FROM "TO A LADY WITH A THE artist who this idol wrought, est star, The artist wrought this loved guitar, The clearest echoes of the hills, And airs of evening; and it knew And, if neglect had lavished on the ground Fragments of bread, she would collect the same, For well she knew, and quaintly could expound, A russet stole was o'er her shoulders What sin it were to waste the small est crumb she found. Here oft the dame, on Sabbath's decent eve, Hymnèd such psalms as Sternhold forth did mete; If winter 'twere, she to her hearth did cleave, But in her garden found a summer seat; Sweet melody to hear her then repeat How Israel's sons, beneath a foreign king, While taunting foemen did a song entreat, All, for the nonce, untuning every string, Uphung their useless lyres-small heart had they to sing. For she was just, and friend to virtuous lore, And passed much time in truly virtuous deed; And, in those elfins' ears, would oft deplore The times, when truth by popish rage did bleed; And tortuous death was true devotion's meed; And simple Faith in iron chains did mourn, That nould on wooden image place her creed; And lawnly saints in smouldering flames did burn: One ancient hen she took delight to feed; Ah! dearest Lord, forefend thilk days should ere return. elbow-chair, like that of Scottish stem, By the sharp tooth of cankering eld defaced, In which, when he receives his di adem, WRITTEN AT AN INN AT HENLEY. To thee, fair Freedom, I retire From flattery, cards, and dice, and din; Nor art thou found in mansions higher Than the low cot or humble inn. 'Tis here with boundless power I reign, And every health which I begin Converts dull port to bright champagne! Such freedom crowns it at an inn, I fly from pomp, I fly from plate, And choose my lodgings at an inn. Here, waiter! take my sordid ore, Which lackeys else might hope to win; It buys what courts have not in store, It buys me freedom at an inn. Whoe'er has travelled life's dull round, Where'er his stages may have been, May sigh to think he still has found His warmest welcome at an inn. JAMES SHIRLEY. [From The Contention of Ajax and Ulysses.] DEATH THE LEVELLER. THE glories of our birth and state Some men with swords may reap the field, [kill; And plant fresh laurels where they But their strong nerves at last must yield They tame but one another still; Early or late They stoop to Fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death. The garlands wither on your brow Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon Death's purple altar, now, FAREWELL OF THE SOUL TO THE | Or lure from Heaven my wavering trust, I blame thee not, the strife is done, -Well hast thou in my service wrought; Thy brow hath mirrored forth my thought, To wear my smile thy lip hath glowed, Thy tear, to speak my sorrows, flowed; Thine ear hath borne me rich supplies Of sweetly varied melodies; Thy hands my prompted deeds have done, Thy feet upon mine errands run; Yes, thou hast marked my bidding well, Faithful and true! farewell, farewell! Go to thy rest. A quiet bed |