« AnteriorContinuar »
I must go seek some dew-drops here,
As man's ingratitude;
Although thy breath be rude.
As benefits forgot:
As friend remembered not.
HARK! HARK! THE LARK !
And Phoebus 'gins arise,
On chaliced flowers that lies;
To ope their golden eyes; With everything that pretty bin;
My lady sweet, arise.
UNDER THE GREENWOOD-TREE.
Under the greenwood-tree
Unto the sweet bird's throat,
Here shall he see
But winter and rough weather.
Who doth ambition shun,
And pleased with what he gets,
Here shall he see
THE SABBATH OF THE SOUL.
MRS. ANNA L. BARBAULD.
Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares,
Of earth and folly born; Ye shall not dim the light that streams
From this celestial morn.
To-morrow will be time enough
To feel your harsh control; Ye shall not violate, this day, The Sabbath of
Sleep, sleep forever, guilty thoughts;
Let fires of vengeance die;
A God of purity!
HERE the most dainty paradise on ground
Itself doth offer to his sober eye,
And none does others' happiness envy;
And that which all fair works doth most aggrace,
One would have thought (so cunningly the rude
And scorned parts were mingled with the fine) That nature had for wantonness ensued
Art, and that art at nature did repine;
So all agreed through sweet diversity,
Eftsoons they heard a most melodious sound,
Of all that might delight a dainty ear, Such as at once might not on living ground,
Save in this paradise be heard elsewhere:
Right hard it was for wight which did it hear,
Was there consorted in one harmony;
The joyous birds, shrouded in cheerful shade,
Their notes unto the voice attempered sweet; The angelical soft trembling voices made
To the instruments divine respondence meet;
The silver sounding instruments did meet
Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call: