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SERENADE.

From Two GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.

William Shakespeare.

WHO is Silvia? what is she,

That all our swains commend her?
Holy, fair and wise is she;

The heaven such grace did lend her,
That she might admirèd be.

Is she kind as she is fair?

For beauty lives with kindness.
Love doth to her eyes repair,

To help him of his blindness,
And, being help'd, inhabits there.

Then to Silvia let us sing,
That Silvia is excelling;
She excels each mortal thing

Upon the dull earth dwelling:
To her let us garlands bring.

STILL TO BE NEAT, STILL TO BE DREST.

From THE SILENT WOMAN.

Ben Jonson.

STILL to be neat, still to be drest,

As you were going to a feast;

Still to be powdered, still perfumed,—

Lady. it is to be presumed.

Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free,-

Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all the adulteries of art;

They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

SONG.

Hartley Coleridge.

SHE is not fair to outward view

As many maidens be,

Her loveliness I never knew
Until she smil'd on me;

Oh! then I saw her eye was bright,
A well of love, a spring of light.

But now her looks are coy and cold,
To mine they ne'er reply,
And yet I cease not to behold,
The love-light in her eye:
Her very frowns are fairer far,

Than smiles of other maidens are.

COUNTY GUY.

From QUENtin Durward.

1

Sir Walter Scott.

Ан! County Guy the hour is nigh,

The sun has left the lea,

The orange flower perfumes the bower,
The breeze is on the sea.

The lark, his lay who thrill'd all day,
Sits hush'd his partner nigh;

Breeze, bird, and flower, confess the hour,
But where is County Guy?

The village maid steals through the shade,
Her shepherd's suit to hear;

To beauty shy, by lattice high,
Sings high-born Cavalier.

The star of Love, all stars above,
Now reigns o'er earth and sky;
And high and low the influence know
But where is County Guy?

TO A CHILD OF QUALITY.

FIVE YEARS OLD, 1704; THE AUTHOR SUPPOS'D FORTY.

Matthew Prior.

LORDS, knights, and 'squires, the numerous band,
That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters,
Were summon'd by her high command,
To show their passions by their letters.

My pen among the rest I took,

Lest those bright eyes that cannot read Should dart their kindling fires, and look The power they have to be obey'd.

Nor quality, nor reputation,

Forbid me yet my flame to tell,
Dear five-years-old befriends my passion,
And I may write till she can spell.

For, while she makes her silkworms beds
With all the tender things I swear;
Whilst all the house my passion reads
In papers round her baby's hair;

She may receive and own my flame,

For, though the strictest prude should know it, She'll pass for a most virtuous dame, And I for an unhappy poet.

Then too, alas! when she shall tear

The lines some younger rival sends,

She'll give me leave to write, I fear,
And we shall still continue friends.

For, as our different ages move,

'Tis so ordain'd, (would Fate but mend it!)

That I shall be past making love,

When she begins to comprehend it.

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.

Lord Byron.

SHE walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, `.
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

O NIGHTINGALE! THOU SURELY ART.

William Wordsworth.

O NIGHTINGALE! thou surely art

A creature of a “fiery heart":

These notes of thine - they pierce and pierce;
Tumultuous harmony and fierce!

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