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Now if Time knows
That her whose radiant brows
Weave them a Garland of my vows;
Her whose just bays
My future hopes can raise,
A trophy to her present praise;
Her that dares be
What these lines wish to see;-
I seek no further, it is she!


The spirit of mine eyes

is faint
With gazing on thy light;
I close my eyelids, but within

Still thou art shining bright.
Glowing softly through the gloom,

Like a flower-bird at night.*

Thy Beauty walketh by my side

In pleasant bower and lea;
I hear thee in the bird that sings

Upon the orange-tree;
Thy face from every crystal stream

Is looking up to me.

* How delicious were those lines of Cowley:

Love in her sunny eyes does basking play;
Love walks the pleasant mazes of her hair.

Moonlight sleeps on wood and flower!

From me thy Beauty will not part.
Within my weary lids it dwells,

Beloved! that thou art.
The sweet breath of thine eyes doth fall*

Like odour on my heart.


OH, Beautiful! when Venus sprung,

Eve of the waters, into sight,
And round her breast her tresses clung,

A garland of delight:
With lip, and cheek, and eye like thine,

And motion breathing music sweet,
She inade the purple sea her shrine,
The white foam, lilies for her feet!


SOFTLY tread! Cythera keeps
Vigil o'er her while she sleeps;
Voices from Elysium lull
The slumber of the Beautiful!

* This was a favourite conceit of Philostratus; and has certainly something to recommend it.

See! the dimpled pillow glows
With her odorous breath of rose;
Like the orient May, doth break
The love-light from her cheek!

Wake her not! enchanted dreams
A charm upon the sleeper shed !
Stir not the Garland of sweet Dreams
Which sleep hath bound upon her head !


May's red lips are breathed apart
By the music of her heart,
Ever softly stealing thro',
When the silvery morning dew
Hangs upon the garden tree,
Like precious pearls of Araby.

Gladness from her Cave of Cloud
Upon the brightening earth hath bow'd;
Riches flow on bower and lea,
But I am poor in wanting thee,
Sweetest May-Queen, Emily!

Hark! along the covert green,
The softly shaken leaves between,
I hear thy voice of pleasure ring,
Thou dear good Angel of the Spring*!
Richest perfumes, every morn
Plenty scatters from thy horn.

All things dost thou bring with thee,
Merry dances, songs of glee;
Sweet airs to the aching head,
Early flowers to the dead.
Then why, fair May, am I forgot?
And why dost thou regard me not?
Shall every garden happy be,
And my sweet Flower not come to me!

* The Nightingale.



Tempora nam licet hic placidis dare libera Musis,
Et totum rapiunt me, mea vita, libri.

Milton ad Carolum Deodatum.

Let my lamp, at midnight hour,
Be seen on some high lonely tower,
Where I may

oft outwatch the Bear,
With thrice great Hermes, or unsphere
The spirit of Plato.
Sometimes let gorgeous Tragedy
In sceptred pall come sweeping by,
Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line,
Or the tale of Troy divine !—Il Penseroso.


How delightful it is in this busy and tumultuous age—this carnival of politics and commerce—to have a Cave to retire into; an Eugeria from whose lips to gather strains of serene beauty and wisdom, —there we can cool that fever of the spirits, which the excitement of the world so often occasions. Every step we take out of the narrow boundaries of the time we live in carries us into a purer atmosphere; and while the sweet air and the unclouded sky of Athens charm our senses into peace, the hoarse contention of this actual life dies away be

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