My days, which are at best but dull and hoary, O holy hope! and high humility, High as the heavens above! These are your walks, and you have shewed them me To kindle my cold love. Dear, beauteous death! the jewel of the just, He that hath found some fledged bird's nest, may know At first sight, if the bird be flown; But what fair well or grove he sings in now, And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, If a star were confined into a tomb Her captive flames must needs burn there; O father of eternal life, and all Created glories under thee! Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill Or else remove me hence unto that hill, CX. THOMAS STANLEY, 1625?-1678. O' THE RELAPSE. H turn away those cruel eyes, Or death in such a bright disguise Punish their blind and impious pride, It was my fall that deified Thy name, and sealed thy story. Yet no new sufferings can prepare Lovers will doubt thou canst entice And if thou burn one victim twice, Both think thee poor and cruel. CXI. JOHN DRYDEN, 1631-1700. SONG TO A FAIR YOUNG LADY, GOING OUT OF TOWN IN THE SPRING. A SK not the cause why sullen spring So long delays her flowers to bear; Why warbling birds forget to sing, Chloris is gone, the cruel fair; She cast not back a pitying eye: To sigh, to languish, and to die: Great god of love, why hast thou made A face that can all hearts command, And change the laws of every land? |