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A lady of Cambridge lent Waller's Poems to Henry, and

when he returned them to her, she discovered an additional Stanza written by him at the bottom of the Song here copied.

Go, lovely rose !
Tell her, that wastes her time on me,

That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,

That hadst thou sprung
In deserts where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired ;

Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.

Then die, that she
The common fate of all things rare

May read in thee;
How small a part of time they share,
That are so wondrous sweet and fair.

[Yet, though thou fade,
From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise;

nd teach th aid
That Goodness Time's rude hand defies;
That Virtue lives when Beauty dies.]




WHEN twilight steals along the ground,
And all the bells are ringing round,

One, two, three, four, and five,
I at my study-window sit,
And, wrapp'd in many a musing fit,

To bliss am all alive.


But though impressions calm and sweet
Thrill round my heart a holy heat,

And I am inly glad,
The tear-drop stands in either eye,
And yet I cannot tell thee why,

I am pleased, and yet I'm sad.


The silvery rack that flies away
Like mortal life or pleasure's ray,


Does that disturb my breast ? Nay, what have I, a studious man, To do with life's unstable plan.

Or pleasure's fading vest ?


Is it that here I must not stop,
But o'er yon blue hill's woody top

Must bend my lonely way?
No, surely no! for give but me
My own fire-side, and I shall be

At home where'er I stray.


Then is it that yon steeple there,
With music sweet shall fill the air,

When thou no more canst hear?
Oh, no! oh, no! for then forgiven
I shall be with my God in Heaven,

Released from every fear.


Then whence it is I cannot tell,
But there is some mysterious spell

That holds me when I'm glad;
And so the tear-drop fills my eye,
When yet in truth I know not why,

Or wherefore I am sad.


It is not that my lot is low,
That bids this silent tear to flow;
It is not grief that bids me moan,
It is that I am all alone.

In woods and glens I love to roam, When the tired hedger hies him home; Or by the woodland pool to rest, When pale the star looks on its breast.

Yet when the silent evening sighs,
With hallow'd airs and symphonies,
My spirit takes another tone,
And sighs that it is all alone.

The autumn leaf is sear and dead,
It floats upon the water's bed;
I would not be a leaf, to die
Without recording sorrow's sigh!

The woods and winds, with sudden wail,
Tell all the same unvaried tale;
I've none to smile when I am free,
And when I sigh, to sigh with me.

Yet in my dreams a form I view,
That thinks on me, and loves me too;
I start, and when the vision's flown,
I weep that I am all alone.

If far from me the Fates remove
Domestic peace, connubial love,
The prattling ring, the social cheer,
Affection's voice, affection's tear,
Ye sterner powers, that bind the heart,
To me your iron aid impart !
O teach me, when the nights are chill,
And my fire-side is lone and still ;
When to the blaze that crackles near,
I turn a tired and pensive ear,
And Nature conquering bids me sigh,
For love's soft accents whispering nigh;
O teach me, on that heavenly road,
That leads to Truth's occult abode,
To wrap my soul in dreams divine,
Till earth and care no more be mine.
Let bless'd Philosophy impart
Her soothing measures to my heart;
And while with Plato's ravish'd ears
I list the music of the spheres,
Or on the mystic symbols pore,
That hide the Chald's sublimer lore,
I shall not brood on summers gone,
Nor think that I am all alone.

FANNY! upon thy breast I may not lie !

Fanny ! thou dost not hear me when I speak! Where art thou, love ?-Around I turn my eye,

And as I turn, the tear is on my cheek.

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