What, were ye born to be But you are lovely leaves, where we Their end, though ne'er so brave: TO PRIMROSES, FILLED WITH MORNING DEW. WHY HY do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears Who were but born Just as the modest morn Teemed her refreshing dew? Alas! ye have not known that shower That mars a flower; Nor felt th' unkind Breath of a blasting wind; Who think it strange to see Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue. Speak, whimpering younglings, and make known Or, that The reason why Ye droop and weep. Is it for want of sleep, Or childish lullaby? ye have not seen as yet The violet? Or brought a kiss From that sweetheart to this? No, no; this sorrow, shown By your tears shed, Would have this lecture read : "That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth." Abraham Cowley. THE EPICURE. FILL the bowl with rosy wine, Around our temples roses twine, And let us cheerfully awhile, Like the wine and roses, smile. Gyges' wealthy diadem. To-day is ours; what do we fear? Let's banish business, banish sorrow; To the gods belongs to-morrow. THE GRASSHOPPER. HAPPY insect, what can be In happiness compar'd to thee? Nature waits upon thee still, 'Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread, Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing, All that summer hours produce, Thou dost innocently enjoy; Nor does thy luxury destroy. The shepherd gladly heareth thee, More harmonious than he. Thee country hinds with gladness hear, Prophet of the ripen'd year! Thee Phœbus loves, and does inspire; Phœbus is himself thy sire. To thee, of all things upon earth, Life is no longer than thy mirth. Dost neither age nor winter know. But when thou'st drunk, and danced, and sung Thy fill, the flowery leaves among (Voluptuous and wise withal, Epicurean animal!), Satiated with thy summer feast, Edmund Waller. "GO, LOVELY ROSE!" Go, lovely Rose! Tell her, that wastes her time and me That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that's young That hadst thou sprung In deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired: Suffer herself to be desired,· And not blush so to be admired. Then die! that she The common fate of all things rare How small a part of time they share OLD AGE AND DEATH. THE So calm are we when passions are no more. The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, As they draw near to their eternal home. Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, That stand upon the threshold of the new. |