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Or a laverock build her nest :

Here give my weary spirits rest,
And raise my low-pitch'd thoughts above
Earth, or what poor mortals love :

Thus, free from lawsuits and the noise
Of princes' courts, I would rejoice.

Or, with my Bryan and a book,
Loiter long days near Shawford brook ;
There sit by him, and eat my meat,
There see the sun both rise and set,
There bid good morning to next day,
There meditate my time away,

And angle on; and beg to have
A quiet passage to a welcome grave.

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THE DAY OF WRATH.

BY THE EARL OF ROSCOMMON.

(THE EARL OF ROSCOMMON, nephew to the celebrated Earl of Strafford, was born in 1633. He resided abroad during the Civil War, but returned to England at the Restoration, and was made, first, Captain of the band of Pensioners, and afterwards Master of the Horse to the Duchess of York. Foreseeing what would result from the arbitrary measures of James II. he was about to set out for Rome, declaring that “it was best to sit near the chimney, when the chamber smoked;" but a fit of the gout prevented his leaving England, and he died in 1684.

Like Denham, he was addicted to gambling, but this did not prevent him from devoting himself zealously to literature; and he was warmly praised both by Dryden and Pope. Posterity, however, has not confirmed their judgment. He was an elegant, but a cold and unimpassioned writer. He died repeating two lines of his own translation of the “Dies Iræ,” which follows :-)

That day of wrath, that dreadful day,
Shall the whole world in ashes lay,
As David and the Sibyls say.

What horror will invade the mind,
When the strict Judge, who would be kind,
Shall have few venial faults to find !

The last loud trumpet's wondrous sound
Shall through the rending tombs rebound,
And wake the nations under ground.

Nature and Death shall, with surprise,
Behold the pale offender rise,
And view the Judge with conscious eyes.

Η Η

Then shall, with universal dread,
The sacred mystic book be read,
To try the living and the dead.

The Judge ascends His awful throne ;
He makes each secret sin be known,
And all with shame confess their own.

O then, what interest shall I make
To save my last important stake,
When the most just have cause to quake ?

Thou mighty formidable King,
Thou mercy's unexhausted spring,
Some comfortable pity bring !

Forget not what my ransom cost,
Nor let my dear-bought soul be lost
In storms.of guilty terror tost.

Prostrate my contrite heart I rend;
My God, my Father, and my Friend,
Do not forsake me in my end !

Well may they curse their second breath,
Who rise to a reviving death.
Thou great Creator of mankind,
Let guilty man compassion find

“ GO, LOVELY ROSE.”

BY EDMUND WALLER.

[EDMUND WALLER was born at Coleshill, in Herefordshire, in 1605, and was educated at Cambridge. At twenty-three years of age he married a rich heiress, who died soon afterwards. He then wooed Lady Dorothea Sidney, eldest daughter of the Earl of Leicester, to whom, under the name of Saccharissa, he dedicated the greater part of his poetry; but she haughtily rejected his addresses, and he married another. During the Commonwealth, he was committed to prison for a plot, and to save his life made a confession of guilt ; but he did not obtain his liberty until he had suffered a year's confinement, and paid a fine of ten thousand pounds. He then set out for France, where he remained, until permitted by Cromwell to return. After the Restoration, he became a favourite both of Charles II. and James II. He died in 1687.

Waller was witty and accomplished, and his familiarity with the Court gave to his verses a smoothness which has hardly been exceeded in modern times. He sat in Parliament for a long time, and distinguished himself on many occasions ; twenty thousand copies of one of his speeches were sold in a single day.]

Go, lovely rose !
Tell her that wastes her time and me,
That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,

How sweet and fair she seems to me.

Tell her that's young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That, hadst thou sprung
In deserts, where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired ;
Bid her come forth,

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The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee,
How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

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