Each flower the dews have lightly wet,
And in the sky the stars are met,
And on the wave is deeper blue,
And on the leaf a browner hue,
And in the heaven that clear obscure,
So softly dark, and darkly pure,
Which follows the decline of day,

As twilight melts beneath the moon away.

21.

- LORD BYRON.

ILLUSIONS.

A GOOD that never satisfies the mind,
A beauty fading like the April flow'rs,
A sweet with floods of gall, that run combin'd,

A pleasure passing ere in thought made ours,
An honour that more fickle is than wind,

A glory at opinion's frown that low'rs,

A treasury which bankrupt time devours,

A knowledge than grave ignorance more blind, A vain delight our equals to command,

A style of greatness, in effect a dream,
A swelling thought of holding sea and land,
A servile lot, deck'd with a pompous name,
Are the strange ends we toil for here below,
Till wisest death make us our errors know.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

22.

SWEET AND BITTER.

SWEET is the rose, but grows upon a brere;
Sweet is the juniper, but sharp his bough;
Sweet is the eglantine, but pricketh near;

Sweet is the firbloom, but his branches rough;
Sweet is the cyprus, but his rind is tough;
Sweet is the nut, but bitter is his pill;

Sweet is the broom flower, but yet sour enough;
And sweet is moly, but his root is ill;
So, every sweet with sour is tempered still,
That maketh it be coveted the more:
For easy things that may be got at will

Most sorts of men do set but little store.
Why then should I account of little pain,
That endless pleasure shall unto me gain?

Ir flows through old hushed Egypt and its sands,
Like some grave mighty thought threading a dream
And times and things, as in that vision, seem
Keeping along it their eternal stands,
Caves, pillars, pyramids, the shepherd bands

That roamed through the young world, the glory

extreme

Of high Sesostris, and that southern beam,

The laughing queen that caught the world's great hands.

Then comes a mightier silence, stern and strong, As of a world left empty of its throng,

And the void weighs on us; and then we wake, And hear the fruitful stream lapsing along

'Twixt villages, and think how we shall take Our own calm journey on for human sake.

24.

IN SAN LORENZO.

- LEIGH HUNT.

Is thine hour come to wake, O slumbering Night?
Hath not the Dawn a message in thine ear?

Though thou be stone and sleep, yet shalt thou hear When the word falls from heaven-Let there be Light. Thou knowest we would not do thee the despite

To wake thee while the old sorrow and shame were

near.

We spake not loud for thy sake, and for fear
Lest thou should'st lose the rest that was thy right,
The blessing given thee that was thine alone,
The happiness to sleep and to be stone.

Yea, we kept silence of thee for thy sake,
Albeit we knew thee alive, and left with thee
The great good gift to feel not nor to see;

But will not yet thine Angel bid thee wake?

– A. C. SWINBURNE.

25.

HER EYES.

LONG-WHILE I sought to what I might compare
Those powerful eyes, which lighten my dark spright:
Yet found I nought on earth, to which I dare
Resemble th'image of their goodly light,

Not to the Sun; for they do shine by night;
Nor to the Moon; for they are changéd never;

Nor to the Stars; for they have purer sight; Nor to the Fire; for they consume not never; Nor to the Lightning; for they still persever;

Nor to the Diamond; for they are more tender; Nor unto Crystal; for naught may them sever;

Nor unto Glasse; such baseness might offend her. Then to the Maker's self they likest be, Whose light doth lighten all that here we see.

-EDMUND SPENSER.

26.

CUPID AND CAMPASPE.

CUPID and my Campaspe play'd
At cards for kisses; Cupid paid:
He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;
Loses them too; then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose

Growing on's cheek (but none knows how);
With these, the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple on his chin;
All these did my Campaspe win:
At last he set her both his eyes
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.

O Love! has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?

27.

- JOHN LYLY.

THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET.

GREEN little vaulter on the sunny grass,
Catching your heart up at the feel of June,
Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon,
When ev'n the bees lag at the summoning brass;
And you, warm little housekeeper, who class
With those who think the candles come too soon,
Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune
Nick the glad silent moments as they pass;
O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong,

One to the fields, the other to the hearth,
Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong
At your clear hearts, and both seem given to earth.
To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song,
In doors and out, summer and winter, mirth.

- LEIGH HUNT.