Her maiden gentleness, and oft at eve And throw sweet garland wreaths into her stream And, as the old swain said, she can unlock If she be right invok'd in warbled song ; Sabrina fair, SONG. Listen where thou art sitting Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave, The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair; Goddess of the silver lake, Listen, and appear to us, In name of great Oceanus ; Listen, and save. By the Earth-shaking Neptune's mace, By hoary Nereus' wrinkled look, By scaly Triton's winding shell, And her son that rules the strands, And bridle in thy headlong wave, Till thou our summons answer'd have. EXTRACT FROM LYCIDAS. YET once more, O ye laurels, and once more, Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude : Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year: Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, With lucky words favour my destin'd urn; And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud. For we were nurs'd upon the self-same hill, Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel From the glad sound would not be absent long; And old Damotas loved to hear our song. But, O the heavy change, now thou art gone, The willows, and the hazel copses green, Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear, When first the white-thorn blows; Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherds' ear. Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep Clos'd o'er the head of your loved Lycidas ? For neither were ye playing on the steep, Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream. * WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT. BORN 1611-DIED 1643. LESBIA ON HER SPARROW. TELL me not of joy! there's none He would chirp and flatter me; Till at length he saw me smile, He would catch a crumb, and then He from my lip Would moisture sip, He would from my trencher feed; Then would hop, and then would run, Oh! whose heart can choose but bleed ? Oh! how eager would he fight, But on my glass He would sit, and mark, and do His feathers o'er, now let them fall, Whence will Cupid get his darts Not love, convey, Oh! let mournful turtles join To sing dirges o'er his stone. SAMUEL BUTLER. BORN 1612-DIED 1680. THE witty and learned author of Hudibras was the son of a small farmer in Worcestershire. Butler attended Cambridge for a short time. He afterwards appears to have |