Appear, and as thy star does glide, Blanching with rays the east on every side! Dull Silence, and the drowsy king But all those little birds, whose notes 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 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, 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, Lest, wanting of their heavenly light, Do not conceal those tresses fair, Do not conceal those breasts of thine, Do not conceal that fragrant scent, No spices grow in all the east! Do not conceal thy heavenly voice, Do not conceal, nor yet eclipse Thy pearly teeth with coral lips; Do not conceal no beauty, grace, 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 A flower like thee, or will give birth '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, If thou rain down thy showers of wo, Therefore, when sorrow shall becloud Weep not! my sighs shall be allow'd To chase the storm away. |