Some nation yet shut in

With hills of ice,

May be let out to scourge his sin,
Till they shall equal him in vice.

And then they likewise shall
Their ruin have;

For as yourselves your empires fal
And every kingdom hath a grave.

Thus those celestial fires,

Though seeming mute,

The fallacy of our desires

And all the pride of life confute.

For they have watched since first
The world had birth:

And found sin in itself accursed,

And nothing permanent on earth.

COGITABO PRO PECCATO MEO.

IN what dark silent grove

Profaned by no unholy love,

Where witty melancholy ne'er

Did carve the trees or wound the air,

Shall I religious leisure win,

To weep away my sin?

How fondly have I spent

My youth's unvalued treasure, lent

To traffic for celestial joys;

My unripe years, pursuing toys,

Judging things best that were most gay,

Fled unobserved away.

Grown elder I admired

Our poets as from Heaven inspired;
What obelisks decreed I fit

For Spenser's art, and Sidney's wit?
But waxing sober soon I found
Fame but an idle sound.

Then I my blood obeyed,

And each bright face an idol made:
Verse in an humble sacrifice,
I offered to my mistress' eyes,
But I no sooner grace did win
But met the devil within

But grown more politic

I took account of each state trick:
Observed each motion, judged him wise,
Who had a conscience fit to rise.
Whom soon I found but form and rule

And the more serious fool.

But now my soul prepare

To ponder what and where we are,
How frail is life, how vain a breath
Opinion, how uncertain death;
How only a poor stone shall bear
Witness that once we were.

How a shrill trumpet shall

Us to the bar as traitors call.

Then shall we see too late that pride

Hath hope with flattery belied,
And that the mighty in command

Pale cowards there must stand.

ROBERT HERRICK.

(1591-1674.)

Practically all of Herrick's poetry appeared first in Hesperides, 1648, and was probably written 1620-1648. There are numerous modern editions of Herrick, who, like Campion and so many others of the early lyrists, has only come into favour during the present century. The best are Dr. Grosart's (3 vols., London, 1877), Mr. A. W. Pollard's (2 vols. 1891, in the Muses' Library), and Mr. Saintsbury's (2 vols. 1893, in the Aldine Poets). Selections nearly complete have been edited by Prof. E. E. Hale, junr. (Athenæum Press Series, Boston, 1895), by Prof. Palgrave (Golden Treasury Series, 1877), by Prof. Henry Morley (the Universal Library, 1883), and by Mr. H. P. Horne (Canterbury Poets, 1887).

I

THE ARGUMENT OF THE HESPERIDES.

SING of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers,
Of April, May, of June, and July flowers;

I sing of maypoles, hock-carts, wassails, wakes,
Of bridegrooms, brides, and of their bridal cakes.
I write of Youth, of Love;-and have access
By these to sing of cleanly wantonness;
I sing of dews, of rains, and, piece by piece,
Of balm, of oil, of spice, and ambergris.
I sing of times trans-shifting; and I write
How roses first came red, and lilies white.
I write of groves, of twilights, and I sing
The court of Mab, and of the Fairy King.
I write of Hell; I sing, and ever shall
Of Heaven, and hope to have it after all.

UPON THE LOSS OF HIS MISTRESSES.

I

HAVE lost, and lately, these

Many dainty mistresses:

Stately Julia, prime of all;

Sappho next, a principal;

Smooth Anthea, for a skin
White and heaven-like crystalline;
Sweet Electra, and the choice
Myrrha, for the lute and voice.
Next, Corinna, for her wit,
And the graceful use of it;
With Perilla: all are gone,

Only Herrick's left alone,
For to number sorrow by

Their departures hence, and die.

TO LIVE MERRILY, AND TO TRUST TO GOOD VERSES.

NOW is the time for mirth

Nor cheek or tongue be dumb;

For the flowery earth,

The golden pomp is come.

The golden pomp is come;

For now each tree does wear,

Made of her pap and gum,

Rich beads of amber here.

Now reigns the Rose, and now
The Arabian dew besmears

My uncontrolled brow,

And my retorted1 hairs.

Homer, this health to thee,

In sack of such a kind,
That it would make thee see,

Though thou wert ne'er so blind.

Next, Virgil I'll call forth,

To pledge this second health
In wine whose each cup's worth
An Indian commonwealth.

1 thrown back.

A goblet next I'll drink

To Ovid; and suppose

Made he the pledge, he'd think The world had all one nose.

Then this immensive cup

Of aromatic wine,

Catullus, I quaff up

To that terse muse of thine.

Wild I am now with heat,

O Bacchus! cool thy rays;

Or frantic I shall eat

Thy thyrse, and bite the bays.

Round, round, the roof does run;

And being ravished thus, Come, I will drink a tun

To my Propertius.

Now, to Tibullus next,

This flood I drink to thee;

But stay, I see a text,

That this presents to me.

Behold! Tibullus lies

Here burnt, whose small return

Of ashes scarce suffice

To fill a little urn.

Trust to good verses then:
They only will aspire,
When pyramids, as men,
Are lost i' th' funeral fire,

And when all bodies meet

In Lethe to be drowned;

Then only numbers sweet,

With endless life are crowned.