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Who doth ambition shun
And loves to live in the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,

And pleased with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither,

There shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

Shakspere.
VIII. HYMN TO DIANA.1
QUEEN and huntress, chaste and fair,
Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver car,
State in wonted manner keep;

Hesperus’ entreats thy light,

Goddess excellently bright!
Earth, let not thy envious shade,
Dare itself to interpose;
Cynthia's shining orb was made
Heaven to clear when day did close :

Bless us then with wished sight,

Goddess excellently bright !
Lay thy bow of pearl apart,
And thy crystal shining quiver ;
Give unto the flying hart
Space to breathe, how short soever;

Thou that makest a day of night,
Goddess excellently bright!

Ben Jonson (born 1574).
IX. TO FANCY, AT NIGHT.
BREAK, Fancy, from thy cave of cloud,

And spread thy purple wings;
Now all thy figures are allowed,

And various shapes of things;
Create of airy forms a stream,

It must have bloodand nought of phlegm;
And though it be a waking dream,

(1) Diana is here addressed as the moon, though reference is incidentally made to her functions as goddess of hunting.

(2) Hesperus—God of evening.

(3) It must have, &c.--The stream" or procession of airy forms must have warmth and animation, and not consist merely of cold and unimpressive figures.

1

Yet let it like an odour rise,

To all the senses here,
And fall like sleep upon

Or music on their ear.

their eyes,

Ben Jonson.

X. TO BLOSSOMS.

go

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,

Why do you fall so fast ?

Your date is not so past,
But you may stay yet here awhile,
To blush and gently smile,

And at last.
What! were ye born to be

An hour or half's delight,

And so to bid good night ?
'Twas pity nature brought ye forth
Merely to show your worth,

And lose you quite.
But you are lovely leaves, where we

May read how soon things have

Their end, though ne'er so brave :?
And after they have shown their pride,
Like you, awhile, they glide
Into the
grave.

Herrick (born 1591),

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(1) Like an odour, &c - The closing lines remind us of the rising of Pande. monium,“ like an exhalation," in Milton's magnificent description. (See p. 323.)

(2) Brave--in the old sense--fine, gay, glorious.

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As

We have short time to stay, as you;
We have as short a spring,
As quick a growth to meet decay,

you, or anything;

We die
As
your

hours do; and dry
Away
Like to the summer's rain,
Or as the pearls of morning dew,

Ne'er to be found again.

Herrick.

THE DYING BOY.1

I KNEW a boy, whose infant feet had trod
Upon the blossoms of some seven springs,
And when the eighth came round, and called him out
To gambol in the sun, he turned away,
And sought his chamber, to lie down and die !
'Twas night--he summoned his accustomed friends,
And, on this wise, bestowed his last bequest :

“Mother! I'm dying now
There is deep suffocation in my breast,
As if some heavy hand my bosom prest;

And on my brow

“I feel the cold sweat stand;
My lips grow dry and tremulous, and my breath
Comes feebly up. Oh! tell me is this death ?
Mother!

your

hand-
“ Here—lay it on my wrist,
And place the other thus, beneath my head,
And say, sweet mother ;-say, when I am dead,

Shall I be missed ?
“ Never beside

your

knee
Shall I kneel down again at night to pray,
Nor with the morning wake, and sing the lay

You taught to me!

(1) The deep pathos of these lines cannot but recommend them to every heart capable of feeling.

“Oh, at the time of prayer, When you look round and see a vacant seat, You will not wait then for my coming feet

You'll miss me there !”

“Father! I'm going home! To the good home you speak of, that blest land Where it is one bright summer always, and

Storms do not come.

“I must be happy then, From pain and death you say I shall be freeThat sickness never enters there, and we

Shall meet again!”

“ Brother !—the little spot I used to call my garden, where long hours We've stayed to watch the budding things and flowers,

Forget it not !

“Plant there some box or pineSomething that lives in winter, and will be A verdant offering to my memory,

And call it mine!"

Sister ! my young rose-tree-
That all the spring has been my pleasant care,
Just putting forth its leaves so green and fair,

give to thee.

“ And when its roses bloom, I shall be gone away-my short life done! But will

you

not bestow a single one Upon my tomb ?”

“Now, mother! sing the tune
You sang last night—I'm weary and must sleep!
Who was it called my name ?-Nay, do not weep,

You'll all come soon!”
Morning spread over earth her rosy wings-
And that meek sufferer, cold and ivory pale,
Lay on his couch asleep! The gentle air
Came through the open window, freighted with
The savoury odours of the early spring-
He breathed it not !—The laugh of passers by
Jarred like a discord in some mournful tune,
But marrèd not his slumbers-he was dead!

Anonymous.

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THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM.
When marshalled on the nightly plain,

The glittering host bestud the sky,
One star alone of all the train,

Can fix the sinner's wandering eye:
Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks,

From every host, from every gem,
But one alone the Saviour speaks-

It is the star of Bethlehem !
Once on the raging seas I rode;

The storm was loud, the night was dark ;
The ocean yawned, and rudely blowed

The wind tirat tossed my foundering bark;
Deep horror then my vitals froze,

Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem;
When suddenly a star arose-

It was the star of Bethlehem !
It was my guide, my light, my all,

It bade my dark forebodings cease ;
And through the storm and danger's thrall,

It led me to the port of peace :
Now, safely moored, my perils o’er,

I'll sing, first in night's diadem,
For ever and for evermore-
The star—the star of Bethlehem !

Kirke White.

METRICAL FEET. TROCHẾE trips fròm lông tỏ sört ; From long to long, in solemn sort, Slow Spāndeē stālks; strong foot! yet ill able Ēvěr to come ŭp with Dāctýl trịsõllăblě. Zambies march fròm shört tỏ lỡng; With ă leāp ănd ă bound the swift Anăpæsts throng; One syllable long, with one short at each side, Amphībrăchýs hāstes with ă stătely stride; First ănd lāst bēžng lõng, middle short, Āmphìmācer Strikes hỉs thündêrîng hoofs like a proud high-bred rācer.

Coleridge.

N

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