At thy appearance, fear itself grows bold;

Thy sunshine melts away his cold.

Encourag'd at the sight of thee,

To the cheek colour comes, and firmness to the knee.

Even lust the master of a hardened face,

Blushes if thou beest in the place,

To darkness' curtains he retires,

In sympathising night he rolls his smoky fires.

When, Goddess, thou liftest up thy wakened head,
Out of the morning's purple bed,

Thy choir of birds about thee play,
And all the joyful world salutes the rising day.

The ghosts, and monster spirits, that did presume
A body's priv❜lege to assume,

Vanish again invisibly,

And bodies gain agen their visibility.

All the world's bravery that delights our eyes

Is but thy sev'ral liveries,

Thou the rich dye on them bestow'st,

Thy nimble pencil paints this landscape as thou go'st.

A crimson garment in the rose thou wear'st;

A crown of studded gold thou bear'st,

The virgin lilies in their white,

Are clad but with the lawn of almost naked light.

The violet, spring's little infant, stands,
Girt in thy purple swadling-bands:
On the fair tulip thou dost dote;

Thou cloth'st it in a gay and party-colour'd coat.

With flame condensed thou dost the jewels fix,
And solid colours in it mix:

Flora herself envies to see

Flowers fairer than her own, and durable as she.

Ah, Goddess! would thou could'st thy hand withhold,
And be less liberal to gold;

Didst thou less value to it give,

Of how much care, alas, might'st thou poor man relieve!

To me the sun is more delightful far,

And all fair days much fairer are.

But few, ah wondrous few there be,

Who do not gold prefer, O Goddess, ev'n to thee.

Through the soft ways of heaven, and air, and sea,

Which open all their pores to thee;

Like a clear river thou dost glide,

And with thy living stream through the close channels slide.

But where firm bodies thy free course oppose,
Gently thy source the land o'erflows;

Takes there possession, and does make,

Of colours mingled, light, a thick and standing lake.

But the vast ocean of unbounded day
In th' empyrean heaven does stay.
Thy rivers, lakes, and springs below

From thence took first their rise, thither at last must flow.
A. Cowley

3.

On A Drop of Dew

EE, how the orient dew,

SEE,

Shed from the bosom of the morn
Into the blowing roses,

(Yet careless of its mansion new,
For the clear region where 'twas born,)
Round in itself incloses;

And, in its little globe's extent,
Frames, as it can, its native element.
How it the purple flower does slight,
Scarce touching where it lies;
But gazing back upon the skies,
Shines with a mournful light,

Like its own tear,

Because so long divided from the sphere.
Restless it rolls, and unsecure,
Trembling, lest it grow impure;

Till the warm sun pity its pain,
And to the skies exhale it back again.
So the soul, that drop, that ray
Of the clear fountain of eternal day,
(Could it within the human flower be seen,)
Remembering still its former height,

Shuns the sweet leaves, and blossoms green

4.

And, recollecting its own light,

Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express
The greater heaven in an heaven less.

In how coy a figure wound,
Every way it turns away;
So the world-excluding round,
Yet receiving in the day;
Dark beneath, but bright above,
Here disdaining, there in love.
How loose and easy hence to go;
How girt and ready to ascend;
Moving but on a point below,
It all about does upwards bend.

Such did the manna's sacred dew distil;
White and entire, though congealed and chill;
Congealed on earth; but does, dissolving, run
Into the glories of the almighty sun.

The Swallow

(Anacreontiques)

FOOLISH prater, what dost thou

So early at my window do

With thy tuneless serenade?

Well't had been had Tereus made

Thee as dumb as Philomel;

There his knife had done but well.
In thy undiscovered nest

A. Marvell

Thou dost all the winter rest,
And dreamest o'er thy summer joys
Free from the stormy seasons' noise:
Free from th'ill thou'st done to me:
Who disturbs, or seeks out thee?
Hadst thou all the charming notes
Of the wood's poetic throats,
All thy art could never pay

What thou'st ta'en from me away;
Cruel bird, thou'st ta'en away
A dream out of my arms to-day,
A dream that ne'er must equal'd be
By all that waking eyes may see.
Thou this damage to repair,
Nothing half so sweet or fair,

Nothing half so good can'st bring,

Though men say, thou bring'st the Spring.

A. Cowley

5.

From 'Arcades'

i

Song

OOK Nymphs, and Shepherds look,
What sudden blaze of majesty

Is that which we from hence descry

Too divine to be mistook:

This this is she