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The merry cuckow, messenger of spring,
His trompet shrill hath thrise already sounded,
That warnes al lovers wayte upon their king,
Who now is coming forth with girland crouned.
With noyse whereof the quyre of byrds resounded,
Their anthemes sweet, devized of loves prayse,
That all the woods theyr eccloes back rebounded,
As if they knew the meaning of their layes.
But mongst them all, which did Loves honor rayse,
No word was heard of her that most it ought;
But she his precept proudly disobayes,
And doth his ydle message set at nought.

Therefore, O Love, unlesse she turne to thee
Ere cuckow end, let her a rebell be!

SPENSER. SONNET.

Fair is the rising morn, when o'er the sky

The orient sun expands his roscate ray, And lovely to the bard's enthusiast eye

Fades the meek radiance of departing day; But fairer is the smile of one we love,

Than all the scenes in nature's ample sway, And sweeter than the music of the grove,

The voice that bids us welcome. Such delight,

Edith! is mine; escaping to thy siglit From the hard durance of the empty throng.

Too swiftly then towards the silent night, Ye hours of happiness ! ye speed along; Whilst I, from all the world's cold cares apart, Pour out the feelings of my burthened heart.-SOUTHEY.

SOXXET.
Give me a cottage on some Cambrian wild,

Where, far from cities, I may spend my days :
And, by the beauties of the scene beguiled,

May pity man's pursuits, and shun his ways. While on the rock I mark the browsing goat,

List to the mountain torrent’s distant noise, Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note,

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I shall not want the world's delusive joys; But, with my little scrip, my book, my lyre,

Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more ; And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire,

I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore, And lay me down to rest where the wild wave Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave.

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

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