Sivut kuvina

For Bryan he was tall and strong,

Right blythesome rollid his een ; Sweet was his voice whene'er he song:

He scant had twenty seen.

But who the countless charms can draw,

That graced his mistress true? Such charms the old world seldom saw,

Nor oft, I ween, the new :

Her raven hair plays round her neck

Like tendrils of the vine;
Her cheeks red dewy rose-buds deck,

Her eyes like diamonds shine.

Soon as his well-known ship she spied,

She cast her weeds away;
And to the palmy shore she bied,

All in her best array.

In sea-green silk so neatly clad

She there impatient stood;
The crew with wonder saw the lad

Repel the foaming flood.

Her bands a handkerchief display'd,

Which he at parting gave;
Well pleas'd the token he survey'd,

And manlier beat the wave.

Her fair companions one and all

Rejoicing crowd the strand; For now lier lover swam in call,

And almost touch'd the land.

Then through the white surf did she haste,

To clasp her lovely swain ;
When, ah! a shark bit through his waist :

His heart's blood dyed the main;
He shriek'd! his half sprang from the wave,

Streaming with purple gore;
And soon it found a living grave,

And, ah! was seen no more.
Now haste, now haste, ye maids, I pray,

Fetch water from the spring :
She falls, she swoons, she dies away,

And soon her knell they ring.
Now each May-morning round her tomb,

Ye fair, fresh flowrets strew;
So may your lovers 'scape his doom,
Her helpless fate 'scape you!


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Beat on, proud billows; Boreas, blow;

Swell, curled waves, high as Jove's roof!
Your incivility doth show,

That innocence is tempest proof;
Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm,
Then strike, Affliction, for thy wounds are balm.
That which the world miscalls a jail,

A private closet is to me:
Whilst a good conscience is my bail,

And innocence my liberty;
Locks, bars, and solitude, together met,
Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret.

1, whilst I wish'd to be retird,

Into this private room was turn'd, As if their wisdoms had conspir'd

The salamander should be burn'd: Or like those sophists that would drown a fish, I am constrain'd to suffer what I wish.

The cynic loves his poverty ;

The pelican her wilderness;
And 'tis the Indian's pride to be

Naked on frozen Caucasus :
Contentment cannot smart; Stoics, we see,
Make torments easy to their apathy.

These manacles upon my arm

I as my mistress' favours wear; And, for to keep my ancles warm,

I bave some iron shackles there : These walls are but my garrison;

this cell, Which men call jail, doth prove my citadel.

I'm in the cabinet lock'd up,

Like some high-prized margarite, Or, like the great mogul or pope,

Am cloister'd up from public sight: Retiredness is a piece of majesty, And thus, proud soltay, I'm as great as thee. Here sin for want of food must starve,

Where tempting objects are not seen ; And these strong walls do oply serve

To keep vice out, and keep me in: Malice of late's grown charitable, sure ; I'm not committed, but am kept secure.

So he that struck at Jason's life,

Thinking & have made his purpose sure,
By a malicions friendly knife,

Did only wonnd him to a cure.
Malice, I see, wants wit; for what is meant
Mischief, ofttimes proves favour by th’ event.

When once my prince affliction hath,

Prosperity doth treason seem;
And to make smooth so rongb a path,

I can learn patience from him :
Now not to suffer, shows no loyal heart;
When kings want ease, subjects must bear a part.

What though I cannot see my king,

Neither in person or in coin; Yet contemplation is a thing

That renders what I have not mine : My king from me what adamant can part, Whom I do wear engraven on my heart!

Have you not seen the nightingale,

A prisoner like, coop'd in a cage?
How doth she chant her wonted tale

In that her narrow hermitage !
Even then ber charming melody doth prove
That all her bars are trees, her cage a grove.

I am that bird, whom they combine

Thus to deprive of liberty;
But though they do my corps confine,

Yet, maugre bate, my sont is free:
And though immur'd, yet can I chirp, and sing
Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king !

My soul is free as ambient air,

Although my baser part's immu’d, Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair

T'accompany my solitude: Although rebellion do my body bind, My king alone can captivate my mind,

Sir R. L'Estrange.


Preserve thy sighs, unthrifty girl!

To purify the air ;
Thy tears, to thread, instead of pearl,

On bracelets of thy hair.

The trumpet makes the echo hoarse,

And wakes the louder drum; Expense of grief gains no remorse ;

When sorrow should be dumb.

For I must go where lazy Peace

Will hide her drowsy bead;
And, for the sport of kings, increase

The number of the dead.

But first I'll chide thy cruel theft:

Can I in war delight,
Who, being of my heart bereft,

Can have no heart to fight?
Thou know'st, the sacred laws of old

Ordain'd a thief should pay,
To quit him of his theft, sevenfold

What he had stol'n away.

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