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In deserts solitude.

I should have then this only fear,
Lest men, when they my pleasures see,
Should hither throng to live like me,
And so make a city here.

Andrew Marvel.

Born 1620.

Died 1678.

A DISTINGUISHED senator, known better for his prose writings than his poetry, which, however, sparkles with wit and humour. He satirised the licentious court of Charles II. with much freedom. Charles tried unsuccessfully to bribe him to his party with £1000. Some of his pieces abound in touches of great beauty. He was born at Winestead, in Lincolnshire, on 2d March 1620, and died in 1678.

DEATH OF THE FAWN.

THE wanton troopers riding by
Have shot my fawn, and it will die.
Ungentle men! They cannot thrive
Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst, alive,
Them any harm; alas! nor could
Thy death to them do any good.
I'm sure I never wished them ill,
Nor do I for all this; nor will:
But, if my simple pray'rs may yet
Prevail with Heaven to forget
Thy murder, I will join my tears
Rather than fail.

It cannot die so.

But O my fears!

Heaven's king

Keeps register of everything,

And nothing may we use in vain;
Ev'n beasts must be with justice slain;
Else men are made their deodands.
Though they should wash their guilty hands
In this warm life-blood, which doth part
From thine, and wound me to the heart,
Yet could they not be clean; their stain
Is dyed in such a purple grain,
There is not such another in
The world to offer for their sin.
Inconstant Sylvio, when yet
I had not found him counterfeit,
One morning, I remember well,

Tied in this silver chain and bell,
Gave it to me: nay, and I know

What he said then-I'm sure I do.

:

Said he 'Look how your huntsman here
Hath taught a fawn to hunt his deer.'
But Sylvio soon had me beguiled:
This waxed tame, while he grew wild,
And, quite regardless of my smart,
Left me his fawn, but took his heart.
Thenceforth I set myself to play
My solitary time away

With this; and very well content
Could so mine idle life have spent ;
For it was full of sport, and light
Of foot and heart, and did invite
Me to its game: it seemed to bless
Itself in me. How could I less
Than love it?

Oh, I cannot be

Unkind to a beast that loveth me!

Had it lived long, I do not know
Whether it, too, might have done so
As Sylvio did; his gifts might be
Perhaps as false, or more, than he.
For I am sure, for aught that I
Could in so short a time espy,
Thy love was far more better than
The love of false and cruel man.
With sweetest milk and sugar first
I it at mine own fingers nursed;
And as it grew so every day,

It waxed more white and sweet than they.

It had so sweet a breath! and oft

I blushed to see its foot more soft,

And white, shall I say? than my hand-
Than any lady's of the land!

It was a wondrous thing how fleet
'Twas on those little silver feet.
With what a pretty, skipping grace,
It oft would challenge me the race;
And when 't had left me far away,
'Twould stay, and run again, and stay;
For it was nimbler much than hinds,
And trod as if on the four winds.

I have a garden of my own,
But so with roses overgrown,

And lilies, that you would it guess
To be a little wilderness;

And all the spring-time of the year
It loved only to be there.
Among the beds of lilies I

Have sought it oft, where it should lie;
Yet could not, till itself should rise,

Find it, although before mine eyes;
For in the flaxen lilies' shade,

It like a bank of lilies laid.
Upon the roses it would feed,
Until its lips ev'n seemed to bleed;
And then to me 't would boldly trip,
And print those roses on my lip.
But all its chief delight was still
On roses thus itself to fill;
And its pure virgin lips to fold

In whitest sheets of lilies cold.

Had it lived long, it would have been
Lilies without, roses within.

THE EMIGRANTS IN THE BERMUDAS.

WHERE the remote Bermudas ride
In th' ocean's bosom unespied,
From a small boat that rowed along,
The list'ning winds received their song:-
'What should we do but sing His praise
That led us through the watery maze
Unto an isle so long unknown,
And yet far kinder than our own?
Where He the huge sea-monsters racks,
That lift the deep upon their backs;
He lands us on a grassy stage,
Safe from the storms and prelates' rage.
He gave us this eternal spring
Which here enamels everything,
And sends the fowls to us in care,
On daily visits through the air.
He hangs in shades the orange bright,
Like golden lamps in a green night,

And does in the pomegranates close
Jewels more rich than Ormus shews.
He makes the figs our mouths to meet,
And throws the melons at our feet.
But apples, plants of such a price,
No tree could ever bear them twice.
With cedars, chosen by his hand,
From Lebanon he stores the land;
And makes the hollow seas that roar,
Proclaim the ambergris on shore.
He cast-of which we rather boast-
The Gospel's pearl upon our coast;
And in these rocks for us did frame
A temple where to sound his name.
Oh let our voice his praise exalt,
Till it arrive at Heaven's vault,
Which then perhaps rebounding may
Echo beyond the Mexic bay.'
Thus sung they in the English boat
A holy and a cheerful note;

And all the way, to guide their chime,
With falling oars they kept the time.

Henry Vaughan.

Born 1621.

Died 1695.

AUTHOR of a number of poems, chiefly devotional. He was intended for the bar, but in consequence of the civil wars he returned to his native place, Newton in Brecknock, where he followed the profession of physician, and where he died in 1695.

EARLY RISING AND PRAYER.

WHEN first thy eyes unveil, give thy soul leave
To do the like; our bodies but forerun

The spirit's duty: true hearts spread and heave
Unto their God, as flowers do to the sun :

Give him thy first thoughts then, so shalt thou keep
Him company all day, and in him sleep.

Yet never sleep the sun up; prayer should
Dawn with the day: there are set awful hours
'Twixt heaven and us; the manna was not good
After sun-rising; far day sullies flowers:

Rise to prevent the sun; sleep doth sins glut,
And heaven's gate opens when the world's is shut.
Walk with thy fellow-creatures; note the hush
And whisperings amongst them. Not a spring
Or leaf but hath his morning-hymn; each bush
And oak doth know I AM. Canst thou not sing!
O leave thy cares and follies! Go this way,
And thou art sure to prosper all the day.
Serve God before the world; let him not go
Until thou hast a blessing; then resign
The whole unto him, and remember who
Prevailed by wrestling ere the sun did shine;
Pour oil upon the stones, weep for thy sin,
Then journey on, and have an eye to heav'n.
Mornings are mysteries; the first, the world's youth,
Man's resurrection, and the future's bud,
Shroud in their births; the crown of life, light, truth,
Is styled their star; the stone and hidden food:
Three blessings wait upon them, one of which
Should move-they make us holy, happy, rich.
When the world's up, and every swarm abroad,
Keep well thy temper, mix not with each clay;
Despatch necessities; life hath a load

Which must be carried on, and safely may;
Yet keep those cares without thee; let the heart
Be God's alone, and choose the better part.

THE NATIVITY.

AWAKE, glad heart! get up, and sing!
It is the birth-day of thy King ;
Awake! awake!

The sun doth shake

Light from his locks, and all the way,

Breathing perfumes, doth spice the day.

Awake! awake! hark, how th' wood rings;
Winds whisper, and the busy springs

A concert make!

Awake! awake!

Man is their high-priest, and should rise
To offer up the sacrifice.

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