She bows her head the new-sprung flower to smell, Comparing it to her Adonis' breath; And says within her bosom it shall dwell, Since he himself is reft from her by death: She crops the stalk, and in the breach appears Green aropping sap, which she compares to tears. Poor flower! (quoth she) this was thy father's guise (Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire), For every little grief to wet his eyes, To wither in my breast as in his blood. Here was thy father's bed, here in my breast, Thou art the next of blood, and 'tis thy right; Low in this hollow cradle take thy rest, My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night: There shall not be one minute of an hour, Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love's flower. Thus weary of the world, away she hies, And yokes her silver doves, by whose swift aid Their mistress, mounted, through the empty skies In her light chariot quickly is convey'd; Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen Means to immure herself, and not be seen. A MADRIGAL. [From The Passionate Pilgrim.] Crabbed Age and Youth Youth is full of sport, Age's breath is short, O! my Love, my Love is young! O sweet shepherd, hie thee, For methinks thou stay'st too long. SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 1552-1618. [BORN, 1552; executed, 1618. No early collected edition of his poems exists; such as were printed at all appeared for the most part in the Miscellanies of the time.] |