Thy vesper-bell hath not yet tolled:-
And thou wert aye a masker bold !
What strange disguise hast now put on,
To make believe that thou art gone?
I see these locks in silvery slips,
This drooping gait, this altered size;
But springtide blossoms on thy lips,
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!
Life is but thought: so think I will
That Youth and I are house-mates still.
Dewdrops are the gems of morning,
But the tears of mournful eve!
Where no hope is, life's a warning
That only serves to make us grieve
When we are old:

That only serves to make us grieve,
With oft and tedious taking-leave;
Like some poor nigh-related guest,
That may not rudely be dismist,

Yet hath outstayed his welcome while,

And tells the jest without the smile.-Coleridge.

THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE.

[This little moral poem was written by Sir Henry Wotton, who died Provost of Eton, in 1639. Ben Jonson, when he visited Drummond at Hawthornden, had these verses "by heart."]

How happy is he born or taught
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his highest skill:
Whose passions not his masters are;
Whose soul is still prepared for death;
Not tied unto the world with care
Of prince's ear or vulgar breath:
Who hath his life from rumours freed;
Whose conscience is his strong retreat :
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make oppressors great:

Who envies none whom chance doth raise,
Or vice who never understood
How deepest wounds are given with praise;
Nor rules of state, but rules of good:

Who God doth late and early pray,
More of His grace than gifts to lend;

And entertains the harmless day

With a well-chosen book or friend ;

This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands,
And having nothing, yet hath all.

PRUDENT HOUSEKEEPING.

TOUCHING the guiding of thy house, let thy hospitality be moderate; and according to the means of thy estate, rather plentiful than sparing, but not costly; for I never knew any man grow poor by keeping an orderly table. But some consume themselves by secret vices, and their hospitality bears the blame. But banish swinish drunkards out of thine house, which is a vice impairing health, consuming much, and makes no show. I never heard praise ascribed to the drunkard, but for the well-bearing of his drink, which is a better commendation for a brewer's horse or a drayman, than for either a gentleman or a serving man. Beware thou

spend not above three of four parts of thy revenues, nor above a third of that in thy house; for the other two parts will do more than defray thy extraordinaries, which always surmount the ordinary by much; otherwise thou shalt live like a rich beggar, in continual want. And the needy man can never live happily or contentedly. For every disaster makes him ready to mortgage or sell. And that gentleman who sells an acre of land sells an ounce of credit. For gentility is nothing else but ancient riches, so that if the foundation shall at any time sink, the building must needs follow. Let thy kindred and allies be welcome to thy house and table; grace them with thy countenance, and further them in all honest actions. For by this means thou shalt double the band of nature, as thou shalt find them so many advocates to plead an apology for thee behind thy back. But shake off those glow

worms, I mean parasites and sycophants, who will feed and fawn upon thee in the summer of thy prosperity; but in an adverse storm they will shelter thee no more than an arbour in winter.-Lord Burleigh to his Son.

MORNING.

WAKE now, my love, awake; for it is time;
The rosy morn long since left Tithon's bed,

All ready to her silver coach to climb;

And Phoebus 'gins to show his glorious head.

Hark! how the cheerful birds do chant their lays,
And carol of Love's praise.

The merry lark her matins sings aloft ;

The thrush replies; the mavis descant plays;
The ousel shrills; the ruddock warbles soft;
So goodly all agree, with sweet consent,
To this day's merriment.

Ah! my dear love, why do you sleep thus long,
When meeter were that you should now awake,

T' await the coming of your joyous make, [mate]
And hearken to the birds' love-learnèd song,
The dewy leaves among !

For of their joy and pleasance to you sing,

That all the woods them answer and their echo ring.

NIGHT.

MYSTERIOUS night! when our first parent knew
Thee from report divine, and heard thy name,
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame,
This glorious canopy of light and blue?
Yet 'neath a curtain of translucent dew,
Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame,
Hesperus with the host of heaven came;
And lo! Creation widened in man's view.

Spenser.

Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed
Within thy beams, O Sun! or who could find,
Whilst fly and leaf and insect stood revealed,
That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind!
Why do we then shun death with anxious strife?
If Light can thus deceive, wherefore not Life?

Blanco White

HUMAN LIFE.

LIKE to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are;
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew;
Or like a wind that chases the flood,
Or bubbles which on waters stood,-
Even such is man, whose borrowed light
Is straight called in, and paid to-night.
The wind blows out; the bubble dies;
The spring entombed in autumn lies;
The dew dries up; the star is shot;
The flight is past, and man forgot.

Dr. Henry King, 1591–1669.

FADE, flowers! fade; nature will have it so ;
'Tis what we must in our autumn do!
And as your leaves lie quiet on the ground,
The loss alone by those that loved them found;
So in the grave shall we as quiet lie,

Missed by some few that loved our company;
But some so like to thorns and nettles live,
That none for them can, when they perish, grieve.
Waller (from the French)

SLEEP.

CARE-CHARMER, Sleep, son of thes able Night,
Brother to Death, in silent darkness born,
Relieve my anguish, and restore the light,
With dark forgetting of my care return :
And let the day be time enough to mourn
The shipwreck of my ill-advised youth;
Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn,
Withoutt he torments of the night's untruth.
Cease, dreams, the images of day's desires,

To model forth the passions of to-morrow;
Never let the rising sun prove you liars,
To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow.
Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain,
And never wake to feel the day's disdain.

Samuel Daniel, 1562-1619.

FAIR AND FICKLE.

HAST thou seen the down in the air
When wanton blasts have tossed it

Or the ship on the sea,

When ruder winds have crossed it?

Hast thou marked the crocodiles weeping,

Or the foxes sleeping?

Or hast thou viewed the peacock in his pride,

Or the dove by his bride?

Oh, so fickle; oh, so vain ; oh, so false, so false is she!

Sir John Suckling.

SONNET TO SLEEP.

COME, Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace,
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe;

The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,

The indifferent judge between the high and low! With shield of proof shield me from out the press [crowd] Of those fierce darts despair doth at me throw;

Oh make in me those civil wars to cease :

I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed;
A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light;

A rosy garland and a weary head.

And if these things, as being thine by right, Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see.

Sir Philip Sidney.

ODE TO A FLY.

[Song, made extempore, by a gentleman, occasioned by a fly drinking out of his cup of ale.]

BUSY, curious, thirsty fly,

Drink with me, and drink as I;
Freely welcome to my cup,
Couldst thou sip and sip it up.
Make the most of life you may;
Life is short, and wears away,

Both alike are mine and thine
Hastening quick to their decline:
Thine's a summer, mine no more,
Though repeated to threescore ;
Threescore summers when they're gone,
Will appear as short as one.

W. Oldys (Antiquary).

THE SWEET NEGLECT.
STILL to be neat, still to be drest
As you were going to a feast ;
Still to be powdered, still perfumed,
Lady, it is to be presumed,

Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.
Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace;

Robes loosely flowing, hair as free ;

Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all th' adulteries of art:

They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

SHAKSPEARE'S WIFE.

Ben Jonson.

[The following poem is said to have been addressed by Shakspeare to Ann Hathaway, a Warwickshire beauty, whom he afterwards married. Although the authorship is, to say the least, doubtful, the lines exhibit an amusing and clever play upon the lady's surname.]

TO THE IDOL OF MY EYE, AND DELIGHT OF MY HEART,

ANN HATHAWAY.

WOULD ye be taught, ye feathered throng,
With love's sweet notes to grace your song,
To pierce the heart with thrilling lay,
Listen to mine Ann Hathaway!

She hath a way to sing so clear,

Phoebus might wondering stop to hear.