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All heads must come to the cold tomb;
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.
Listen to the sweet music and melancholy Aow of this fine old song :
Go sit by the summer sea, thou whom scorn wasteth,
And let thy musing be where the Aood hasteth ;
Mark, how o’er ocean's breast rolls the hoar billow's crest, —
Such is his heart's unrest who of love tasteth.
Griev’st thou that hearts should change? Lo, where life reigneth,
Or the free sight doth range, what long remaineth ?
Spring, with her flowers, doth die, fast fades the gilded sky,
And the full moon on high ceaselessly waneth !
Smile, then, ye sage and wise, and if love sever
Bards which thy soul doth prize, such does it ever.
Deep as the rolling seas, soft as the twilight breeze,
But of more than these—boast could it never !
Carew, the “sprightly, polished, and perspicuous,” wrote sundry love-ditties : one of his most popular begins
Ask me no more where Jove bestows,
When June is past, the fading rose;
For, in your beauties, orient deep,
Those Aowers, as in their causes, sleep.
His other noted song commences thus :-
He that loves a rosy cheek, or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek fuel to maintain his fires ;
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.
But a smooth and steadfast mind, gentle thoughts and calm desires ;
Hearts with equal love combined, kindle never-dying fires.
Where these are not, I despise
Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.
Here, also, we have some terse lines of his, touching things terrene :
Fame's but a hollow echo-gold, pure clay,–
Honour, the darling but of one short day ;
Beauty, the eye's idol—but a damask skin ;
State, but a golden prison to live in
And torture free-born minds,-embroidered trains,
Merely but pageants for proud swelling veins :
And blood allied to greatness, is alone
Inherited—not purchased, nor our own.
Fame, honour, beauty, state, train, blood, and birth,
Are but the fading blossoms of the earth.
The “gallant and accomplished” Lovelace wrote this beautiful song to his mistress, on joining the army of the King :
Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind, that from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind to war and arms I Ay.
True, a new mistress now I chase, the first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace a sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such as you, too, shall adore ;
I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not honour more.
His fine lines written during his incarceration, To Althea, commence :
When Love, with unconfined wings, hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings to whisper at my grates :
When I lie tangled in her hair, and fettered to her eye,
The birds that wanton in the air know no such liberty.
His last is the finest stanza :
Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage ;
Minds innocent and quiet, take that for an hermitage :
If I have freedom in my love, and in my soul am free,
Angels alone, that soar above, enjoy such liberty.
Love, the great theme of the poets, has been in these pages presented in most of its Protean aspects; but as it is classed among the noblest virtues, we can hardly have too much of it from the poets. Dr. Johnson once remarked, that.“we need not ridicule a passion, which he who never felt, never was happy; and he who
laughs at, never deserves to feel—a passion which has caused the change of empires and the loss of worlds—a passion which has inspired heroism and subdued avarice.” Here is an airy, bird-like lyric, by HeYWOOD :
Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day;
With night we banish sorrow;
Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft,
To give my love good-morrow!
Wings from the wind to please her mind,
Notes from the lark I'll borrow;
Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing,
To give my love good-morrow.
To give my love good-morrow,
Notes from them both I'll borrow.
Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast :
Sing, birds, in every furrow;
And from each bill let music shrill
Give my fair love good-morrow.
Blackbird and thrush, in every bush-
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow-
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves,
Sing my fair love good-morrow.
To give my love good-morrow,
Sing, birds, in every furrow
O Ay, make haste! See, see, she falls
Into a pretty slumber ;
Sing round about her rosy bed,
That, waking, she may wonder.
Say to her, 'tis her lover true
That sendeth love to you ; to you!
And when you hear her kind reply,
Return with pleasant warblings.
Lyly's genius for lyric verse is seen in the following little Song of the Fairies :
By the moon we sport and play;
With the night begins our day :
As we dance, the dew doth fall,
Trip it, little urchins all.
Lightly as the little bee,
Two by two, and three by three,
And about go we, and about go we.
The following exquisitely sportive lines are also by this noted dramatist :
Cupid and my Campaspe play'd
At cards for kisses : Cupid paid.
He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows;
His mother's doves and team of sparrows;
Loses them too, then down he throws
The coral of his lip—the rose
Growing on’s cheek, but none knows how,
With these the crystal on his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin ;
All these did my Campaspe win :
At last he set her both his eyes ;
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love, hath she done this to thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?
TITCHBOURNE, who was one of the victims of political despotism in 1568, wrote these quaint and touching lines the night preceding his execution :
My prime of youth is but a frost of cares ;
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain ;