Full glory flaming in her own free sphere.
Gladness shall clothe the Earth, we will instile
The face of things an universal smile :
Say to the sullen Morn thou com'st to court her,
And wilt demand proud Zephyrus to sport her
With wanton gales; his balmy breath shall lick
The tender drops which tremble on her cheek;
Which rarified, and in a gentle rain

On those delicious banks distill'd again,
Shall rise in a sweet Harvest, which discloses
Two ever-blushing bed[s] of new-born roses.
He'll fan her bright locks, teaching them to flow,
And frisk in curl'd meanders: he will throw
A fragrant breath suck'd from the spicy nest
O' th' precious phoenix, warm upon her breast.
He with a dainty and soft hand will trim
And brush her azure mantle, which shall swim
In silken volumes; wheresoe'er she'll tread
Bright clouds like golden fleeces shall be spread.

Rise then (fair blue-eyed maid!) rise and discover
Thy silver brow, and meet thy golden lover.
See how he runs, with what a hasty flight,
Into thy bosom, bath'd with liquid light.
Fly, fly profane fogs, far hence fly away,
Taint not the pure streams of the springing Day,
With your dull influence; it is for you
To sit and scowl upon Night's heavy brow,
Not on the fresh cheeks of the virgin Morn,

Z

Where naught but smiles and ruddy joys are worn.
Fly then, and do not think with her to stay;
Let it suffice, she'll wear no mask to-day.

:0:

Waisbes.

TO HIS (SUPPOSED) MISTRESS.

Whoe'er she be,

That not impossible She

That shall command my heart and me;

Where'er she lie,

Lock'd up from mortal eye,

In shady leaves of destiny:

Till that ripe Birth

Of studied Fate stand forth,

And teach her fair steps tread our earth;
Shee = firisua asin

fot

Till that divine

Idea take a shrine

Of crystal flesh, through which to shine:

Meet you her, my Wishes,

Bespeak her to my blisses,

And be ye call'd, my absent kisses.

I wish her beauty,

That owes not all its duty

To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie,

Something more than
Taffeta or tissue can,

Or rampant feather, or rich fan,

More than the spoil

Of shop, or silkworm's toil,

Or a bought blush, or a set smile;

A Face that's best

By its own beauty dress'd,

And can alone commend the rest,—

A Face made up

Out of no other shop

Than what Nature's white hand sets ope;

A Cheek where youth

And blood, with pen of Truth

Write what their reader sweetly ru’th,—

A Cheek where grows

More than a morning rose,

Which to no box [its] being owes ;

Lips, where all day

A lover's kiss may play,

Yet carry nothing thence away;

Looks that oppress

Their richest tires, but dress

Themselves in simple nakedness;

Eyes, that displace

The neighbour diamond, and out-face
That sunshine by their own sweet grace;

Tresses, that wear

Jewels, but to declare

How much themselves more precious are,

Whose native ray

Can tame the wanton day

Of gems that in their bright shades play, —

Joys that confess

Virtue their Mistress,

And have no other head to dress;

Fears fond, and flight,

As the coy bride's when night

First does the longing lover right;

Tears quickly fled

And vain, as those are shed

For a dying maidenhead ;

Days that need borrow

No part of their good morrow
From a fore-spent night of sorrow,-

Days that, in spite

Of darkness, by the light

Of a clear mind are day all night;

Nights sweet as they,

Made short by lovers' play,

Yet long by the absence of the day;

Life that dares send

A challenge to his end,

And when it comes say-Welcome, friend!

Sidneian showers

Of sweet discourse, whose powers

Can crown old Winter's head with flowers;