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Dark beneath, but bright above;
Here disdaining, there in love.
It all about does upwards bend.
Let Zephyr only breathe,
Golden yellow, gaudy blue,
Daintily invite the view. Everywhere, on every green, Roses blushing as they blow,
And enticing men to pull; Lilies whiter than the snow;
Woodbines of sweet honey full — All love's emblems, and all cry: Ladies, if not plucked, we die !
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
Song. PHEBUS, arise, And paint the sable skies With ažure, white, and red, Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tython's bed, That she thy career may with roses spread, The nightingales thy coming each where sing Make an eternal spring. Give life to this dark world which lieth dead; Spread forth thy golden hair In larger locks than thou was wont before, And, emperor-like, decore With diadem of pearl thy temples fair: Chase hence the ugly night, Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light. This is that happy morn, That day, long-wished day, Of all my life so dark, (If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn, And fates my hopes betray,) Which, purely white, deserves An everlasting diamond should it mark. This is the morn should bring unto this grove My love, to hear, and recompense my love. Fair king, who all preserves, But show thy blushing beams, And thou two sweeter eyes Shalt see than those which by Peneus' streams Did once thy heart surprise : Nay, suns, which shine as clear As thou when two thou didst to Rome appear. Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise. If that ye winds would hear A voice surpassing, far, Amphion's lyre, Your furious chiding stay;
The winds that fan the flowers,
Tell of serener hours,-
Beneath the sky of May.
From his blue throne of air,
Beauty is budding there;
The waving verdure rolls along the plain,
And the wide forest weaves, To welcome back its playful mates again,
A canopy of leares;
THE MERRY SUMMER MONTHS.
Night is nigh gone.
Stars fade one by one;
The night is nigh gone.
Morning in London. Earth has not anything to show more fair : Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty : This city now doth, like a garment, wear The beauty of the morning ; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky, All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep, In his first splendor, valley, rock, or hill ; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will; Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still !
The fields are o'erflowing
A thousand as one;
The night is nigh gone.
The season excelling,
Our hearts every one; With sweet ballads moving The maids we are loving, Mid musing and roving
The night is nigh gone.
The Sabbath Morning. With silent awe I hail the sacred morn, That slowly wakes while all the fields are still. A soothing calm on every breeze is borne; A graver murmur gurgles from the rill; And echo answers softer from the hill; And softer sings the linnet from the thorn: The skylark warbles in a tone less shrill. Hail, light serene! hail, sacred Sabbath morn! The rooks float silent by in airy drove; The sun a placid yellow luster throws; The gales that lately sighed along the grove, Have hushed their downy wings in dead repose ; The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move. So smiled the day when the first morn arose !
Of war and fair women
And plumed helmets on;
Say night is nigh gone.
I see the flags flowing,
The steeds rushing on;
ALEXANDER MONTGOMERY. Version of ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
The Merry Summer Months. They come! the merry summer months of beauty,
song, and flowers; They come! the gladsome months that bring thick
leafiness to bowers. Up, up, my heart! and walk abroad; fling cark
and care aside; Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peaceful
Or, underneath the shadow vast of patriarchal tree, And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youth's Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky in rapt bright summer day, tranquillity.
When, rushing forth like untamed colt, the reck
less, truant boy The grass is soft, its velvet touch is grateful to the Wandered through greenwoods all day long, a
mighty heart of joy! And, like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze is sweet and bland;
I'm sadder now - I have had cause; but O! I'm The daisy and the buttercup are nodding courte- proud to think ously;
That each pure joy-fount, loved of yore, I yet deIt stirs their blood with kindest love, to bless and light to drink;welcome thee;
Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the calm, And mark how with thine own thin locks — they unclouded sky, now are silvery gray —
Still mingle music with my dreams, as in the days That blissful breeze is wantoning, and whispering,
gone by. “ Be gay!”
When summer's loveliness and light fall round
me dark and cold, There is no cloud that sails along the ocean of yon I'll bear indeed life's heaviest curse,- a heart that sky,
hath waxed old !
WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. But hath its own winged mariners to give it mel
ody; Thou seest their glittering fans outspread, all gleaming like red gold;
Morning. And hark! with shrill pipe musical, their merry course they hold.
HARK—hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, God bless them all, those little ones, who, far above
And Phæbus 'gins arise, this earth,
His steeds to water at those springs Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent a no
On chaliced flowers that lies: bler mirth.
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes; But soft! mine ear upcaught a sound — from yon- With every thing that pretty bin, der wood it came!
My lady sweet, arise, The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe his
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARL. own glad name. Yes, it is he! the hermit bird, that, apart from all
his kind, Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft west
To the Skylark. ern wind; Cuckoo! Cuckoo! he sings again — his notes are
Hail to thee, blithe spirit ! void of art;
Bird thou never wert, But simplest strains do soonest sound the deep
That from heaven, or near it, founts of the heart.
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Good Lord ! it is a gracious boon for thoughtcrazed wight like me,
Higher still and higher To smell again these summer flowers beneath this
From the earth thou springest, summer tree!
Like a cloud of fire; To suck once more in every breath their little souls
The blue deep thou wingest, away,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.