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TRUST not, sweet Soul! those curled waves of gold,
With gentle tides that on your temples flow;
Nor temples spread with flakes of virgin snow;
Nor snow of cheeks, with tyrian grain enroll'd:
Trust not those shining lights, which wrought my woe
When first I did their azure rays behold;

Nor voice, whose sounds more strange effects do show
Than of the thracian harper have been told.
Look to this dying lily, fading rose;

Dark hyacinth, of late whose blushing beams
Made all the neighbouring herbs and grass rejoice;
And think how little is 'twixt life's extremes!
The cruel tyrant, that did kill those flow'rs,
Shall once, Ah me! not spare that Spring of your's.

SWEET Soul! which in the April of thy years,

For to enrich the Heaven, mad'st poor this round; And now, with flaming rays of glory crown'd, Most blest abid'st above the sphere of spheres! If heavenly laws, alas! have not thee bound From looking to this globe, that all upbears; If ruth and pity there above be found; O! deign to lend a look unto these tears, Do not disdain, dear Ghost! this sacrifice. And though I raise not pillars to thy praise, My offerings take; let this for me suffice, My heart a living pyramid I raise!

And whilst kings' tombs with laurels flourish green, Thineshall with myrtles and these flowers be seen.

This lady was the daughter of a Mr. Cunningham, of Barnes. According to the information respecting, her to be gleaned from the praises of her lover, she was not only royally descended, but, with the most animating per sonal attractions, possessed a highly intelligent mind, a voice of melody, and was constitutionally cheerful. His addresses, fervently offered, being at last accepted, the day was appointed for the celebration of their nuptials; when the expected bride was suddenly seized with a fever, which in a short time terminated her life, in the bloom and April of her Years!" This shock, that must have seriously affected even an ordinary mind, Drummond never properly recovered.


PHOEBUS arise,

And paint the sable skies

With azure, white, and red:

Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed,
That she may thy career with roses spread.
The nightingales thy coming each-where sing,
Making eternal spring,

Give life to this dark world that lieth dead.
Spread forth thy golden hair

In larger locks than thou wast wont before,
And, emperor like, decore

With diadem of pearl thy temples fair.

Chase hence the ugly night,

Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light.
This is the morn should bring unto this grove
My Love, to hear, and recompence my love!
Fair king, who all preserves,

But shew thy blushing beams;

And thou two sweeter eyes

Shall see, than those which by Penéus' streams

Did once thy heart surprise.

Now Flora decks herself in fairest guise.

If that, ye winds, would hear

A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre,
Your furious chiding stay;

Let zephyr only breathe,
And with her tresses play.
The winds all silent are,
And Phœbus in his chair
Ensaffroning sea and air,
Makes vanish every star.
Night, like a drunkard, reels

Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels.
The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue,
The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue;
Here is the pleasant place,

And nothing wanting is, save she, alas!

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WE that have known no greater state

Than this we live in, praise our fate: For courtly silks in cares are spent, When country's russet breeds content. The power of sceptres we admire, But sheep-hooks for our use desire. Simple and low is our condition, For here with us is no ambition; We with the sun our flocks unfold, Whose rising makes their fleeces gold. "Our music from the birds we borrow, They bidding us, we them, good-morrow."

Our habits are but coarse and plain, Yet they defend from wind and rain As warm too, in an equal eye, As those be stain'd in scarlet dye... The shepherd, with his home-spun lass, As many merry hours doth pass As courtiers with their costly girls, Though richly deck'd in gold and pearls; And, though but plain, to purpose woo, Nay often with less danger too. Those that delight in dainties store, One stomach feed at once, no more; And, when with homely fare we feast, With us it doth as well digest; And many times we better speed, For our wild fruits no surfeits breed. If we sometimes the willow wear, By subtle swains that dare forswear, We wonder whence it comes, and fear They've been at court and learnt it there.

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From Percy's Collection,

IT chanc'd of late a shepherd swain,

That went to seek his straying sheep,
Within the thicket, on the plain,
Espied a dainty nymph asleep.

Her golden hair o'erspread her face,
Her careless arms abroad were cast,
Her quiver had her pillow's place,

Her breast lay bare to every blast.
The shepherd stood and gaz'd his fill,
Nought durst he do, nought durst he say;
When chance, or else perhaps his will,
Did guide the God of Love that way.

The crafty boy thus sees her sleep,
Whom if she wak'd he durst not see,
Behind her closely seeks to creep,
Before her nap should ended be.

There come, he steals her shafts away,
And puts his own into their place;
Nor dares he any longer stay,

But ere she wakes hies thence apace.
Scarce was he gone but she awakes,
And spies the shepherd standing by,
Her bended bow, in haste she takes,
And at the simple swain lets fly.

Forth flew the shaft, and pierc'd his heart, That to the ground he fell with pain; But up again forthwith he starts,

And to the nymph he ran amain.

Amaz'd to see so strange a sight,
She shot, and shot, but all in vain;
The more his wounds, the more his might,
Love yielded strength amidst his pain.

Her angry eyes were great with tears,

She blames her hand, she blames her skill, The bluntness of her shafts she fears,

And try them on herself she will.

Take heed, sweet nymph, try not thy shaft,
Each little touch will pierce thy heart;
Alas! thou know'st not Cupid's craft,
Revenge is joy, the end is smart.

Yet try she will, and pierce some bare,
Her hauds were glov'd, but next her hand
Was that fair breast, that breast, so rare,
That made the shepherd senseless stand.
That breast she pierc'd, and through the breast
Love found an entry to her heart;

At feeling of this new-come guest,

Lord! how the gentle nymph did start.

She runs not now, she shoots no more.
Away she throws both shaft and bow;
She seeks for what she shunn'd before,
She thinks the shepherd's haste too slow.
Though mountains meet not, lovers may,
What other lovers do did they;"

The God of Love sat on a tree,
And laugh'd that pleasant sight to see.

SOME there are as fair to see to,

But by art and not by nature;
Some as tall and goodly be too,
But want beauty to their stature :
Some have gracious kind behaviour,
But are foul or simple creatures;
Some have wit but want sweet favour,
Or are proud of their good features.
Only you, and you want pity,
Are most fair, tall, kind, and witty.

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