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SONNET.

FROM you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing;

That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,

Could make me any summer's story tell,

Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew : Nor did I wonder at the lilies white,

Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you; you pattern of all those. Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away,

As with your shadow I with these did play.

SHAKSPEARE.

SONNET

TO THE EVENING RAINBOW.

MILD arch of promise! on the evening sky
Thou shinest fair, with many a lovely ray,
Each in the other melting. Much mine eye
Delights to linger on thee; for the day,
Changeful and many-weathered, seemed to smile,
Flashing brief splendour through its clouds awhile
Which deepened dark anon, and fell in rain :
But pleasant it is now to pause, and view
Thy various tints of frail and watery hue,

And think the storm shall not return again.
Such is the smile that piety bestows

On the good man's pale check, when he, in Departing gently from a world of woes, Anticipates the realm where sorrows cease.

peace,

SOUTHEY

MORNING.

THE AUTHOR CONFINED TO COLLEGE.

ONCE more the vernal sun's ambrosial beams
The fields as with a purple robe adorn :
Cherwell, thy sedgy banks and glist'ring streams
All laugh and sing at mild approach of morn;

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Thro' the deep groves I hear the chanting birds,
And thro' the clover'd vale the various-lowing herds.

Up mounts the mower from his lowly thatch,

Well pleased the progress of the spring to mark, The fragrant breath of breezes pure to catch,

And startle from her couch the early lark; More genuine pleasure soothes his tranquil breast, Than high-throned kings can boast, in eastern glory drest.

The pensive poet thro' the green-wood steals,

Or treads the willow'd marge of murmuring brook; Or climbs the steep ascent of airy hills;

There sits him down beneath a branching oak, Whence various scenes, and prospects wide below, Still teach his musing mind with fancies high to glow.

But I nor with the day awake to bliss,

(Inelegant to me fair Nature's face, A blank the beauty of the morning is,

And grief and darkness all for light and grace ;) Nor bright the sun, nor green the meads appear, Nor colour charms mine eye, nor melody mine ear.

Me, void of elegance and manners mild,

With leaden rod, stern Discipline restrains;

Stiff Pedantry, of learned Pride the child,
My roving genius binds in Gothic chains;

Nor can the cloister'd Muse expand her wing,

Nor bid these twilight roofs with her gay carols ring.

WARTON.

ODE TO VERTUE.

WEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridall of the earth and skie;

The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;
For thou must die.

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Sweet rose, whose hue, angrie and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,

Thy root is ever in its grave,

And thou must die.

Sweet Spring, full of sweet dayes and roses,

A box where sweets compacted lie,

My musick shows ye have your closes,
And all must die.

Onely a sweet and vertuous soul,
Like season'd timber, never gives;

But though the whole world turn to coal,

Then chiefly lives.

GEORGE HERBERT.

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