Who at the howling of the midnight wind

Will wake and tremble in her boding prayer? So may her voice be heard, and heaven be kindGo gallant ship, and be thy fortune fair!

SOUTHEY.

SONNET.

LIKE as a ship, that through the ocean wide,
By conduct of some star, doth make her way,
When as a storm hath dimm'd her trusty guide,
Out of her course doth wander far astray;
So I, whose star, that wont with her bright ray
Me to direct, with clouds is overcast,
Do wander now, in darkness and dismay,
Through hidden perils round about me plast:
Yet hope I well that, when this storm is past,
My Helice, the lodestar of my life,
Will shine again, and look on me at last,
With lovely light to clear my cloudy grief.
Till then I wander careful, comfortless,
In secret sorrow, and sad pensiveness.

Where wilt thou dwell, if not with me,

From avarice and ambition free,

And pleasure's fatal wiles?

For whom, alas! dost thou prepare

The sweets that I was wont to share,
The banquet of thy smiles?

The great, the gay, shall they partake
The heaven that thou alone canst make?
And wilt thou quit the stream

That murmurs through the dewy mead,
The grove and the sequester'd shed,

To be a guest with them?

For thee I panted, thee I prized,

For thee I gladly sacrificed

Whate'er I loved before;

And shall I see thee start away,

And helpless, hopeless, hear thee say

Farewell! we meet no more !

COWPER.

THE SPRING.

A SONNET.-FROM THE SPANISH.

THOSE whiter Lilies which the early morn

Seems to have newly woven of sleaved silk, To which, on banks of wealthy Tagus born,

Gold was their cradle, liquid pearl their milk. These blushing Roses, with whose virgin leaves The wanton wind to sport himself presumes, Whilst from their rifled wardrobe he receives

For his wings purple, for his breath perfumés. Both those and these my Cælia's pretty foot

Trod up-but if she should her face display, And fragrant breast-they 'd dry again to the root, As with the blasting of the mid-day's ray ; And this soft wind, which both perfumes and cools, Pass like the unregarded breath of fools.

FANSHAWE.

SWEET is the rose, but growes upon a brere;
Sweet is the junipeer, but sharpe his bough;
Sweet is the eglantine, but pricketh nere;

Sweet is the fir bloome, but his braunches rough;
Sweet is the cypresse, but his rynd is rough;
Sweet is the nut, but bitter is his pill;

Sweet is the broome-flowre, but yet sowre enough;
And sweet is moly, but his root is ill.

So every sweet with soure is tempred still,
That maketh it be coveted the more:
For easie things, that may be got at will,
Most sorts of men doe set but little store.
Why then should I accompt of little paine,
That endlesse pleasure shall unto me gaine !

SPENSER.