The merchant bows unto the seaman's star; The ploughman from the sun his season takes: Who look for day before his mistress wakes. Sir William Davenant, 1605-'68. HATRED OF THE SCOTS. HAD Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom; Not forced him to wander, but confined him home. John Cleveland, 1613-'58. DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST. THE glories of our birth and state, Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, The garlands wither on your brow; Then boast no more your mighty deeds; See where the victor victim bleeds! To the cold tomb, Only the actions of the just Smell sweet and blossom in the dust. James Shirity, 1596-1666. HYMN OF THE NATIVITY. GLOOMY night embraced the place The Babe looked up and showed his face- We saw Thee in thy balmy nest, To these, whom death again did wed, It could not sunder man and wife, Richard Crashaw, THE MAD LOVER. I HAVE been in love, and in debt, and in drink,- And those three are plagues enough, one would think, 'Twas drink made me fall into love, And love made me run into debt; And though I have struggled and struggled and strove, I cannot get out of them yet. There's nothing but money can cure me, And remove all my lets! And my mistress that cannot endure me, Then I'll fall to loving and drinking again. Alexander Brome, 1620-'66. LIFE'S BREVITY. MARK that swift arrow! how it cuts the air, If thou canst call it back, or stay it there. Fool! 'tis thy life, and the fond archer thou. Our life is carried with too strong a tide; But his past life who without grief can see; To outlive Nestor in a day. Abraham Cowley, 1618-'67. ABSENCE. A THOUSAND pretty ways we'll think upon Alas! ten thousand will not do ; My heart will thus no longer stay, No longer 'twill be kept from you, But knocks against the breast to get away. And when no art affords me help or ease, And beats itself against the cage, It sits and sings, and so o'ercomes its rage. Abraham Cowley. HYMN ON THE NATIVITY. It was the winter wild, While the heaven-born child All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies. Nature, in awe to him, Had doff'd her gaudy trim, With her great Master so o sympathize: It was no season then for her To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour. Only with speeches fair She woos the gentle air, To hide her guilty front with innocent snow ; And on her naked shame, Pollute with sinful blame, The saintly veil of maiden white to throw; Should look so near upon her foul deformities. John Milton, 1608-'74 THE LADY'S SONG IN "COMUS." Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen By slow Meander's margent green, That likest thy Narcissus are ? Sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere ! So may'st thou be translated to the skies, And give resounding grace to all Heaven's harmonies John Milton. ON MAY MORNING. A SONG. Now the bright morning Star, day's harbinger, John Milton. |