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Where the rude axe, with heaved stroke,
Was never heard the nymphs to daunt
Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt;
There in close covert by some brook
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from day's garish eye,
While the bee with honey'd thigh
That at her flowery work doth sing,
And the waters murmuring,
With such concert as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep;
And let some strange mysterious dream
Wave at his wings in aery stream
Of lively portraiture display'd,
Softly on my eyelids laid:

And, as I wake, sweet music breathe
Above, about, or underneath,
Sent by some spirit to mortals good,
Or the unseen genius of the wood.
But let my due feet never fail
To walk the studious cloister's pale,
And love the high-embowèd roof,
With antique pillars massy proof,
And storied widows richly dight,
Casting a dim religious light:
There let the pealing organ blow
To the full-voiced quire below
In service high and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
Dissolve me into ecstasies

And bring all heaven before mine eyes.

And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell

“TO ALL YOU LADIES NOW ON LAND." 55

Of every star that heaven doth show,
And every herb that sips the dew;
Till old experience do attain
To something like prophetic strain.
These pleasures, Melancholy, give,
And I with thee will choose to live.

JOHN MILTON.

TO ALL YOU LADIES NOW ON LAND."

SONG WRITTEN AT SEA.

To all you ladies now on land,
We men at sea indite;

But first would have you understand
How hard it is to write :

The Muses now, and Neptune too,
We must implore to write to you.

For tho' the Muses should prove kind,
And fill our empty brain;

Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind,
To wave the azure main,

Our paper, pen, and ink, and we
Roll up and down our ships at sea.

Then, if we write not by each post,
Think not we are unkind ;
Nor yet conclude our ships are lost
By Dutchmen or by wind;

Our tears we'll send a speedier way :
The tide shall bring them twice a day.

The king, with wonder and surprise,
Will swear the seas grow bold;

Because the tides will higher rise
Than e'er they did of old:

But let him know it is our tears
Bring floods of grief to Whitehall-stairs.

Should foggy Opdam chance to know
Our sad and dismal story,

The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe,
And quit their fort at Goree;

For what resistance can they find

From men who 've left their hearts behind!

Let wind and weather do its worst,

Be you to us but kind;

Let Dutchmen vapor, Spaniards curse,

No sorrow we shall find:

'Tis then no matter how things go,

Or who's our friend, or who's our foe.

To pass our tedious hours away,

We throw a merry main :

Or else at serious ombre play;
But why should we in vain
Each other's ruin thus pursue?
We were undone when we left you.

But now our fears tempestuous grow
And cast our hopes away;
Whilst you, regardless of our wo,
Sit careless at a play :

Perhaps permit some happier man
To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan.

When any mournful tune you hear,
That dies in every note,

As if it sigh'd with each man's care

For being so remote :

Think then how often love we 've made
To you, when all those tunes were play'd.

In justice, you cannot refuse

To think of our distress,

When we for hopes of honor lose
Our certain happiness;

All these designs are but to prove

Ourselves more worthy of

your love.

And now we've told you all our loves,
And likewise all our fears,

In hopes this declaration moves

Some pity for our tears;

Let's hear of no inconstancy,

We have too much of that at sea.

CHARLES SACKVILLE, Earl of Dorset.1

SONG FOR SAINT CECILIA'S DAY.

1687.

FROM Harmony, from heavenly Harmony
This universal frame began:

When nature underneath a heap

Of jarring atoms lay

1 CHARLES SACKVILLE, Viscount Buckhurst, and afterwards Earl of Dorset, was born in 1637. In his youth he was one of he wildest and most debauched of all the courtiers who surrounded Charles II., but he was always a man of refined tastes, and a patron of literature. He died in 1706. This song, the best known of his poems, was written on board the English fleet at the time of the first war between Charles II. and the Dutch, and on the eve of battle.

And could not heave her head,

The tuneful voice was heard from high,
Arise, ye more than dead!

Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry,
In order to their stations leap,

And Music's power obey.

From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony
This universal frame began:

From Harmony to Harmony

Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The diapason closing full in man.

What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
When Jubal struck the chorded shell
His listening brethren stood around,
And, wondering, on their faces fell
To worship that celestial sound.

Less than a God they thought there could not dwell
Within the hollow of that shell

That spoke so sweetly and so well. What passion cannot Music raise and quell?

The trumpet's loud clangor

Excites us to arms,

With shrill notes of anger

And mortal alarms,

The double double double beat

Of the thundering drum

Cries, "Hark! the foes come;

Charge, charge, 't is too late to retreat ! "

The soft complaining flute

In dying notes discovers

The woes of hopeless lovers,

Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute.

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