Shall revive me,

Or reprieve me,

And to many deaths renew me.

THE DEW NO MORE SHALL WEEP.

The dew no more shall weep,

The primrose's pale cheek to deck;

The dew no more shall sleep,

Nuzzled in the lily's neck:

Much rather would it tremble here,
And leave them both to be thy tear.

Not the soft gold which

Steals from the amber-weeping tree, Makes sorrow half so rich,

As the drops distilled from thee: Sorrow's best jewels be in these

Caskets, of which Heaven keeps the keys.

When sorrow would be seen

In her bright majesty,

(For she is a queen)

Then is she dressed by none but thee;

Then, and only then, she wears

Her richest pearls ;-I mean thy tears.

Not in the evening's eyes

When they red with weeping are,

For the sun that dies,

Sits sorrow with a face so fair:

No where but here doth meet

Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet.

ABRAHAM COWLEY.

1618-1667.

IN 1647 "the melancholy Cowley published a volume of poems, entitled, "THE MISTRESSE, OR SEVERALL COPIES OF LOVE VERSES." "Poets," he says in his preface (I quote from the folio edition of 1656), "Poets are scarce thought freemen of their company, without paying some duties, and obliging themselves to be true to love. Sooner, or later, they must all pass through that trial, like some Mohammedan monks, that are bound by their order, once at least in their life, to make a pilgrimage to Mecca." That Cowley himself passed through that trial, or, to parody his own expression, made a pilgrimage to the Mecca of Love, is admitted by most of his biographers, but they tell us nothing of the route which he took, and through what dangers or delights it led him. We only know that he wandered astray in the desert, misled perhaps by some glittering mirage, and never reached the shrine. "In the latter part of his life," says Pope, or Spence for him, "he showed a sort of aversion for women; and would leave the room when they came in: 't was probably from a disappointment in love. He was much in love with his Leonora; who is mentioned at the end of that good ballad on his different mistresses. She was married to Dean Sprat's brother; and Cowley never was in love with anybody after."

THE SPRING.

Though you be absent here, I needs must say
The trees as beauteous are, and flowers as gay,
As ever they were wont to be;

Nay, the birds' rural music too
Is as melodious and free,

As if they sung to pleasure you:

I saw a rose-bud ope this morn, I'll swear

The blushing morning opened not more fair.

How could it be so fair, and you away?

How could the trees be beauteous, flowers so gay? Could they remember but last year,

How you did them, they you delight,

The sprouting leaves which saw you here,
And called their fellows to the sight,

Would, looking round for the same sight in vain,
Creep back into their silent barks again.

Where'er you walked, trees were as reverend made, As when of old gods dwelt in every shade.

Is 't possible they should not know

What loss of honour they sustain,

That thus they smile and flourish now,
And still their former pride retain ?

Dull creatures! 't is not without cause that she,
Who fled the god of wit, was made a tree.

In ancient times sure they much wiser were,
When they rejoiced the Thracian verse to hear;
In vain did Nature bid them stay,

When Orpheus had his song begun,

They called their wondering roots away,
And bade them silent to him run.

How would those learnéd trees have followed you!
You would have drawn them, and their poet too.

But who can blame them now, for, since you're gone, They're here the only fair, and shine alone.

You did their natural right invade;

Wherever you did walk or sit,

The thickest boughs could make no shade, Although the sun had granted it:

The fairest flowers could please no more, near you, Than painted flowers, set next to them, could do.

Whene'er then you come hither, that shall be
The time, which this to others is, to me.

The little joys which here are now,
The name of punishments do bear;

When by their sight they let us know
How we deprived of greater are.

'Tis you the best of seasons with you bring;
This is for beasts, and that for men, the Spring.

CLAD ALL IN WHITE.

Fairest thing that shines below,

Why in this robe dost thou appear?
Wouldst thou a white most perfect show,
Thou must at all no garment wear:

Thou wilt seem much whiter so,

Than winter when 't is clad with snow.

'Tis not the linen shows so fair:

Her skin shines through, and makes it bright;

So clouds themselves like suns appear,

When the sun pierces them with light:

So lilies in a glass enclose,

The glass will seem as white as those.

Thou now one heap of beauty art;

Nought outwards, or within is foul;
Condenséd beams make every part;

Thy body's clothed like thy soul:
Thy soul, which does itself display,
Like a star placed i' th' milky way.

Such robes the saints departed wear,
Woven all with light divine;
Such their exalted bodies are,

And with such full glory shine.
But they regard not mortals' pain:
Men pray, I fear, to both in vain.

Yet seeing thee so gently pure,

My hopes will needs continue still; Thou wouldst not take this garment, sure, When thou hadst an intent to kill.

Of peace and yielding who would doubt, When the white flag he sees hung out?

THE CHRONICLE.

A BALLAD.

Margarita first possessed,

If I remember well, my breast,
Margarita, first of all;

But, when awhile the wanton maid
With my restless heart had played,
Martha took the flying ball.

Martha soon did it resign

To the beauteous Catharine.
Beauteous Catharine gave place
(Though loath and angry she to part
With the possession of my heart)
To Elisa's conquering face.

Elisa till this hour might reign,

Had she not evil counsels ta'en:
Fundamental laws she broke,

And still new favourites she chose,
Till up in arms my passions rose,
And cast away her yoke.

Mary then and gentle Anne

Both to reign at once began;
Alternately they swayed:

And sometimes Mary was the fair,

And sometimes Anne the crown did wear,

And sometimes both I obeyed.