The merchant bows unto the seaman's star;

The ploughman from the sun his season takes:
But still the lover wonders what they are

Who look for day before his mistress wakes.
Awake, awake, break through your veils of lawn,
Then draw your curtains and begin the dawn.

Sir William Davenant, 1605-'68.

HATRED OF THE SCOTS.

HAD Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom; Not forced him to wander, but confined him home.

John Cleveland, 1613-'58.

DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST.

THE glories of our birth and state,
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armor against fate :
Death lays his icy hand on kings
Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant with laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield,
They tame but one another still;
Early or late,

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives! creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow;

Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon death's purple altar, now,

See where the victor victim bleeds!
All heads must come

To the cold tomb,

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.

James Shirity, 1596-1666.

HYMN OF THE NATIVITY.

GLOOMY night embraced the place
Where the noble Infant lay;

The Babe looked up and showed his face-
In spite of darkness it was day.

We saw Thee in thy balmy nest,
Bright dawn of our eternal day!
We saw Thine eyes break from their east,
And chase the trembling shades away:
We saw Thee, and we blest the sight,
We saw Thee by Thy own sweet light.

To these, whom death again did wed,
This grave's their second marriage-bed.
For though the hand of Fate could force,
'Twixt soul and body a divorce,

It could not sunder man and wife,
'Cause they both lived but one life.
Peace, good reader, do not weep;
Peace, the lovers are asleep;
They (sweet turtles) folded lie,
In the last knot love could tie.
And though they lie as they were dead,
Their pillow stone, their sheets of lead.
(Pillow hard, and sheets not warm)
Love made the bed, they'll take no harin.
Let them sleep, let them sleep on,
Till this stormy night be gone,
And th' eternal morrow dawn;
Then the curtains will be drawn,
And they wake into that light
Whose day shall never die in night.

Richard Crashaw,

THE MAD LOVER.

I HAVE been in love, and in debt, and in drink,-
This many and many a year;

And those three are plagues enough, one would think,
For one poor mortal to bear.

'Twas drink made me fall into love,

And love made me run into debt;

And though I have struggled and struggled and strove, I cannot get out of them yet.

There's nothing but money can cure me,
And rid me of all my pain;
'Twill pay all my debts,

And remove all my lets!

And my mistress that cannot endure me,
Will love me, and love me again:

Then I'll fall to loving and drinking again.

Alexander Brome, 1620-'66.

LIFE'S BREVITY.

MARK that swift arrow! how it cuts the air,
How it outruns thy following eye!
Use all persuasions now, and try

If thou canst call it back, or stay it there.
That way it went; but thou shalt find
No track is left behind.

Fool! 'tis thy life, and the fond archer thou.
Of all the time thou 'st shot away,
I'll bid thee fetch but yesterday,
And it shall be too hard a task to do.
Besides repentance, what canst find
That it hath left behind!

Our life is carried with too strong a tide;
A doubtful cloud our substance bears,
And is the horse of all our years.
Each day doth on a wingèd whirlwind ride.
We and our glass run out, and must
Both render up our dust.

But his past life who without grief can see;
Who never thinks his end too near;
But says to Fame, "Thou art mine heir;"
That man extends life's natural brevity—
This is, this is the only way

To outlive Nestor in a day.

Abraham Cowley, 1618-'67.

ABSENCE.

A THOUSAND pretty ways we'll think upon
To mock our separation.

Alas! ten thousand will not do ;

My heart will thus no longer stay, No longer 'twill be kept from you,

But knocks against the breast to get away.

And when no art affords me help or ease,
I seek with verse my griefs t' appease:
Just as a bird that flies about,

And beats itself against the cage,
Finding at last no passage out,

It sits and sings, and so o'ercomes its rage.

Abraham Cowley.

HYMN ON THE NATIVITY.

It was the winter wild,

While the heaven-born child

All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies. Nature, in awe to him,

Had doff'd her gaudy trim,

With her great Master so o sympathize:

It was no season then for her

To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour.

Only with speeches fair

She woos the gentle air,

To hide her guilty front with innocent snow ; And on her naked shame,

Pollute with sinful blame,

The saintly veil of maiden white to throw;
Confounded, that her Maker's eyes

Should look so near upon her foul deformities.

John Milton, 1608-'74

THE LADY'S SONG IN "COMUS."

Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen
Within thy aery shell,'

By slow Meander's margent green,
And in the violet-embroider'd vale,
Where the love-lorn nightingale
Nightly to thee her and song mourneth well!
Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair

That likest thy Narcissus are ?

Sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere !

So may'st thou be translated to the skies,

And give resounding grace to all Heaven's harmonies

John Milton.

ON MAY MORNING.

A SONG.

Now the bright morning Star, day's harbinger,
Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her
The flow'ry May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose.
Hail, bounteous May ! that dost inspire
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire;
Woods and groves are of thy dressing,
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing!
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

John Milton.