THE GARLAND. MATTHEW PRIOR. The pride of every grove I chose, At morn the nymph vouchsafed to place The flowers she wore along the day, Undress'd at evening when she found Their odours lost, their colours past, She changed her look and on the ground Her garland and her eye she cast. That eye dropp'd sense distinct and clear, As any Muse's tongue could speak, When from its lid a pearly tear Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek. Dissembling what I knew too well, My love, my life, (said I) explain This change of humour; prythee tell, That falling tear, what does it mean? She sigh'd, she smil'd-and to the flowers Ah me! the blooming pride of May At dawn poor Stella danc'd and sung, I saw and kiss'd her in her shroud. Such as she is who died to-day, Such I, alas! may be to-morrow; Go, Damon, bid thy muse display The justice of thy Chloe's sorrow. I SMILE AT LOVE, AND ALL HIS ARTS. SIR JOHN VANBRUGH. Born 1666-Died 1726. "I smile at Love, and all his arts," The charming Cynthia cried,"Take heed for Love has piercing darts," A wounded swain replied. "Once free and blest as you are now, I trifled with his charms, I pointed at his little bow, And sported with his arms: 'Till urg'd too far- Revenge,' he cries! Which took its passage thro' your eyes, To tear it thence I tried in vain, Too well, alas! I fear, you know What anguish I endure, Since what your eyes alone could do, Your heart alone can cure." [The composition of the well-known author of "The Relapse," and "The Provoked Wife," and the architect of Castle Howard and Blenheim. He has been satirized by Swift, and praised by Sir Joshua Reynolds. See his Life in the British Architects by Allan Cunningham.] A TRANSLATION FROM SAPPHO. AMBROSE PHILIPS. Born [1671]-Died 1749. Blest as the immortal gods is he, 'Twas this bereav'd my soul of rest, My bosom glow'd; the subtle flame In dewy damps my limbs were chill'd, My blood with gentle horrors thrill'd, My feeble pulse forgot to play, I fainted, sunk, and died away. BELVIDERA. AMRROSE PHILIPS. On Belvidera's bosom lying, But she, alas! unkindly wise, You quickly would forget to love. ZELINDA. AMBROSE PHILIPS. Why we love and why we hate If on me Zelinda frown, Madness 'tis in me to grieve, Deaf to poor Mizella's cries: FALSE THOUGH SHE BE. WILLIAM CONGREVE. Born 1672-Died 1729. False though she be to me and love, In hours of bliss we oft have met, |