,
A vengeful canker ate him up to death.

More flowers I noted, yet I none could

see

But sweet or colour it had stolen from thee.

LOVELINESS OF TRUTH.

OH, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem,

[give!

By that sweet ornament which truth doth The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odour which doth in it live. The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye As the perfumèd tincture of the roses, Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly When summer's breath their maskèd buds discloses.

But, for their virtue only is their show, They live unwooed, and unrespected fade; Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so; Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made;

[youth, And so of you, beauteous and lovely When that shall fade, my verse distils your truth.

HIS MISTRESS.

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why, then her breasts are
dun;
[head.

If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more de-
light
[reeks.
Than in the breath that from my mistress
I love to hear her speak,—yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound:
I grant I never saw a goddess go,
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the
ground.

[rare And yet, by heaven, I think my love as As any she belied with false compare.

HER IMMORTALITY.

SHALL I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of
May,
[date:
And summer's lease hath all too short a
Some time too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair some time declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course,
untrimmed;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his
shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou growest: So long as men can breathe, or eyes can

see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

SONNET.

WHEN to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes now wail my dear time's

waste:

Then can I drown an eye unused to flow, For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, [woe, And weep afresh love's long-since cancelled And moan the expense of many a vanished sight.

SLEEP.

SLEEP, silence' child, sweet father of soft rest,

Prince, whose approach peace to all mortals brings,

Indifferent host to shepherds or to kings, Sole comforter of minds which are oppressed.

Lo! by thy charming rod all breathing things

Lie slumbering with forgetfulness possessed,

And yet o'er me to spread thy drowsy wings

Thou sparest, alas! who cannot be thy guest.

Since I am thine, oh, come, but with that face

To inward light which thou art wont to show,

With feigned solace ease a true-felt woe; Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace, Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt bequeath,

I long to kiss the image of my death.

TO MY DEAD LOVE.

I KNOW that all beneath the moon decays, And what by mortals in this world is brought In time's great periods shall return to nought;

That fairest states have fatal nights and days.

I know that all the Muses' heavenly lays, With toil of spright, which are so dearly bought,

As idle sounds, of few or none are sought. That there is nothing lighter than vain praise.

I know frail beauty's like the purple flower, To which one morn oft birth and death affords;

That love a jarring is of mind's accords, Where sense and will bring under reason's power :

Know what I list, this all cannot me move, But that, alas! I both must write and love.

-:0:

TO THE THRUSH.

DEAR chorister, who from those shadows sends,

Ere that the blushihg morn dare show her light,

Such sad lamenting strains, that night attends,

(Become all ear), stars stay to hear thy plight;

If one, whose grief even reach of thought transcends,

Who ne'er (not in a dream) did taste delight,

May thee impòrtune, who like case pretends,

And seems to joy in woe, in woe's despite; Tell me (so may thou fortune milder try, And long, long sing !) for what thou thus complains,

Since winter's gone, and sun in dappled sky

Enamoured smiles on woods and flowery

As thou from year to year hast sung too late

For my relief, yet hadst no reason why: Whether the Muse or Love call thee his

ON HIS DECEASED WIFE.

METHOUGHT I saw my late-espoused saint

Brought to me like Alcestis from the

grave,

Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave,

Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint.

Mine, as whom washed from spot of childbed taint

Purification in the old law did save, And such, as yet once more I trust to have

Full sight of her in heav'n without restraint,

Came vested all in white, pure as her mind:

Her face was veiled, yet to my fancied sight

Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shined

So clear, as in no face with more delight. But oh, as to embrace me she inclined, I waked, she fled, and day brought back my night.

WILLIAM BOWLES.

1762-1850.

TO TIME.

O TIME, who know'st a lenient hand to lay Softest on sorrow's wounds, and slowly thence

(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)
The faint pang stealest unperceived away;
On thee I rest my only hopes at last,
And think, when thou hast dried the bitter

tear

That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear, I may look back on many a sorrow past, And greet life's peaceful evening with a smile

As some lone bird at day's departing hour Sings in the sunshine of the transient shower,

Forgetful though its wings are wet the while :

Yet ah! what ills must that poor heart endure,

Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

1770-1850.

SONNET ON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE.

EARTH has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty :
This city now doth like a garment wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples
lie

Open unto the fields and to the sky,

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did sun more beautifully steep

In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still.

EVENING.

IT is a beauteous evening, calm and free;
The holy time is quiet as a nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquility;
The gentleness of heaven is on the sea:
Listen! the mighty being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder-everlastingly.
Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with
me here,

If thou appear'st untouched by solemn thought,

Thy nature is not therefore less divine: Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the

year,

And worshipp'st at the temple's inner shrine,

God being with thee when we know it not.

THE SHIP.

[must go? WHERE lies the land to which yon ship Festively she puts forth her trim array, As vigorous as a lark at break of day: Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow? What boots the inquiry ?-Neither friend nor foe

She cares for: let her travel where she may, She finds familar names, a beaten way

LONE flower, hemmed in with snows, and white as they,

But hardier far, once more I see thee bend Thy forehead, as if fearful to offend, Like an unbidden guest. Though day by day [waylay

Storms, sallying from the mountain-tops, The rising sun, and on the plains descend; Yet art thou welcome, welcome as a friend Whose zeal outruns his promise! Blueeyed May

Shall soon behold this border thickly set With bright jonquils, their odours lavishing

On the soft west wind and his frolic peers; Nor will I then thy modest grace forget, Chaste snowdrop, venturous harbinger of

spring,

And pensive monitor of fleeting years!