Winter's cold or summer's heat,
Autumn's tempests on it beat,
It can never know defeat,
Never can rebel.

Such the love that I would gain,
Such the love, I tell thee plain,
Thou must give, or woo in.vain;
So to thee farewell.

17.

PASTORAL.

My banks they are furnished with bees
Whose murmur invites one to sleep;
My grottos are shaded with trees,

And my hills are white over with sheep. I seldom have met with a loss,

Such health do my fountains bestow My fountains all bordered with moss, Where the harebells and violets grow.

Not

pine in my grove is there seen But with tendrils of woodbine is bound; Not a beech's more beautiful green

But a sweetbrier entwines it around. Not my fields in the prime of the year More charms than my cattle unfold; Not a brook that is limpid and clear

But it glitters with fishes of gold.

One would think she might like to retire
To the bow'r I have labored to rear;
Not a shrub that I heard her admire

But I hastened and planted it there.
Oh, how sudden the jessamine strove
With the lilac, to render it gay!
Already it calls for my love,

To prune the wild branches away.

From the plains, from the woodlands and groves,
What strains of wild melody flow!
How the nightingales warble their loves

From thickets of roses that blow!
And when her bright form shall appear,
Each bird shall harmoniously join

In a concert, so soft and so clear

As she may not be fond to resign.

I have found out a gift for my fair

I have found where the wood-pigeons breed; But let me that plunder forbear

She will say 'twas a barbarous deed.

For he ne'er could be true, she averr'd,

Who would rob a poor bird of her young; And I loved her the more when I heard Such tenderness fall from her tongue.

I have heard her with sweetness unfold
How that Pity was due to a dove;
That it ever attended the bold,

And she called it the sister of Love.

But her words such a pleasure convey,
So much I her accents adore,
Let her speak, and whatever she say,
Methinks I should love her the more.

Can a bosom so gentle remain

Unmoved when her Corydon sighs? Will a nymph that is fond of the plain, These plains and this valley despise ? Dear regions of silence and shade!

Soft scenes of contentment and ease! Where I could have pleasingly strayed, If aught in her absence could please.

But where does my Phyllida stray?

And where are her grots and her bowers?
Are the groves and the valleys as gay,
And the shepherds as gentle as ours?

The groves may perhaps be as fair,
And the face of the valleys as fine;
The swains may in manners compare
But their love is not equal to mine.

WILLIAM SHENSTONE.

18.

SILENT MUSIC.

ROSE-CHEEKED Laura, come!

Sing thou smoothly with thy beauty's

Silent music, either other

Sweetly gracing.

Lovely forms do flow

From concent divinely framed;

Heaven is music, and thy beauty's
Birth is heavenly.

These dull notes we sing

Discords need for helps to grace them;
Only beauty purely loving

Knows no discord;

But still moves delight,

Like clear springs renewed by flowing,
Ever perfect, ever in them-

Selves eternal.

- THOMAS CAMPION.

19.

SAMELA.

LIKE to Diana in her summer weed,
Girt with a crimson robe of brightest dye,
Goes fair Samela!

Whiter than be the flocks that straggling feed,
When washed by Arethusa faint they lie,

Is fair Samela!

As fair Aurora in her morning gray,
Decked with the ruddy glister of her love,
Is fair Samela!

Like lovely Thetis on a calméd day,
Whenas her brightness Neptune's fancies move,
Shines fair Samela!

Her tresses gold, her eyes like glassy streams;
Her teeth are pearl, the breasts are ivory
Of fair Samela!

Her cheeks, like rose and lily, yield forth gleams;
Her brows' bright arches framed of ebony:
Thus fair Samela

Passeth fair Venus in her bravest hue,
And Juno in the show of majesty,

For she's Samela!

Pallas in wit, all three, if you will view,
For beauty, wit, and matchless dignity,

Yield to Samela.

20.

- Robert GREENE.

TO HELEN.

HELEN, thy beauty is to me

Like those Nicéan barks of yore,
That gently o'er a perfumed sea,

The weary way-worn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.

On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
To the glory that was Greece,
And the grandeur that was Rome.

Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche
How statue-like I see thee stand,
The agate lamp within thy hand!
Ah, Psyche, from the regions which
Are Holy Land!

- EDGAR ALLAN POE.