SONNET. FROM you have I been absent in the spring, That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him. 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 And think the storm shall not return again. 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 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, 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 dew shall weep thy fall to-night; Sweet rose, whose hue, angrie and brave, 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, Onely a sweet and vertuous soul, But though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives. GEORGE HERBERT. ! |