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ECAUSE I breathe not love to everie one,
Nor do not use set colours for to weare, Nor nourish special locks of vowed haire, Nor give each speech a full point of a groan ; The courtlie nymphs, acquainted with the moan Of them who in their lips Love's standard beare, “What, he ?” say they of me, now I dare sweare He cannot love! No, no, let him alone.” And think so still ! if Stella know
minde. Profess indeed I do not Cupid's art; But
you, fair maids, at length this true shall finde, That his right badge is but worne in the heart : Dumb swans, not chattering pies, do lovers prove: They love indeed, who quake to say they love.
SiR PHILIP SIDNEY.
(FROM THE PRINCESS."] LEARS, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That sinks with all we love below the verge,
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
Dear as remember'd kisses after death,
TO MY SISTER.
WRITTEN AT A SMALL DISTANCE FROM MY HOUSE,
AND SENT BY MY LITTLE BOY.
T is the first mild day of March :
Each minute sweeter than before
That stands beside our door.
There is a blessing in the air,
Which seems a sense of joy to yield
in the green
My Sister! ('tis a wish of mine)
Now that our morning meal is done,
Come forth and feel the sun.
Edward will come with you ;-and, pray,
Put on with speed your woodland dress; And bring no book : for this one day
We'll give to idleness.
No joyless forms shall regulate
Our living calendar :
The opening of the year.
Love, now a universal birth,
From heart to heart is stealing,
It is the hour of feeling.
One moment now may give us more
Than years of toiling reason :
The spirit of the season.
Some silent laws our hearts will make,
Which they shall long obey : We for the year to come may take
Our temper from to-day.
And from the blessed power that rolls
About, below, above,
They shall be turn'd to love.
Then come, my
pray, With speed put on your woodland dress ; And bring no book: for this one day We'll give to idleness.
YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.
(A NAVAL ODE.)
E mariners of England,
That guard our native seas;
The battle and the breeze!
To match another foe !
While the stormy tempests blow; While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.
The spirits of your
fathers Shall start from every wave! For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave: Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell
Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow; While the battle
loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow.
Britannia needs no bulwark,
No towers along the steep;
Her home is on the deep.
She quells the floods below
As they roar on the shore
When the stormy tempests blow;
And the stormy tempests blow.
The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn;
And the star of peace return.
Our song and feast shall flow
When the storm has ceased to blow ;
TO CYRIACK SKINNER.
YRIACK, this three years' day these eyes,
Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot;
Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not
Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope ; but still bear up
and steer Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask? The conscience, friend, to have lost them over