Nor labor I to stem the tide 'Tis true, with shame and grief I yield; Thou, like the van, first took'st the field, And gotten hast the victory, In thus adventuring to die Before me, whose more years might crave grave. But hark! my pulse, like a soft drum, I shall at last sit down by thee. The thought of this bids me go on, With hope and comfort. Dear (forgive Divided, with but half a heart, Till we shall meet and never part. HENRY KING. Wishes to his supposed Mistress. HOE'ER she be, WHO' That not impossible She, That shall command my heart and me; Till that ripe birth Of studied fate stand forth, And teach her fair steps to our earth; Till that divine Idea take a shrine Of crystal flesh, through which to shine; Meet you her, my wishes, Bespeak her to my blisses, And be called my ye I wish her beauty, absent kisses. That owes not all its duty To gaudy tire, or glistering shoe tie ; A cheek, where youth And blood, with pen of truth, Write what the reader sweetly ru'th: Their richest tires, but dress And clothe their simplest nakedness: Eyes, that displace The neighbor diamond, and out-face That sunshine by their own sweet grace : Tresses, that wear Jewels, but to declare How much themselves more precious are; Whose native ray Can tame the wanton day Of gems that in their bright shades play ; Each ruby there, Or pearl that dare appear, Be its own blush, be its own tear : A well-tamed heart, For whose more noble smart Love may be long choosing a dart : Eyes, that bestow Full quivers on love's bow, Yet pay less arrows than they owe: Smiles, that can warm The blood, yet teach a charm, That chastity shall take no harm : Blushes, that bin The burnish of no sin, Nor flames of aught too hot within : Days, that need borrow No part of their good morrow, From a fore-spent night of sorrow; Life, that dares send A challenge to its end, And when it comes, say, Welcome, friend! Sydneian showers Of sweet discourse, whose powers Can crown old Winter's head with flowers: Soft silken hours, Open suns, shady bowers, 'Bove all-nothing within that lowers : Whate'er delight Can make day's forehead bright, Or give down to the wings of night : In her whole frame Have Nature all the name, Art and ornament the shame : Her flattery, Picture and poesy: Her counsel, her own virtue be: I wish her store Of worth may leave her poor Of wishes; and I wish-no more. 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. 'Tis She, and here, Lo, I unclothe and clear My Wish's cloudy character! May she enjoy it, Whose merit dare apply it, But modesty dares still deny it ! Such worth as this is Shall fix my flying wishes, And determine them to kisses. Let her full glory, My fancies fly before ye; Be ye my fictions,—but her story. RICHARD CRASHAW. On a Prayer-Book sent to Mrs. M. R. LO! here a little volume, but great book, (Fear it not, sweet— It is no hypocrite!) Much larger in itself than in its look! It is in one rich handful-Heaven, and all A thousand angels in one point can dwell. Which here contracts itself and comes to lie Close couched in your white bosom, and from thence, As from a snowy fortress of defence, Against the ghostly foe to take your part, And fortify the hold of your chaste heart. It is the armory of light Let constant use but keep it bright, |