Nor labor I to stem the tide
Through which to thee I swiftly glide.

'Tis true, with shame and grief I yield; Thou, like the van, first took'st the field, And gotten hast the victory,

In thus adventuring to die

Before me, whose more years might crave
A just precedence in the

grave.

But hark! my pulse, like a soft drum,
Beats my approach, tells thee I come;
And slow howe'er my marches be,

I shall at last sit down by thee.

The thought of this bids me go on,
And wait my dissolution

With hope and comfort. Dear (forgive
The crime) I am content to live,

Divided, with but half a heart,

Till we shall meet and never part.

HENRY KING.

Wishes to his supposed Mistress.

HOE'ER she be,

WHO'

That not impossible She,

That shall command my heart and me;

Till that ripe birth

Of studied fate stand forth,

And teach her fair steps to our earth;

Till that divine

Idea take a shrine

Of crystal flesh, through which to shine;

Meet you her, my wishes,

Bespeak her to my blisses,

And be called my ye

I wish her beauty,

absent kisses.

That owes not all its duty

To gaudy tire, or glistering shoe tie ;

A cheek, where youth

And blood, with pen of truth,

Write what the reader sweetly ru'th:

Their richest tires, but dress

And clothe their simplest nakedness:

Eyes, that displace

The neighbor diamond, and out-face That sunshine by their own sweet grace :

Tresses, that wear

Jewels, but to declare

How much themselves more precious are;

Whose native ray

Can tame the wanton day

Of gems that in their bright shades play ;

Each ruby there,

Or pearl that dare appear,

Be its own blush, be its own tear :

A well-tamed heart,

For whose more noble smart

Love may be long choosing a dart :

Eyes, that bestow

Full quivers on love's bow,

Yet pay less arrows than they owe:

Smiles, that can warm

The blood, yet teach a charm,

That chastity shall take no harm :

Blushes, that bin

The burnish of no sin,

Nor flames of aught too hot within :

Days, that need borrow

No part of their good morrow,

From a fore-spent night of sorrow;

Life, that dares send

A challenge to its end,

And when it comes, say, Welcome, friend!

Sydneian showers

Of sweet discourse, whose powers

Can crown old Winter's head with flowers:

Soft silken hours,

Open suns, shady bowers,

'Bove all-nothing within that lowers :

Whate'er delight

Can make day's forehead bright,

Or give down to the wings of night :

In her whole frame

Have Nature all the name,

Art and ornament the shame :

Her flattery,

Picture and poesy:

Her counsel, her own virtue be:

I wish her store

Of worth may leave her poor

Of wishes; and I wish-no more.

Now if Time knows,

That Her, whose radiant brows

Weave them a garland of my vows;

Her, whose just bays

My future hopes can raise,

A trophy to her present praise;

Her, that dares be

What these lines wish to see;

I seek no further, it is she.

'Tis She, and here,

Lo, I unclothe and clear

My Wish's cloudy character!

May she enjoy it,

Whose merit dare apply it,

But modesty dares still deny it !

Such worth as this is

Shall fix my flying wishes,

And determine them to kisses.

Let her full glory,

My fancies fly before ye;

Be ye my fictions,—but her story.

RICHARD CRASHAW.

On a Prayer-Book sent to Mrs. M. R. LO! here a little volume, but great book,

(Fear it not, sweet—

It is no hypocrite!)

Much larger in itself than in its look!

It is in one rich handful-Heaven, and all
Heaven's royal hosts encamped—thus small
To prove that true schools use to tell,

A thousand angels in one point can dwell.
It is love's great artillery,

Which here contracts itself and comes to lie

Close couched in your white bosom, and from thence, As from a snowy fortress of defence,

Against the ghostly foe to take your part,

And fortify the hold of your chaste heart.

It is the armory of light

Let constant use but keep it bright,