course

It waved its sceptre o'er the beautiful,-
And they are not. It laid its pallid hand
Upon the strong man, and the haughty
form

Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim.
It trod the hall of revelry, where throng'd
The bright and joyous,-and the tearful
wail

Of stricken ones is heard where erst the song
And reckless shout resounded.

It pass'd o'er The battle-plain, where sword, and spear, and shield,

Flash'd in the light of mid-day,—and the strength

Of serried hosts is shiver'd, and the grass, Green from the soil of carnage, waves above

sinks down

To rest upon his mountain-crag, but Time Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness, And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind

His rushing pinions.

Revolutions sweep

O'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the breast

Of dreaming sorrow,-cities rise and sink Like bubbles on the water,-fiery isles Spring blazing from the ocean, and go back

To their mysterious caverns,-mountains

rear

To heaven their bald and blacken'd cliffs, and bow

Their tall heads to the plain,-new empires rise,

came,

And rush down like the Alpine avalanche, Startling the nations,-and the very stars, You bright and burning blazonry of God, Glitter a while in their eternal depths, And, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train,

Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass

While in his leaves there shrouded lay Sweet birds, for love that sing and play; And of all love's joyful flame

I the bud and blossom am.

Only bend thy knee to me-
Thy wooing shall thy winning be.

See! see the flowers that below
Now freshly as the morning blow,
And of all, the virgin rose,
That as bright Aurora shows-
How they all unleavèd die,
Losing their virginity;

Like unto a summer shade,

But now born, and now they fade:
Everything doth pass away;
There is danger in delay. ·
Come, come, gather then the rose;
Gather it, or it you lose.

All the sand of Tagus' shore
In my bosom casts its ore;
All the valleys' swimming corn
To my house is yearly borne;
Every grape of every vine
Is gladly bruised to make me wine;
While ten thousand kings, as proud
To carry up my train, have bow'd;
And a world of ladies send me,
In my chambers to attend me;
All the stars in heaven that shine,
And ten thousand more, are mine.
Only bend thy knee to me—
Thy wooing shall thy winning be.

GILES FLETCHER.

SAMUEL DANIEL.

PANGLORY'S WOOING SONG.
LOVE is the blossom where there blows
Everything that lives or grows:
Love doth make the heavens to move,
And the sun doth burn in love;
Love the strong and weak doth yoke,
And makes the ivy climb the oak,
Under whose shadows lions wild,
Soften'd by love, grow tame and mild.
Love no med'cine can appease;
He burns the fishes in the seas;

Not all the skill his wounds can stanch;
Not all the sea his fire can quench.
Love did make the bloody spear
Once a leafy coat to wear,

ROSALIND'S MADRIGAL.

LOVE in my bosom, like a bee,
Doth suck his sweet;

Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with his feet.

Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast;
My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest:
Ah, wanton, will ye?

And if I sleep, then percheth he
With pretty flight,
And makes his pillow of my knee
The livelong night.