JOHN DRYDEN.

1631-1701.

["Miscellany Poems." (?) 1693.]

SONG.

FAIR, Sweet, and young, receive a prize
Reserved for your victorious eyes:
From crowds, whom at your feet you see,
O pity, and distinguish me!

As I from thousand beauties more
Distinguish you, and only you adore.

Your face for conquest was designed,
Your every motion charms my mind;
Angels, when you your silence break,
Forget their hymns, to hear you speak;
But when at once they hear and view,
Are loath to mount, and long to stay with you.

No graces can your form improve,
But all are lost, unless you love;
While that sweet passion you disdain,
Your veil and beauty are in vain :
In pity then prevent my fate,
For after dying all reprieve's too late.

SONG TO A FAIR YOUNG LADY,

GOING OUT OF THE TOWN IN THE SPRING.

Ask not the cause, why sullen Spring

So long delays her flowers to bear;
Why warbling birds forget to sing,

And winter storms invert the year.
Chloris is gone, and fate provides
To make it Spring where she resides.

Chloris is gone, the cruel fair;

She cast not back a pitying eye;

But left her lover in despair,

To sigh, to languish, and to die:
Ah, how can those fair eyes endure
To give the wounds they will not cure!

Great god of Love, why hast thou made
A face that can all hearts command,
That all religions can invade,

And change the laws of every land? Where thou hadst placed such power before, Thou shouldst have made her mercy more.

When Chloris to the temple comes,

Adoring crowds before her fall:
She can restore the dead from tombs,
And every life but mine recall:

I only am by love designed
To be the victim for mankind.

JOHN NORRIS.

1657-1711.

["Poems and Miscellanies." (?) 1717.]

SUPERSTITION.

I CARE not, though it be

By the preciser sort thought popery ;

We poets can a license show

For everything we do.

Hear, then, my little saint! I'll pray to thee.

If now thy happy mind,

Amidst its various joys, can leisure find

To attend to anything so low

As what I say or do,

Regard, and be what thou wast ever-kind.

Let not the blessed above

Engross thee quite, but sometimes hither rove;

Fain would I thy sweet image see,

And sit and talk with thee;

Nor is it curiosity, but love.

Ah! what delight 't would be,

Wouldst thou sometimes, by stealth, converse with me.

How should I thy sweet commune prize,

And other joys despise;

Come, then, I ne'er was yet denied by thee.

I would not long detain

Thy soul from bliss, nor keep thee here in pain; Nor should thy fellow-saints e'er know

Of thy escape below;

Before thou 'rt missed, thou shouldst return again.

Sure Heaven must needs thy love,

As well as other qualities, improve;

Come, then, and recreate my sight

With rays of thy pure light;

'T will cheer my eyes more than the lamps above.

But if Fate's so severe

As to confine thee to thy blissful sphere, (And by thy absence I shall know Whether thy state be so,)

Live happy, and be mindful of me there.

THOMAS PARNELL.

1679-1718.

MISS ANNE MINCHIN was the heroine of these two songs. The first was probably written during Parnell's courtship, the last after she became his wife. He married her in 1705, when he was archdeacon of Clogher, in Ireland. She bore him three children, two sons and a daughter, and died in 1711. "I am heartily sorry for poor Mrs. Parnell's death," Swift wrote, in his Journal to Stella. "She seemed to be an excellent, good-natured young woman, and I believe the poor lad is much afflicted." "The death of his wife," says Goldsmith, “was a loss to him that he was unable to support or recover. From that time he could never venture to court the muse in solitude, where he was sure to find the image of her who inspired his attempts. He began, therefore, to throw himself into every company, and to seek from wine, if not relief, at least insensibility. Those helps that sorrow first called for assistance, habit soon rendered necessary, and he died before his fortieth year, in some measure a martyr to conjugal fidelity."

SONG.

My days have been so wondrous free,

The little birds that fly

With careless ease from tree to tree,
Were but as blessed as I.

Ask gliding waters, if a tear

Of mine increased their stream?

Or ask the flying gales, if e'er
I lent one sigh to them?

But now my former days retire,
And I'm by beauty caught,
The tender chains of sweet desire

Are fixed upon my thought.