Give me now my lyre! I feel the stirrings of a gift divine; RICHARD CRASHAW. TEMPERANCE; OR, THE CHEAP Go now, and with some daring drug That which makes us have no need Hark hither, reader! wilt thou see Nor choked with what she should be dress'd; A soul sheathed in a crystal shrine, Through which all her bright features shine : As when a piece of wanton lawn, A thin aerial veil, is drawn O'er beauty's face, seeming to hide, More sweetly shows the blushing bride ;— A soul, whose intellectual beams No mists do mask, no lazy steams; A happy soul, that all the way To heaven hath a summer's day? Wouldst see a man whose well-warm'd blood Bathes him in a genuine flood? A man whose tunéd humours be A seat of rarest harmony ? Wouldst see blithe looks, fresh cheeks, beguile Age? Wouldst see December smile? Wouldst see nests of new roses grow In a bed of reverend snow? Warm thoughts, free spirits flattering In him, wouldst see a man that can Fall with soft wings, stuck with soft flowers, ABRAHAM COWLEY. Born, 1618; Died, 1667. TO THE GRASSHOPPER. Thou dost innocently joy, Nor does thy luxury destroy. Thee country hinds with gladness hear, Prophet of the ripen'd year! To thee, of all things upon earth, Life's no longer than thy mirth. Happy insect! happy thou Dost neither age nor winter know. But when thou'st drunk, and danced, and sung Thy fill, the flowery leaves among, Sated with thy summer feast, Thou retir'st to endless rest. |