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Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
On my black coffin let there be strown;

Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown.
A thousand, thousand sighs to save,

Lay me, Oh! where
Sad true-love never find my grave,

To weep there.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

The Tomb.

SITTING by a river's side
Where a silent stream did glide,
Muse I did of many things
That the mind in quiet brings.
I'gan think how some men deem
Gold their god ; and some esteem
Honor is the chief content
That to man in life is lent;
And some others do contend
Quiet none like to a friend..
Others hold there is no wealth
Compared to a perfect health;
Some man's mind in quiet stands
When he's lord of many lands.
But I did sigh, and said all this
Was but a shade of perfect bliss :
And in my thoughts I did approve
Nought so sweet as is true love.
Love 'twixt lovers passeth these,
When mouth kisseth and heart 'grees
With folded arms and lips meeting,
Each soul another sweetly greeting;
For by the breath the soul fleeteth,
And soul with soul in kissing meeteth.
If love be so sweet a thing,
That such happy bliss doth bring,
Happy is love's sugared thrall ;
But unhappy maidens all
Who esteem your virgin blisses
Sweeter than a wife's sweet kisses.
No such quiet to the mind
As true love with kisses kind;
But if a kiss prove unchaste,
Then is true love quite disgraced.

WHEN, cruel fair one, I am slain

By thy disdain,
And, as a trophy of thy scorn,

To some old tomb am borne,
Thy fetters must their powers bequeath

To those of death;
Nor can thy flame immortal burn,
Like monumental fires within an urn:
Thus freed from thy proud empire, I shall prove
There is more liberty in death than love.
And when forsaken lovers come

To see my tomb,
Take heed thou mix not with the crowd,

And, (as a victor) proud
To view the spoils thy beauty made,

Press near my shade;
Lest thy too cruel breath or name
Should fan my ashes back into a flame,
And thou, devoured by this revengful fire,
His sacrifice, who died as thine, expire.

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WELCOME, WELCOME.

261

And when all gallants ride about

These monuments to view, Whereon is written, in and out,

Thou traitorous and untrue; Then in a passion they shall pause,

And thus say, sighing sore, “ Alas! he had too just a cause

Never to love thee more."

Welcome, welcome, then I sing,
Far more welcome than the spring ;
He that parteth from you never,
Shall enjoy a spring for ever.

WILLIAM BROWNE.

Blest as the Immortal Gods.

And when that tracing goddess Fame

From east to west shall flee,
She shall record it, to thy shame,

How thou hast loved me;
And how in odds our love was such

As few have been before;
Thou loved too many, and I too much,
So I can love no more.

JAMES GRAHAM, MARQUIS OF MONTROSE.

Blest as the immortal gods is he,
The youth who fondly sits by thee,
And hears and sees thee all the while
Softly speak, and sweetly smile.
'Twas this deprived my soul of rest,
And raised such tumults in my breast :
For while I gazed, in transport tost,
My breath was gone, my voice was lost;
My bosom glowed; the subtle flame
Ran quick through all my vital frame:
O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung;
My ears with hollow murmurs rung;
In dewy damps my limbs were chilled;
My blood with gentle horrors thrilled ;
My feeble pulse forgot to play —
I fainted, sunk, and died away.

SAPPHO. (Greek.) Translation of AMBROSE PHILIPS.

Welcome, Welcome.

Welcome, welcome, do I sing,
Far more welcome than the spring ;
He that parteth from you never,

Shall enjoy a spring for ever.
Love, that to the voice is near,

Breaking from your ivory pale, Need not walk abroad to hear

The delightful nightingale.

kulnasatz, my Reindeer.

A LAPLAND SONG,

Love, that still looks on your eyes,

Though the winter have begun To benumb our arteries,

Shall not want the summer's sun.

Love, that still may see your cheeks,

Where all rareness still reposes, Is a fool if e'er he seeks

Other lilies, other roses.

KULNASATZ, my reindeer, We have a long journey to go;

The moors are vast,

And we must haste.
Our strength, I fear,
Will fail, if we are slow;

And so
Our songs will do.

Love, to whom your soft lip yields,

And perceives your breath in kissing, All the odors of the fields,

Never, never shall be missing. Love, that question would anew

What fair Eden was of old, Let him rightly study you,

And a brief of that behold.

Kaigè, the watery moor,
Is pleasant unto me,

Though long it be,
Since it doth to my mistress lead,

Whom I adore;

The Kilwa moor
I ne'er again will tread.

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