Her maiden gentleness, and oft at eve
Visits the herds along the twilight meadows,
Helping all urchin blasts, and ill-luck signs
That the shrewd meddling elfe delights to make,
Which she with precious vial'd liquors heals ;
For which the shepherds at their festivals
Carol her goodness loud in rustic lays,
And throw sweet garland wreaths into her stream
Of pansies, pinks, and gaudy daffodils.
And, as the old swain said, she can unlock
The clasping charm, and thaw the numbing

spell,
If she be right invok'd in warbled song ;
For maidenhood she loves, and will be swift
To aid a virgin, such as was herself,
In hard-besetting need ; this will I try,
And add the power of some adjuring verse.

SONG.
Sabrina fair,

Listen where thou art sitting
Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave,

In twisted braids of lilies knitting
The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair ;

Listen for dear honour's sake,
Goddess of the silver lake,

Listen, and save.

Listen, and appear to us,
In name of great Oceanus ;
By the Earth-shaking Neptune's mace,
And Tethys' grave majestic pace,
By hoary Nereus' wrinkled look,
And the Carpathian wizard's hook,

By scaly Triton's winding shell,
And old sooth-saying Glaucus' spell,
By Leucothea's lovely hands,
And her son that rules the strands,
By Thetis' tinsel-slipper'd feet,
And the songs of Syrens sweet,
By dead Parthenope's dear tomb,
And fair Ligea's golden comb,
Wherewith she sits on diamond rocks,
Sleeking her soft alluring locks ;
By all the nymphs that nightly dance
Upon thy streams with wily glance,
Rise, rise, and heave thy rosy head,
From thy coral-paven bed,
And bridle in thy headlong wave,
Till thou our summons answer'd have.

Listen, and save. * *

EXTRACT FROM LYCIDAS. YEt once more, O ye laurels, and once more, Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude : And, with forc'd fingers rude, Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year : Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, Compels me to disturb your season due : For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer : Who would not sing for Lycidas ? he knew Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. He must not float upon his watery bier

Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some melodious tear.

Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well,
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring ;
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse :
So may some gentle Muse
With lucky words favour my destin'd urn;
And, as he passes, turn,
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.

For we were nurs'd upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill. Together both, ere the high lawns appear’d Under the opening eyelids of the Morn, We drove afield, and both together heard What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the star that rose at evening bright, Toward Heaven's descent had sloped his westering

wheel. Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, Temper'd to the oaten Aute; Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven

heel From the glad sound would not be absent long; And old Damætas loved to hear our song.

But, О the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone, and never must return ! Thee, shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, And all their echoes mourn : The willows, and the hazel copses green, Shall now no more be seen

Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.
As killing as the canker to the rose,
Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,
Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear,
When first the white-thorn blows;
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherds' ear.
Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless

deep
Clos'd o'er the head of your loved Lycidas ?
For neither were ye playing on the steep,
Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream.

WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT.

BORN 1611-DIED 1643.

LESBIA ON HER SPARROW. TELL me not of joy! there's none Now my little sparrow's gone ;

He, just as you,

Would sigh and woo,
He would chirp and flatter me ;

He would hang the wing a while,

Till at length he saw me smile, Lord ! how sullen he would be !

He would catch a crumb, and then
Sporting let it go again ;

He from my lip

Would moisture sip,
He would from my trencher feed ;

Then would hop, and then would run,

And cry philip when he'd done ; Oh! whose heart can choose but bleed ?

Oh! how eager would he fight,
And ne'er hurt tho' he did bite;

No morn did pass,

But on my glass
He would sit, and mark, and do

What I did ; now ruffle all

His feathers o'er, now let them fall, And then straightway sleek them too.

Whence will Cupid get his darts
Feather'd now, to pierce our hearts ?

A wound he may,

Not love, convey,
Now this faithful bird is gone.

Oh! let mournful turtles join

With loving redbreasts, and combine To sing dirges o'er his stone.