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!

Grainger.

LOYALTY CONFINED,

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.

THE SOLDIER GOING TO THE FIELD.

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.