Small is the worth

Of beauty from the light retired;
Bid her come forth,

Suffer herself to be desired,

And not blush so to be admired.

Then die, that she

The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee,

How small a part of time they share
Who are so wondrous sweet and fair.

TO A LADY IN RETIREMENT.

EES not my love, how Time resumes

SEES

The glory which he lent these flowers? Though none should taste of their perfumes Yet must they live but some few hours: Time, what we forbear, devours!

Had Helen, or the Egyptian queen,
Been ne'er so thrifty of their graces,
Those beauties must at length have been
The spoil of age, which finds out faces
In the most retired places.

Should some malignant planet bring

A barren drought, or ceaseless shower,
Upon the autumn, or the spring,

And spare us neither fruit nor flower;
Winter would not stay an hour.

Could the resolve of Love's neglect
Preserve you from the violation
Of coming years, then more respect
Were due to so divine a fashion;
Nor would I indulge my passion.

THE

THE LAST PROSPECT.

HE seas are quiet when the winds give o'er;
So, calm are we when passions are no more!
For then we know how vain it was to boast
Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost.
Clouds of affection from our younger eyes
Conceal that emptiness which age descries.

The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed,
Lets in new light, through chinks that time has made;
Stronger by weakness, wiser, men become,

As they draw near to their eternal home:

Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view,
That stand upon the threshold of the new.

ABRAHAM COWLEY.

(1618-1667.)

ON SOLITUDE.

Accompanying the prose Essay on Solitude, in the Essays in Verse and Prose, 1668. Cowley's Works, edited by Dr. Grosart, occupy two volumes of the Chertsey Worthies Library. His poems are included in vol. vii. of Chalmers' Poets.

HAIL, old patrician trees, so great and good!

Hail, ye plebeian underwood!

Where the poetic birds rejoice,

And for their quiet nests and plenteous food,
Pay with their grateful voice.

Hail, the poor muse's richest manor seat!
Ye country houses and retreat
Which all the happy gods so love,

That for you oft they quit their bright and great
Metropolis above.

Here nature does a house for me erect,
Nature the wisest architect,

Who those fond artists does despise
That can the fair and living trees neglect,
Yet the dead timber prize.

Here let me careless and unthoughtful lying,
Hear the soft winds above me flying
With all their wanton boughs dispute,
And the more tuneful birds to both replying,
Nor be myself too mute.

A silver stream shall roll his waters near,

Gilt with the sunbeams here and there, On whose enamelled bank I'll walk, And see how prettily they smile, and hear How prettily they talk.

Ah wretched, and too solitary he

Who loves not his own company!
He'll feel the weight of 't many a day
Unless he call in sin or vanity
To help to bear 't away.

O Solitude, first state of human-kind!
Which blest remained till man did find
Even his own helper's company.

As soon as two (alas!) together joined,
serpent made up three.

The

The god himself, through countless ages thee
His sole companion chose to be,

Thee, sacred Solitude alone,

Before the branchy head of number's tree
Sprang from the trunk of one.

Thou (though men think thine an unactive part)
Dost break and tame the unruly heart,

Which else would know no settled pace,

Making it more well managed by thy art,
With swiftness and with grace.

Thou the faint beams of reason's scattered light,
Dost like a burning-glass unite,

Dost multiply the feeble heat,

And fortify the strength, till thou dost bright
And noble fires beget.

Whilst this hard truth I teach, methinks, I see
The monster London laugh at me;

I should at thee too, foolish city,
If it were fit to laugh at misery,
But thy estate I pity.

Let but thy wicked men from out thee go,
And all the fools that crowd thee so,
Even thou who dost thy millions boast,
A village less than Islington wilt grow,
A solitude almost.

JAMES GRAHAM, MARQUIS OF
MONTROSE.

(1612-1650.)

MY DEAR AND ONLY LOVE.

See Scott's Legend of Montrose, and Napier's Memoirs of Montrose. Other specimens of Montrose are given in Hannah's Courtly Poets.

My dear and only love, I pray,
MY

This little world of thee

Be governed by no other sway
But purest monarchy.

For if confusion have a part,

Which virtuous souls abhor,

And hold a synod in thy heart,

I'll never love thee more.

Like Alexander I will reign,
And I will reign alone,

My thoughts shall evermore disdain
A rival on my throne.

He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
That dares not put it to the touch,
To win or lose it all.

But I must rule and govern still,
And always give the law,
And have each subject at my will,
And all to stand in awe.

But 'gainst my battery if I find

Thou shunn'st the prize so sore As that thou sett'st me up a blind, I'll never love thee more.

If in the empire of thy heart,
Where I should solely be,
Another do pretend a part,

And dares to vie with me;

Or if committees thou erect,

And go on such a score,
I'll sing and laugh at thy neglect,
And never love thee more.

But if thou wilt be constant then,
And faithful of thy word,
I'll make thee glorious by my pen,
And famous by my sword.

I'll serve thee in such noble ways
Was never heard before;

I'll crown and deck thee all with bays,
And love thee evermore.