GAY youths and frolic damsels round me throng,
And, smiling, say--"Why, Shepherd, wilt thou write,
Thy lays of love advent'rous to recite

In unknown numbers and a foreign tongue?
Shepherd, if hope hath ever wrought thee wrong,
Afar from her, and fancy's fairy light
Retire." So they to sport with me delight.
And other shores (they say) and other streams
Thy presence wait; and sweetest flowers that blow,
Their ripening blooms reserve for thy fair brow;
Where glory soon shall bear her brightest beams!
Thus they; and yet their soothing little seems.
If she, for whom I breathe the tender vow,
Sing these soft lays, and ask the mutual song;
This is thy language, Love, and I to thee belong!

A PLAIN youth, Lady! and a simple lover,
Since of myself a last leave I must take,
To you devoutly of my heart I make
An humble gift, and doing this I proffer.
A heart that is intrepid, slow to waver,

Gracious in thought, discreet, good, prompt, awake;
If the great earth should to her centre shake,
Arm'd in itself, and adamant all over;
Not more secure from envy, chance, desire,
And vulgar hopes and fears that vex the earth,
Than wedded to high valour, wit, and worth,
To the sweet Muses, and the sounding Lyre!
Weak only will you find it in that part
Where Love incurably hath fix'd his dart.

ON HIS DECEASED WIFE.

METHOUGHT I saw my late espoused Saint,
Brought to me, like Alcestis, from the graye;
Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave,
Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint.
Mine, as whom wash'd from spot of child-bed taint,
Purification in the' Old Law did save;

And such as yet, once more, I trust to have
Full sight of her, in Heaven without restraint,—
Came vested all in white, pure as her mind:
Her face was veil'd, yet to my fancied sight
Love, sweetness, goodness, in her
person shin'd
So clear, as in no face with more delight.

But O! as to embrace me she inclin❜d,

I wak'd-she fled, and day brought back my pain.

HENRY GLAPTHORNE.

1639.

Little is known of this author, except the encomium pronounced on him by Phillips, who thought him not altogether ill deserving of the English Stage. Glapthorne, besides several miscellaneous poems, wrote nine plays.

UNCLOSE those eye-lids, and outshine
The brightness of the breaking day!
The light they cover is divine,

Why should it fade so soon away?
Stars vanish so, and day appears;
The suns so drown'd i' th' morning's tears,

Oh! let not sadness cloud this beauty,
Which if you lose, you'll ne'er recover!
It is not love's but sorrow's duty,

To die so soon for a dead lover.
Banish, oh! banish grief, and then
Our joys will bring our hopes again.

ABRAHAM COWLEY.

1647.

Cowley is among the number of celebrated men who have been indebted to maternal instruction for the rudiments of their education, and who have delighted to acknowledge the benefits which they had thus received. His proficiency in literature will appear astonishing, when it is remembered that he was only thirteen years of age on the publication of his first volume of poems. He studied at Westminster, and Cambridge; but the tranquillity of his pursuits being deranged by the civil wars, during the prevalence of which he suffered much for his devotion to the court, he passed the meridian of his days in different parts of Europe, subject to all the vicissitudes of royalty in distress. He was born in London, in 1618: he died at Porch House in Chertsey, Surry, in 1667. His funeral was sumptuously attended, to Westminster Abbey, where his remains were deposited between those of Chaucer and Spenser. With a display of learning that generally borders on pedantry, and a vigour that often degenerates into roughness, the poetry of Cowley, such of it, at least, as is dedicated to the sexual passion, must be admired rather for wit than warmth; for brilliant conceits, rather than interesting delineations of human feelings and sympathies.

You who men's fortunes in their faces read,
To find out mine, look not, alas! on me;
But mark her face, and all the features heed,
For only there is writ my destiny:

Or if stars shew it, gaze not on the skies,
But study the' astrology of her eyes!

If thou find there kind and propitious rays,
What Mars or Saturn threaten I'll not fear:
I well believe the fate of mortal days

Is writ in heav'n; but oh! my heav'n is here.
What can men learn from stars they scarce can see?
Two great lights rule the world, and her two me.

I NEVER yet could see that face

Which had no dart for me;

From fifteen years, to fifty's space,
They all victorious be:

Love! thou'rt a devil, if I may call thee one;

For sure in me thy name is Legión.

Colour or shape, good limbs or face,
Goodness or wit, in all I find;
In motion, or in speech a grace:
If all fail, yet 'tis womankind!

And I'm so weak, the pistol need not be
Double or treble charg'd, to murder me.

If tall, the name of proper slays;
If fair, she's pleasant as the light;
If low, her prettiness does please;
If black, what lover loves not night?
If yellow-hair'd; I love, lest it should be
The' excuse to others for not loving me.

The fat, like plenty, fills my heart;
The lean, with love makes me, too, so:
If straight, her body's Cupid's dart;
To me, if crooked, 'tis his bow.

Nay, Age itself does me to rage incline;

And strength to women gives, as well as wine.