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Who, that has reason and his smell,

Though she herself and her gay host were drest Would not among roses and jasmine dwell, With all the shining glories of the East ; Rather than all his spirits choke,

When lavish Art her costly work had done, With exhalations of dirt and smoke,

The honor and the prize of bravery And all th' uncleanness which does drown, Was by the garden from the palace won, In pestilential clouds, a populous town?

And every rose and lily there did stand The earth itself breathes better perfumes here, Better attired by Nature's hand. Than all the female men, or women, there

The case thus judged against the king we see, Not without cause, about them bear.

By one, that would not be so rich, though wiser far

than he. When Epicurus to the world had taught, That pleasure was the chiefest good,

Nor does this happy place only dispense (And was, perhaps, i’ th' right, if rightly under- Such various pleasures to the sense ; stood),

Here health itself does live, His life he to his doctrine brought,

That salt of life which does to all a relish give, And in a garden's shade that sovereign pleasure Its standing pleasure and intrinsic wealth, sought :

The body's virtue and the soul's good - fortune, Whoever a true epicure would be,

health. May there find cheap and virtuous luxury. The tree of life, when it in Eden stood, Vitellius's table, which did hold

Did its immortal head to Heaven rear; As many creatures as the ark of old;

It lasted a tall cedar, till the flood; That fiscal table, to which every day

Now a small thorny shrub it does appear; All countries did a constant tribute pay,

Nor will it thrive too everywhere: Could nothing more delicious afford

It always here is freshest seen, Than Nature's liberality,

'Tis only here an evergreen. Helped with a little art and industry,

If, through the strong and beauteous fence Allows the meanest gardener's board.

Of temperance and innocence,
The wanton taste no fish or fowl can choose, And wholesome labors, and a quiet mind,
For which the grape or melon she would lose; Any diseases passage find,
Though all th' inhabitants of sea and air

They must not think here to assail
Be listed in the glutton's bill of fare,

A land unarmed or without a guard; Yet still the fruits of earth we see

They must fight for it, and dispute it hard, Placed the third story high in all her luxury. Before they can prevail :

Scarce any plant is growing here,
But with no sense the garden does comply, Which against death some weapon does not
None courts, or flatters, as it does, the eye.

bear.
When the great Hebrew king did almost strain Let cities boast that they provide
The wondrous treasures of his wealth, and brain, For life the ornaments of pride;
His royal southern guest to entertain ;

But 'tis the country and the field,
Though she on silver floors did tread,

That furnish it with staff and shield. With bright Assyrian carpets on them spread, Where does the wisdom and the power divine To hide the metal's poverty;

In a more bright and sweet reflection shine Though she looked up to roofs of gold,

Where do we finer strokes and colors see And nought around her could behold

Of the Creator's real poetry, But silk, and rich embroidery,

Than when we with attention look And Babylonish tapestry,

Upon the third day's volume of the book And wealthy Hiram's princely dye;

If we could open and intend our eye, Though Ophir's starry stones met everywhere her We all, like Moses, should espy eye;

Even in a bush the radiant Deity.

But we despise these, his inferior ways,
(Though no less full of miracle and praise.)

Upon the flowers of Heaven we gaze;
The stars of Earth no wonder in us raise ;
Though these perhaps do, more than they,

The life of mankind sway. Although no part of mighty Nature be More stored with beauty, power, and mystery ; Yet, to encourage human industry, God has so ordered, that no other part Such space and such dominion leaves for Art.

'Tis likelier, much, that you should with me

stay, Than 'tis that you should carry me away; And trust me not, my friends, if every day,

I walk not here with more delight Than ever, after the most happy sight, In triumph to the Capitol I rode To thank the gods, and to be thought myself almost a god."

ABRAHAM COWLEY.

Inscription in a hermitage.
BENEATH this stony roof reclined,
I soothe to peace my pensive mind;
And while, to shade my lowly cave,
Embowering elms their umbrage wave;
And while the maple dish is mine,
The beechen cup, unstained with wine,
I scorn the gay licentious crowd,
Nor heed the toys that deck the proud.

We nowhere Art do so triumphant see,

As when it grafts or buds the tree.
In other things we count it to excel,
If it a docile scholar can appear
To Nature, and but imitate her well;
It overrules and is her master, here.
It imitates her Maker's power divine,
And changes her sometimes, and sometimes does

refine.
It does, like grace, the fallen tree restore
To its blest state of Paradise before.
Who would not joy to see his conquering hand
O'er all the vegetable world command I
And the wild giants of the wood receive

What law he's pleased to give !
He bids th' ill-natured crab produce
The gentle apple's winy juice,

The golden fruit that worthy is
Of Galatea's purple kiss.
He does the savage hawthorn teach
To bear the medlar and the pear;
He bids the rustic plum to rear
A noble trunk, and be a peach.
Ev'n Daphne's coyness he does mock,
And weds the cherry to her stock,
Though she refused Apollo's suit;
Even she, that chaste and virgin tree,

Now wonders at herself, to see
That she's a mother made, and blushes in her fruit.
Methinks I see great Dioclesian walk
In the Salonian garden's noble shade,
Which by his own imperial hands was made.
I see him smile, methinks, as he does talk
With the ambassadors, who come in vain

T'entice him to a throne again. “ If I, my friends,” said he, “should to you show All the delights which in these gardens grow,

Within my limits lone and still,
The black-bird pipes in artless trill;
Fast by my couch, congenial guest,
The wren has wove her mossy nest;
From busy scenes, and brighter skies,
To lurk with innocence, she flies,
Here hopes in safe repose to dwell,
Nor aught suspects the sylvan cell.

At morn I take my customed round,
To mark how buds yon shrubby mound,
And every opening primrose count,
That trimly paints my blooming mount;
Or o'er the sculptures, quaint and rude,
That grace my gloomy solitude,
I teach in winding wreaths to stray
Fantastic ivy's gadding spray.

At eve, within yon studious nook,
I ope my brass-embossèd book,
Portrayed with many a holy deed
Of martyrs, crowned with heavenly meed.
Then, as my taper waxes dim,
Chant, ere I sleep, my measured hymn,
And at the close the gleams behold
Of parting wings, be-dropt with gold.

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Such streams Rome's yellow Tiber cannot show,
The Iberian Tagus, or Ligurian Po;
The Maese, the Danube, and the Rhine,
Are puddle-water, all, compared with thine;
And Loire's pure streams yet too polluted

are

With thine, much purer, to compare;
The rapid Garonne and the winding Seine

Are both too mean,
Beloved Dove, with thee

To vie priority;
Nay, Tame and Isis, when conjoined, submit,
And lay their trophies at thy silver feet.

The Retirement.
FAREWELL, thou busy world, and may

We never meet again;
Here I can eat, and sleep, and pray,
And do more good in one short day,

Than he who his whole age out-wears
Upon the most conspicuous theatres,
Where nought but vanity and vice appears.

Good God! how sweet are all things here !
How beautiful the fields appear !

How cleanly do we feed and lie!
Lord! what good hours do we keep!
How quietly we sleep!

What peace, what unanimity!
How innocent from the lewd fashion,
Is all our business, all our recreation !

Oh, how happy here's our leisure !
Oh, how innocent our pleasure !
Oye valleys! O ye mountains !
Oye groves, and crystal fountains !
How I love, at liberty,
By turns to come and visit ye !

Dear solitude, the soul's best friend,
That man acquainted with himself dost make,
And all his Maker's wonders to intend.

With thee I here converse at will,

And would be glad to do so still, For it is thon alone that keep'st the soul awake.

O my beloved rocks, that rise
To awe the earth and brave the skies !
From some aspiring mountain's crown

How dearly do I love,
Giddy with pleasure, to look down;
And, from the vales, to view the noble heights

above;
O my beloved caves ! from dog-star's heat,
And all anxieties, my safe retreat ;
What safety, privacy, what true delight,

In the artificial night
Your gloomy entrails make,

Have I taken, do I take!
How oft, when grief has made me fly,
To hide me from society
E'en of my dearest friends, have I,

In your recesses' friendly shade,

All my sorrows open laid, And my most secret woes intrusted to your pri.

vacy!

How calm and quiet a delight

Is it, alone
To read, and meditate, and write,

By none offended, and offending none ! To walk, ride, sit, or sleep at one's own ease; And, pleasing a man's self, none other to displease.

Lord! would men let me alone, What an over-happy one

And o'er my thoughts are cast
Tints of the vanished past,

Glories that faded fast,
Renewed to splendor in my dreaming eyes.

Should I think myself to be Might I in this desert place, (Which most men in discourse disgrace,)

Live but undisturbed and free!
Here, in this despised recess,

Would I, maugre Winter's cold,
And the Summer's worst excess,
Try to live out to sixty full years old :
And, all the while,

Without an envious eye
On any thriving under Fortune's smile,
Contented live, and then contented die.

CHARLES COTTON.

As poised on vibrant wings,
Where his sweet treasure swings,
The honey-lover clings

To the red flowers,
So, lost in vivid light,
So, rapt from day and night,

I linger in delight,
Enraptured o'er the vision-freighted hours.

ROSE TERRY COOKE.

Reve du Midi.

Hymn to Pan.
When o'er the mountain steeps
The hazy noontide creeps,

O THOU, whose mighty palace roof doth hang
And the shrill cricket sleeps

From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth
Under the grass ;

Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, death
When soft the shadows lie,

Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness;
And clouds sail o'er the sky,

Who lovest to see the Hamadryads dress
And the idle winds go by,

Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken; With the heavy scent of blossoms as they pass; And through whole solemn hours dost sit and

hearken
Then, when the silent stream

The dreary melody of bedded reeds
Lapses as in a dream,

In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds
And the water-lilies gleam

The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth,
Up to the sun;

Bethiifking thee, how melancholy loth
When the hot and burdened day

Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx,- do thou now,
Stops on its downward way,

By thy love's milky brow,
When the moth forgets to play,

By all the trembling mazes that she ran,
And the plodding ant may dream her toil is Hear us, great Pan!
done;

O thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet, turtles
Then, from the noise of war

Passion their voices cooingly 'mong myrtles,
And the din of earth afar,

What time thou wanderest at eventide
Like some forgotten star

Through sunny meadows, that outskirt the side
Dropt from the sky;

Of thine enmossed realms! O thou, to whom
With the sounds of love and fear,

Broad-leaved fig-trees even now foredoom
All voices sad and dear,

Their ripened fruitage; yellow-girted bees
Banished to silence drear,

Their golden honeycombs; our village leas
The willing thrall of trances sweet I lie.

Their fairest blossomed beans and poppied corn;

The chuckling linnet its five young unborn,
Some melancholy gale

To sing for thee; low-creeping strawberries
Breathes its mysterious tale,

Their summer coolness; pent-up butterflies
Till the rose's lips grow pale

Their freckled wings; yea, the fresh-budding year
With her sighs;

All its completions- be quickly near,

HYMN TO PAN.

51

By every wind that nods the mountain pine, O forester divine!

Thou to whom every faun and satyr flies For willing service; whether to surprise The squatted hare while in half-sleeping fit; Or upward ragged precipices flit To save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw; Or by mysterious enticement draw Bewildered shepherds to their path again; Or to tread breathless round the frothy main, And gather up all fancifullest shells For thee to tumble into Naiads' cells, And, being hidden, laugh at their out-peeping; Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping, The while they pelt each other on the crown With silvery oak-apples, and fir-cones brownBy all the echoes that about thee ring, Hear us, 0 satyr king!

To Pan. All ye woods, and trees, and bowers, All ye virtues and ye powers That inhabit in the lakes, In the pleasant springs or brakes,

Move your feet

To our sound,
Whilst we greet

All this ground,
With his honor and his name
That defends our flocks from blame.

He is great, and he is just,
He is ever good, and must
Thus be honored. Daffodillies,
Roses, pinks, and loved lilies,

Let us fling,

Whilst we sing,
Ever holy,

Ever holy,
Ever honored, ever young !
Thus great Pan is ever sung.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

O Hearkener to the loud-clapping shears, While ever and anon to his shorn peers A ram goes bleating! Winder of the horn, When snouted wild-boars, routing tender corn, Anger our huntsmen! Breather round our farms, To keep off mildews, and all weather harms ! Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds, That come a-swooning over hollow grounds, And wither drearily on barren moors ! Dread opener of the mysterious doors Leading to universal knowledge - see, Great son of Dryope, The many that are come to pay their vows With leaves about their brows!

The Birch-Tree. RIPPLING through thy branches goes the sunshine, Among thy leaves that palpitate for ever; Ovid in thee a pining Nymph had prisoned, The soul once of some tremulous inland river, Quivering to tell her woe, but, ah! dumb, dumb

for ever!

Be still the unimaginable lodge For solitary thinkings —such as dodge Conception to the very bourne of heaven, Then leave the naked brain; be still the leaven That, spreading in this dull and clodded earth, Gives it a touch ethereal, a new birth; Be still a symbol of immensity; A firmament reflected in a sea ; An element filling the space between; An unknown — but no more: we humbly screen With uplift hands our foreheads, lowly bending, And, giving out a shout most heaven-rending, Conjure thee to receive our humble pæan, l'pon thy Mount Lycean!

JOHN KBATS.

While all the forest, witched with slumberous moon

shine, Holds up its leaves in happy, happy silence, Waiting the dew, with breath and pulse suspended, I hear afar thy whispering, gleaming islands, And track thee wakeful still amid the wide-hung

silence.

Upon the brink of some wood-nestled lakelet,
Thy foliage, like the tresses of a Dryad,
Dripping about thy slim white stem, whose shadow
Slopes quivering down the water's dusky quiet,
Thou shrink'st as on her bath's edge would some

startled Dryad.

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