ANDREW MARVELL. What should We do but sing his praise, That led us through the watery maze, Unto an isle so long unknown, And yet far kinder than our own ? Where he the huge sea-monsters wracks, That lift the deep upon their backs. He lands us on a grassy stage, Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage, He gave us this eternal spring, Which here enamels every thing; And sends the fowls to us in care, On daily visits through the air. He hangs in shades the orange bright, Like golden lamps in a green night; And does in the pomegranates close Jewels more rich than Ormus shows. He makes the figs our mouths to meet; And throws the melons at our feet. But apples plants of such a price, No tree could ever bear them twice. With cedars, chosen by his hand, From Lebanon, he stores the land; And makes the hollow seas, that roar, Proclaim the ambergrease on shore. He cast (of which we rather boast) The gospel's pearl upon our coast; And in these rocks for us did frame A temple, where to sound his name. Oh ! let our voice bis praise exalt, Till it arrive at Heaven's vault : Which, thence (perhaps) rebounding, may, Echo beyond the Mexique Bay. Thus sung they in the English boat, ANDREW MARVELL. To Altbea.- From Prison. WHEN love with unconfined wings Hovers within my gates; And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates : And fettered to her eye; Know no such liberty. With no allaying Thames, Our hearts with loyal flames; When healths and draughts go free, Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such liberty. When (like committed linnets) I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty, And glories of my king; When I shall voice aloud, how good He is, how great should be ; Know no such liberty. Nor iron bars a cage; That for an hermitage ; If I have freedom in my love, And in my soul am free; Angels alone, that soar above, Enjoy such liberty. RICHARD LOVELACE, To Daffodils. Fair Daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon : Stay, stay, Has run Will go with you along. We have short time to stay, as you, We have as short a Spring; We die, hours do, and dry Away, Ne'er to be found again. HERRICK. Song. How delicious is the winning may make you fickle, JOHN FORD. 75 Bind the sea to slumber stilly, Love's a fire that needs renewal THOMAS CAMPBELL. Dirge. GLORIES, pleasures, pomps, delights, and ease, Can but please |