E. SHERBURNE.

EXTRACT

From the Sun-rise; a Poem.

THOU youthful goddess of the morn,
Whose blush they in the east adore,
Daughter of Phoebus, who before
Thy all-enlightening sire art born!
Haste, and restore the day to me,
That my love's beauteous object I may see.

Too much of time the night devours,
The cock's shrill voice calls thee again,
Then quickly mount thy golden wain,
Drawn by the softly-sliding hours,
And make apparent to all eyes

With what enamel thou dost paint the skies.

Ah, now I see the sweetest dawn!
Thrice welcome to my longing sight!
Hail, divine beauty, heavenly light;
I see thee through yon cloud of lawn
Appear, and as thy star does glide,
Blanching with rays the east on every side.

Dull silence, and the drowsy king
Of sad and melancholy dreams,
Now fly before thy cheerful beams,
The darkest shadows vanquishing:
The owl, that all the night did keep
A hooting, now is filed and gone to sleep.

But all those little birds, whose notes
Sweetly the listening ear enthral,
To the clear water's murmuring fall
Accord their disagreeing throats:
The lustre of that greater star

Praising, to which thou art but harbinger.

With holy reverence inspir'd,
When first the day renews its light,
The earth, at so divine a sight,
Seems, as if all one altar fir'd,
Reeking with perfumes to the skies,
Which she presents, her native sacrifice.

The humble shepherd, to his rays
Having his humble homage paid,
And to some cool retired shade
Driven his bleating flocks to graze,
Sits down, delighted with the sight
Of that great lamp, so mild, so fair, so bright.
The bee, through flow'ry gardens goes
Buzzing, to drink the morning's tears,
And from the early lily bears

A kiss commended to the rose,
And, like a wary messenger,

Whispers some amorous story in her ear.*
&c. &c. &c.

* The remainder of this poem would now be thought forced and unnatural.

SIR ROBERT HOWARD.

SONG

To the inconstant Cynthia.

IN thy fair breast, and once fair soul,
I thought my vows were writ alone:
But others' oaths so blurred the scroll,
That I no more could read my own.
And am I still oblig'd to pay

When you had thrown the bond away?

Nor must we only part in joy,

Our tears as well must be unkind; Weep you, that could such truth destroy, And I that did such falseness find. Thus we must unconcern'd remain

In our divided joys and pain.

Yet we may love, but on this different score, You what I am, I what you were before.

THE RESOLUTION.

NO, Cynthia, never think I can

Love a divided heart and mind;
Your sunshine love to every man,
Appears alike as great as kind.

None but the duller Persians kneel,
And the bright god of beams implore;
Whilst others equal influence feel,
That never did the god adore.

Though I resolve to love no more,
Since I did once, I will advise :
The love of conquests now give o'er;
Disquiets wait on victories.

To your much injured peace and name,
Love's farewel as a tribute pay;
Grow more reserv'd, and raise your fame
By your own choice, not your decay.

She that to age her charms resigns,
And then at last turns votary,

Though virtue much the change inclines, "Tis sullied by necessity.

ROBERT HEАТН.

STANZAS

On Clarastella saying she would commit herself to a Nunnery.

STAY, Clarastella, prithee stay!

Recal those frantic vows again! Wilt thou thus cast thyself away,

As well as me, in fond disdain ?

Wilt thou be cruel to thyself? chastise

Thy harmless body, 'cause thy powerful eyes
Have charm'd my senses by a strange surprise?
Is it a sin to be beloved?

If but the cause you could remove
Soon the effect would be removed;
Where beauty is, there will be love.
Nature, that wisely nothing made in vain,
Did make you lovely to be lov'd again,
And, when such beauty tempts, can love refrain?

When Heaven was prodigal to you,
And you with beauty's glory stored,
He made you like himself for view,
To be beheld and then adored.

Why should the gold then fear to see that sun
That form'd it pure? Why should you live a nun,
And hide those rays Heav'n gave to you alone?

Thyself a holy temple art,

Where love shall teach us both to pray; I'll make an altar of my heart,

And incense on thy lips I'll lay.

Thy mouth shall be my oracle, and then

For beads we'll tell our kisses o'er again,

Till they, breath'd from our souls, shall cry, amen.