moan,

WHEN in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme
In praise of ladies dead, and lovely
knights;

Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have exprest
Ev'n such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies

Of this our time, all you prefiguring; And for they look'd but with divining eyes, They had not skill enough your worth to sing;

For we, which now behold these present days,

Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

SONNET.

SHALL I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate;

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer's lease hath all too short a date.

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd, And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance, or Nature's changing course, untrimm'd.

But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest,

Nor shall death brag thou wanderest in

his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou

growest.

BRIDAL SONG.

To the sound of timbrels sweet
Moving slow our solemn feet,
We have borne thee on the road
To the virgin's blest abode ;
With thy yellow torches gleaming,
And thy scarlet mantle streaming,
And the canopy above

Swaying as we slowly move.

Thou hast left the joyous feast,
And the mirth and wine have ceased;
And now we set thee down before
The jealously-unclosing door,
That the favor'd youth admits
Where the veilèd virgin sits
In the bliss of maiden fear,
Waiting our soft tread to hear,
And the music's brisker din
At the bridegroom's entering in-
Entering in, a welcome guest,
To the chamber of his rest.

HENRY HART MILMAN.

TO ANTHEA, WHO MAY COMMAND

HIM ANYTHING.

BID me to live, and I will live

Thy protestant to be:

Or bid me love, and I will give
A loving heart to thee.

A heart as soft, a heart as kind,
A heart as sound and free

As in the whole world thou canst find,
That heart I'll give to thee.

Bid that heart stay, and it will stay,

To honor thy decree:
Or bid it languish quite away,
And 't shall do so for thee.

Bid me to weep, and I will weep,

While I have eyes to see:
And having none, yet I will keep

A heart to weep for thee.

Bid me despair, and I'll despair,

Under that cypress tree:
Or bid me die, and I will dare

E'en death, to die for thee.

Thou art my life, my love, my heart,

The very eyes of me,

And hast command of every part,
To live and die for thee.

ROBERT HERRICK.

THE CHRONICLE: A BALLAD. MARGARITA first possess'd, If I remember well, my breast, Margarita first of all;

But when a while the wanton maid
With my restless heart had play'd,
Martha took the flying ball.

Martha soon did it resign
To the beauteous Catharine:

Beauteous Catharine gave place
(Though loth and angry she to part
With the possession of my heart)
To Eliza's conquering face.
Eliza to this hour might reign,
Had she not evil counsels ta'en:
Fundamental laws she broke
And still new favorites she chose,
Till up in arms my passions rose,
And cast away her yoke.

Mary then, and gentle Anne, Both to reign at once began;

Alternately they sway'd,

And sometimes Mary was the fair,
And sometimes Anne the crown did wear,
And sometimes both I obey'd.
Another Mary then arose,
And did rigorous laws impose;
A mighty tyrant she!
Long, alas! should I have been
Under that iron-sceptred queen,

Had not Rebecca set me free.
When fair Rebecca set me free,
'Twas then a golden time with me:

But soon those pleasures fled; For the gracious princess died In her youth and beauty's pride,

And Judith reigned in her stead.

One month, three days and half an hour Judith held the sovereign power:

Wondrous beautiful her face,
But so weak and small her wit,
That she to govern was unfit,

And so Susanna took her place.
But when Isabella came,
Arm'd with a resistless flame;

And th' artillery of her eye,
Whilst she proudly march'd about,
Greater conquests to find out,

She beat out Susan by-the-by.

But in her place I then obey'd
Black-eyed Bess, her viceroy maid,
To whom ensued a vacancy.
Thousand worst passions then possess'd
The interregnum of my breast.

Bless me from such an anarchy!
Gentle Henrietta then,
And a third Mary, next began:

Then Joan, and Jane, and Audria;
And then a pretty Thomasine,
And then another Catharine,

And then a long et cetera.

But should I now to you relate
The strength and riches of their state,
The powder, patches, and the pins,
The ribands, jewels, and the rings,
The lace, the paint, and warlike things,
That make up all their magazines:

If I should tell the politic arts
To take and keep men's hearts,

The letters, embassies, and spies, The frowns, the smiles and flatteries, The quarrels, tears, and perjuries, Numberless, nameless mysteries!

And all the little lime-twigs laid
By Mach'avel the waiting-maid;

I more voluminous should grow
(Chiefly if I like them should tell
All change of weathers that befell)
Than Holinshed or Stow.

But I will briefer with them be,
Since few of them were long with me.
A higher and a nobler

My present emperess does claim,
Heleonora! first o' the name,
Whom God grant long to reign.

ABRAHAM COWLEY.

ON THE DOORSTEP.

THE Conference-meeting through at last,
We boys around the vestry waited
To see the girls come tripping past
Like snowbirds willing to be mated.

Not braver he that leaps the wall

By level musket-flashes litten, Than I, who stepped before them all, Who longed to see me get the mitten. But no; she blushed, and took my arm! We let the old folks have the highway, And started toward the Maple Farm Along a kind of lover's by-way.

I can't remember what we said,

'Twas nothing worth a song or story; Yet that rude path by which we sped

Seemed all transformed and in a glory.

The snow was crisp beneath our feet,

The moon was full, the fields were gleaming;

By hood and tippet sheltered sweet,

Her face with youth and health was beaming.

The little hand outside her muff

O sculptor, if you could but mold it !— So lightly touched my jacket-cuff, To keep it warm I had to hold it. To have her with me there alone,

'Twas love and fear and triumph blended. At last we reached the foot-worn stone Where that delicious journey ended.

The old folks, too, were almost home; Her dimpled hand the latches fingered, We heard the voices nearer come,

Yet on the doorstep still we lingered.

She shook her ringlets from her hood, And with a "Thank you, Ned," dissembled,

But yet I knew she understood

With what a daring wish I trembled.

O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!

A DIRGE FOR LINCOLN.

()'APTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won,

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

But, O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

ON A BUST OF DANTE.

SEE, from this counterfeit of him

Whom Arno shall remember long, How stern of lineament, how grim,

The father was of Tuscan song! There but the burning sense of wrong, Perpetual care, and scorn, abide— Small friendship for the lordly throng, Distrust of all the world beside.

A lover in that anchorite?

the bells;

Rise up for you the flag is flung-for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths-
for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their
eager faces turning;

Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!

It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,

The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

WALT WHITMAN.

Who could have guessed the visions came Of beauty, veiled with heavenly light, In circles of eternal flame?

The lips as Cuma's cavern close,

The cheeks with fast and sorrow thin, The rigid front, almost morose,

But for the patient hope within, Declare a life whose course hath been Unsullied still, though still severe, Which, through the wavering days of sin, Kept itself icy-chaste and clear.

Not wholly such his haggard look

When wandering once, forlorn, he strayed, With no companion save his book, To Corvo's hushed monastic shade; Where, as the Benedictine laid

His palm upon the pilgrim guest, The single boon for which he prayed The convent's charity was rest.

Peace dwells not here—this rugged face Betrays no spirit of repose;

The sullen warrior sole we trace,

The marble man of many woes.