I.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

O NIGHTINGALE, than on yon bloomy spray Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still:

Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill,

While the jolly hours lead on propitious May. Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day,

First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill, Portend success in love; O, if Jove's will Have link'd that amorous power to thy soft lay, Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate Foretel my hopeless doom in some grove nigh;

As thou from year to year hast sung too late For my relief, yet hadst no reason why: Whether the Muse, or Love, call thee his mate,

Both them I serve, and of their train am I.

II.

DONNA leggiadra il cui bel nome nonora
L'herbosa va! di Rheno, e il nobil varco,
Bene è colui d'ogni valore scarco
Qual tuo spirto gentil non innamora;
Che dolcemente mostra si di fuora

De sui atti soavi giamai parco,

Ei don', che son d'amor saette ed arco, La onde l''alta tua virtu s'infiora.

Quando tu vaga parli, o lieta canti Che mover possa duro alpestre legno, Guardi ciascun a gli occhi, ed a gli orecchi L'entrata, chi de te si trova indegno:

Gratia sola di su gli vaglia, inanti Che'l disio amoroso al cuor s'invecchi.

III.

QUAL in colle aspro, al imbrunir di sera
L'avezza giovinetta pastorella
Va bagnando l'herbetta strana e bella
Che mal si spande a disusata spera
Fuor di sua natia alma primavera,

Cosi Amor meeo insù la lingua snella
Desta il fior novo di strania favella.
Mentre io di te, vezzosamente altera,
Canto, dal mio buon popol non inteso
E'l bel Tamigi cangio col bel Arno.

Amor lo volse, ed io a l'altrui peso Seppi ch' Amor cosa mai volse indarno. Deh! foss' il mio cuor lento e'l duro seno A chi pianta dal ciel si buon terreno.

Canzone.

RIDONSI donne e giovani amorosi

M' accostandosi attorno, e perche scrivi,
Perche tu scrivi in lingua ignota e strana
Verseggiando d' amor, e come t' osi?
Dinne, se la tua speme sia mai vana,
E de pensieri lo miglior t' arrivi;
Cosi mi van burlando, altri rivi
Altri lidi t'aspettan, et altre, onde
Nelle cui verdi sponde

Spuntati ad hor, ad hor a la tua chioma
L' immortal guiderdon d' eterne frondi
Perche alle spalle tue soverchia soma?
Canzon dirotti, e tu per me rispondi
Dice mia Donna, e'l suo dir, é il mio cuore
Questa e lingua di cui si vanta Amore:.

IV.

DIODATI, e te'l dirò con maraviglia,
Quel ritroso io ch'amor spreggiar soléa
E de suoi lacci spesso mi ridéa

Gia caddi, ov'huoi, dabben talhor s'impiglia
Ne treccie d' oro, ne guancia vermiglia
M' abbaglian sì, ma sotto nova idea
Pellegrina bellezza ch'l cuor bea,
Portamenti alti honesti, e nelle cigiia
Quel sereno fulgor d' amabil nero,
Parole adorne di lingua piu d'una,
Traviar ben puo la faticosa Luna,

El cantar che di mezzo l'hemispero

E degli occhi suoi auventa si gran fuoco
Che l'incerar gli orecchi mi fia poco.

V

PER certo i bei vostr' occhi, Donna mia
Esser non puo che non sian lo mio sole
Si mi percuoton forte, come ei suole
Per l'arene di Libia chi s'invia.
Mentre un caldo vapor (ne senti pria)

Da quel lato si spinge ove mi duole,
Che forse amanti nelle lor parole
Chiaman sospir; io non so che si sia
Parte rinchiusa, e turbida si cela
Scosso mi il petto, e poi n'uscendo poco
Quivi d' attorno o'agghiaccia, o s'ingiela;
Ma quanto a gli occhi giunge a trovar loco
Tutte le notti a me suol far piovose
Finche mia Alba rivien colma di rose.

VI.

GIOVANE piano, e semplicetto amante

Poi che fuggir me stesso in dubbio sono,
Madonna a voi del mio cuo l' humil dono
Faro divoto; io certo a prove tante
L' hebbi fedele, intrepido, costante,
De pensieri leggiadro, accorto, e buono:
Quando rugge il gran mondo, e scocca il tuono,
S'arma di se, e d' intero diamante:
Tanto del forse, e d' invidia sicuro,

Di timori, e speranze al popol use
Quanto d' ingegno, e d' alto valor vago,

E di cetra sonora, e delle muse:
Sol troverete in tal parte men duro,
Ove Amor mise l' insanabil ago.

VII.

ON HIS BEING ARRIVED AT THE AGE OF TWENT THREE.

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth. Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!

My hasting days fly on with full career,
But my late spring no bud or blossom sheweth,
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,
That I to manhood am arrived so near;
And inward ripeness doth much less appear,
That some more timely-happy spirits endueth.
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,

It shall be still in strictest measure even
To that same lot, however mean or high,
Towards which Time leads me, and the will of

Heaven:

All is, if I have grace to use it so, As ever in my great Task-master's eye.

VIII.

WHEN THE ASSAULT WAS INTENDED TO THE CITY.

CAPTAIN, or colonel, or knight in arms,

Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize,

If deed of honour did thee ever please, Guard them, and him within protect from harms,

He can requite thee; for he knows the charms
That call fame on such gentle acts as these,
And he can spread thy name o'er lands and
seas,

Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms,
Lift not thy spear against the Muse's bower:
The great Emathian conqueror bid spare
The house of Pindarus, when temple and

tower

Went to the ground: and the repeated air Of sad Electra's poet had the power

To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare.

IX.

TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY.

DAUGHTER to that good earl, once president
Of England's council and her treasury,
Who lived in both, unstain'd with gold or fee,
And left them both, more in himself content,
Till sad the breaking of that parliament
Broke him, as that dishonest victory
At Chæronea, fatal to liberty,
Kill'd with report that old man eloquent.

Though later born than to have known the days

Wherein your father flourish'd, yet by you,
Madam, methinks I see him living yet;"

So well your words his noble virtues praise, That all both judge you to relate them true, And to possess them, honour'd Margaret.

TO MR. H. LAWES, ON THE PUBLISHING HIS
AIRS.

HARRY, whose tuneful and well-measured song
First taught our English music how to span
Words with just note and accent, not to scan
With Midas' ears, committing short and long;
Thy worth and skill exempt thee from the
throng,

With praise enough for Envy to look wan; To after age thou shalt be writ the man That with smooth air couldst humour best our tongue.

Thou honour'st verse, and verse must lend her wing

To honour thee, the priest of Phoebus' quire, That tunest their happiest lines in hymn or story.

Dante shall give Fame leave to set thee higher

Than his Casella whom he woo'd to sing,
Met in the milder shades of purgatory.

Stay'd not behind, nor in the grave were trod; But, as faith pointed with her golden rod, Follow'd thee up to joy and bliss for ever. Love led them on, and Faith, who knew them best

Thy handmaids, clad them o'er with purple beams

And azure wings, that up they flew so drest, And spake the truth of thee on glorious themes Before the Judge, who thenceforth bid thee

rest,

And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams.

XV.

TO THE LORD GENERAL FAIRFAX. FAIRFAX, whose name in arms through Europe rings,

Filling each mouth with envy or with praise, And all her jealous monarchs with amaze, And rumours loud that daunt remotest kings;

TO SIR HENRY VANE, THE YOUNGER. VANE, young in years, but in sage counsel old, Than whom a better senator ne'er held

The helm of Rome, when gowns, not arms, repell'd

The fierce Epirot and the African bold;
Whether to settle peace, or to unfold

The drift of hollow states hard to be spell'd;
Then to advise how war may, best upheld,
Move by her two main nerves, iron and gold,
In all her equipage: besides, to know
Both spiritual power and civil, what each
means,

What severs each, thou hast learn'd, which few

have done:

LAWRENCE, of virtuous father virtuous son, Now that the fields are dank, and ways are mire,

Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire

Help waste a sullen day, what may be won From the hard season gaining? Time will run On smoother, till Favonius reinspire

The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire

The lily and rose, that neither sow'd nor spun. What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,

Of attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise'
To hear the lute well touched, or artful voice
Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air?
He who of those delights can judge, and
spare

To interpose them oft, is not unwise.

Which others at their bar so often wrench; To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench

In mirth that, after, no repenting draws; Let Euclid rest, and Archimedes pause, And what the Swede intends, and what the French.

To measure life learn thou betimes, and know Towards solid good what leads the nearest

way;

For other things mild Heaven a time ordains,

And disapproves that care, though wise in show,

That with superfluous burden loads the day, And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.

XXII.

TO THE SAME.

CYRIAC, this three years' day, these eyes, though clear,

To outward view, of blemish or of spot, Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot; Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask?

The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied

In liberty's defence, my noble task,

Of which all Europe rings from side to side.

This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask,

Content, though blind, had I no better guide.

XXIII.

ON HIS DECEASED WIFE.

METHOUGHT I saw my late espoused saint

Brought to me, like Alcestis, from the grave, Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave,

Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint.

Mine, as whom, wash'd from spot of child-bed taint,

Purification in the old law did save,

And such, as yet once more I trust to have Full sight of her in heaven without restraint, Came vested all in white, pure as her mind: Her face was veil'd, yet, to my fancied sight, Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shined

So clear, as in no face with more delight.
But, oh! as to embrace me she inclined,

I waked-she fled-and day brought back my night.

ANNO ÆTATIS XIX.

At a Vacation Exercise in the College, part Latin, part English. The Latin Speeches ended, the English thus began:

HAIL, native language, that by sinews weak Didst move my first-endeavouring tongue to speak,

And madest imperfect words, with childish trips,

Half unpronounced, slide through my infant lips,

Driving dumb silence from the portal door,
Where he had mutely sat two years before:
Here I salute thee, and thy pardon ask,
That now I use thee in my latter task:
Small loss it is that thence can come unto thee,
I know my tongue but little grace can do thee:
Thou need'st not be ambitious to be first,
Believe me, I have thither pack'd the worst:
And, if it happen as I did forecast,

The daintiest dishes shall be served up last,
I pray thee then deny me not thy aid,
For this same small neglect that I have made:
But haste thee straight to do me once a plea-
sure,

And from thy wardrobe bring thy chiefest

treasure:

Not those new-fangled toys and trimming slight

Which take our late fantastics with delight;
But cull those richest robes, and gayest attire,
Which deepest spirits and choicest wits desire:
I have some naked thoughts that rove about,
And loudly knock to have their passage out;
And, weary of their place, do only stay
Till thou hast deck'd them in thy best array;
That so they may, without suspect or fears,
Fly swiftly to this fair assembly's ears,
Yet I had rather, if I were to choose,
Thy service in some graver subject use,

Such as may make thee search thy coffers round,

Before thou clothe my fancy in fit sound:
Such where the deep-transported mind may

soar

Above the wheeling poles, and at heaven's door

Look in, and see each blissful deity,

How he before the thunderous throne doth lie, Listening to what unshorn Apollo sings

To the touch of golden wires, while Hebe brings

Immortal nectar to her kingly sire;

Then passing through the spheres of watchful fire,

And misty regions of wide air next under,
And hills of snow, and lofts of piled thunder,
May tell at length how green-eyed Neptune
raves,

In heaven's defiance mustering all his waves;
Then sing of secret things that came to pass
When beldame Nature in her cradle was;"
And last of kings, and qeeens, and heroes old,
Such as the wise Demodocus once told
In solemn songs at king Alcinous' feast,
While sad Ulysses' soul, and all the rest,
Are held, with his melodious harmony,
In willing chains and sweet captivity.

Expectance calls thee now another way:
To keep in compass of thy predicament:
Thou know'st it must be now thy only bent
Then quick about thy purposed business come,
That to the next I may resign my room.
Then Ens is represented as father of the Predica-
ments, his ten sons; whereof the eldest stood for
Substance, with his canons, which Ens, thus
speaking, explains:

Good luck befriend thee, son; for, at thy birth,
The faëry ladies danced upon the hearth;
Thy drowsy nurse hath sworn she did them spy
Come tripping to the room where thou didst lie,
And, sweetly singing round about thy bed,
Strew all their blessings on thy sleeping head.
She heard them give thee this, that thou
shouldst still

From eyes of mortals walk invisible.

Yet there is something that doth force my fear;
For once it was my dismal hap to hear
A sibyl old, bow-bent with crooked age,
That far events full wisely could presage,
And, in time's long and dark prospective glass,
Foresaw what future days should bring to pass;
"Your son," said she, "(nor can you it prevent)
Shall subject be to many an accident.
O'er all his brethren he shall reign as king,
Yet every one shall make him underling;
And those, that cannot live from him asunder,
Ungratefully shall strive to keep him under:
In worth and excellence he shall outgo them;
Yet, being above them, he shall be below them;
From others he shall stand in need of nothing,
Yet on his brothers shall depend for clothing.
To find a foe it shall not be his hap,

And peace shall lull him in her flowery lap:
Yet shall he live in strife; and, at his door,
Devouring war shall never cease to roar:
Yea, it shall be his natural property
To harbour those that are at enmity.
What power, what force, what mighty spell, if
Your learned hands, can loose this Gordian
knot?"

not

AN EPITAPH ON THE ADMIRABLE DRAMATIC POET, WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

WHAT needs my Shakspeare, for his honour'd bones,

The labour of an age in piled stones?

stray!

Under a stary-pointing pyramid ?