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Appear, and as thy star does glide, Blanching with rays the east on every side!

Dull Silence, and the drowsy king
Of sad and melancholy dreams,
Now fly before thy cheerful beams,
The darkest shadows vanquishing:
The owl, that all the night did keep
A hooting, now is fled, and gone to sleep.

But all those little birds, whose notes
Sweetly the listening ear enthrall,
To the clear water's murmuring fall
Accord their disagreeing throats;

The lustre of that greater star

Praising, to which thou art but harbinger.

With holy reverence inspir'd,

When first the day renews its light,

The earth, at so divine a sight,

Seems as if all one altar fir'd,

Reeking with perfumes to the skies,

Which she presents, her native sacrifice.

The humble shepherd, to his rays
Having his rustic homage paid,
And to some cool retired shade

Driven his bleating flocks to graze,

Sits down, delighted with the sight

Of that great lamp, so mild, so fair, so bright.

The bee through flowery gardens goes,

Buzzing, to drink the morning's tears,
And from the early Lily bears

A kiss commended to the Rose,

And, like a wary messenger,

Whispers some amorous story in her ear'.

1 The remainder of this poem would now be thought forced and unnatural.

SIR FRANCIS KINASTON,

AUTHOR of "Leoline and Sydanis," with "Cynthiades," 1641, son of Sir Edward Kinaston, knt., of Otely in Shropshire, became gentleman-commoner of Oriel College, 1601, took his master's degree in Cambridge, and returned to Oxford 1611. Thence he went to Court, was knighted in 1619, and afterwards made esquire of the body of Charles I. He was the first regent of the academy called the Musæum Minervæ, 1635. He printed this year two books of a Latin translation of Chaucer's Troilus and Cresseid; and died 1642, or thereabouts, says Wood, who adds: "This is the person also who by experience falsified the alchymists' report, that a hen being fed for certain days with gold, beginning when Sol was in Leo, should be converted into gold, and should lay golden eggs; but indeed became very fat.”

To Cynthia, on concealment of her beauty.

Do not conceal thy radiant eyes,
The star-light of serenest skies;

Lest, wanting of their heavenly light,
They turn to chaos' endless night!

Do not conceal those tresses fair,
The silken snares of thy curl'd hair;
Lest, finding neither gold nor ore,
The curious silk-worm work no more!

Do not conceal those breasts of thine,
More snow-white than the Appennine;
Lest, if there be like cold and frost,
The lily be for ever lost!

Do not conceal that fragrant scent,
Thy breath, which to all flowers hath lent
Perfumes; lest, it being supprest,

No spices grow in all the east!

Do not conceal thy heavenly voice,
Which makes the hearts of gods rejoice;
Lest, music hearing no such thing,
The nightingale forget to sing!

Do not conceal, nor yet eclipse

Thy pearly teeth with coral lips;
Lest that the seas cease to bring forth
Gems which from thee have all their worth!

Do not conceal no beauty, grace,
That's either in thy mind or face;

Lest virtue overcome by vice

Make men believe no Paradise!

To Cynthia, on her Mother's decease.

APRIL is past! then do not shed,

Nor do not waste in vain

Upon thy mother's earthy bed

Thy tears of silver rain.

Thou canst not hope that her cold earth
By watering will bring forth

A flower like thee, or will give birth
To one of the like worth.

'Tis true the rain fall'n from the sky, Or from the clouded air,

Doth make the earth to fructify,

And makes the heaven more fair.

With thy dear face it is not so,
Which if once overcast,

If thou rain down thy showers of wo,
They like the Syrens blast.

Therefore, when sorrow shall becloud
Thy fair serenest day,

Weep not! my sighs shall be allow'd

To chase the storm away.

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