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WILLIAM STRODE. 1600-1644.

MUSIC.

WHEN Whispering strains do softly steal
With creeping passion through the heart,
And when at every touch we feel

Our pulses beat and bear a part;
When threads can make
A heart-string quake,
Philosophy

Can scarce deny

The soul consists of harmony.

Oh, lull me, lull me, charming air,
My senses rock with wonder sweet;
Like snow on wool thy fallings are,
Soft like a spirit are thy feet.
Grief who need fear

That hath an ear?

Down let him lie,

And slumbering die,

And change his soul for harmony.

SIMON WASTELL. 1623.

MAN.

LIKE as the damask rose you see,
Or like the blossom on the tree,
Or like the dainty flower of May,
Or like the morning to the day,
Or like the sun, or like the shade,
Or like the gourd which Jonah had,
E'en such is man, whose thread is spun
Drawn out, and cut, and so is done.

The rose withers, the blossom blasteth,
The flower fades, the morning hasteth,
The sun sets, the shadow flies,

The gourd consumes, and man he dies.

Like to the grass that's newly sprung,
Or like a tale that's new begun,
Or like the bird that's here to-day,
Or like the pearled dew of May,
Or like an hour, or like a span,
Or like the singing of a swan,
E'en such is man, who lives by breath,
Is here, now there, in life and death.
The grass withers, the tale is ended,
The bird is flown, the dew's ascended,
The hour is short, the span not long,
The swan's near death, man's life is done.

ROBERT HERRICK. 1591.

SONG.

GATHER the rose-buds while ye may,
Old Time is still a flying;

And this same flower that smiles to-day,
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heav'n, the sun,
The higher he's a getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.

The age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But, being spent, the worse and worst
Times still succeed the former,

TO MEADOWS.

FAIR daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
Has not attain'd its noon.
Stay, stay

Until the hasting day
Has run

But to the even song;
And having pray'd together, we
Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay as you,
We have as short a spring;

As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you or anything.

We die,

As your

hours do, and dry Away,

Like to the summer's rain,

Or as the pearls of morning's dew,
Ne'er to be found again.

THE NIGHT-PIECE, TO JULIA.

HER eyes the glow-worm lend thee,
The shooting stars attend thee;

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And the elves also,

Whose little eyes glow

Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.

No Will o' th' Wisp mislight thee;
Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee;
But on, on thy way,

Not making a stay,

Since ghost there is none to affright thee.

Let not the dark thee cumber;
What though the moon does slumber?
The stars of the night

Will lend thee their light,
Like tapers clear without number.

TO BLOSSOMS

FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree,
Why do ye fall so fast?

Your date is not so past;
But you may stay yet here a while,
To blush and gently smile,
And go at last.

What, were ye born to be

An hour or half's delight,
And so to bid good-night?
"Twas pity Nature brought ye forth
Merely to show your worth,
And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave:
And after they have shown their pride,
Like you, a while, they glide
Into the grave.

THE COUNTRY LIFE.

SWEET Country life, to such unknown,
Whose lives are others, not their own!
But serving courts and cities, be
Less happy, less enjoying thee!
Thou never plough'st the ocean's foam
To seek and bring rough pepper home;

Nor to the Eastern Ind dost rove,
To bring from thence the scorched clove:
Nor, with the loss of thy loved rest,
Bring'st home the ingot from the West.
No: thy ambition's master-piece
Flies no thought higher than a fleece;
Or how to pay thy hinds, and clear
All scores, and so to end the year;
But walk'st about thy own dear bounds,
Not envying others' larger grounds:
For well thou know'st, 'tis not th' extent
Of land makes life, but sweet content.
When now the cock, the ploughman's horn,
Calls forth the lily-wristed morn,

Then to thy cornfields thou dost go,
Which, though well-soil'd, yet thou dost know
That the best compost for the lands
Is the wise master's feet and hands.
There at the plough thou find'st thy team,
With a hind whistling there to them;
And cheer'st them up by singing how
The kingdom's portion is the plough.
This done, then to th' enamell'd meads
Thou go'st; and, as thy foot there treads,
Thou see'st a present godlike power
Imprinted in each herb and flower;
And smell'st the breath of great-eyed kine,
Sweet as the blossoms of the vine.

Here thou behold'st thy large sleek neat,
Unto the dewlaps up in meat;

And, as thou look'st, the wanton steer,
The heifer, cow, and ox draw near,
To make a pleasing pastime there.
These seen, thou go'st to view thy flocks
Of sheep, safe from the wolf and fox;
And find'st their bellies there as full
Of short, sweet grass, as backs with wool;
And leav'st them, as they feed and fill,
A shepherd piping on a hill.

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