And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,
Of pine, or monumental oak, L

135

Where the rude axe with heavéd stroke-
Was never heard the nymphs to daunt,

Or fright them from their hallowed haunt.
There, in close covert, by some brook,
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from day's garish eye,
While the bee with honeyed thigh,

That at her flowery work doth sing,
And the waters murmuring,

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L

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Sent by some Spirit to mortals good,
Or the unseen Genius of the wood.
But let my due feet never fail
To walk the studious cloister's pale,-
And love the high embowéd roof, -
With antique pillars massy-proof,"
And storied windows richly dight,~
Casting a dim religious light.
There let the pealing organ blow,

160

To the full-voiced quire below,

In service high and anthems clear,

As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
Dissolve me into ecstasies,

165

And bring all Heaven before mine eyes.

And may at last my weary age

Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown and mossy cell,
Where I may sit and rightly spell.
Of every star that heaven doth shew,
And every herb that sips the dew,
Till old experience do attain
To something like prophetic strain.
These pleasures, Melancholy, give;

And I with thee will choose to live.

SONNETS

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175

ON HIS BEING ARRIVED AT THE AGE OF TWENTY-THREE

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
My hasting days fly on with full career,
But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth

That I to manhood am arrived so near;
And inward ripeness doth much less appear,
That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th.

Yet, be it less or more, or soon or slow,

It shall be still in strictest measure even

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To that same lot, however mean or high,

Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven.

All is, if I have grace to use it so,

As ever in my great Task-Master's eye.

ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT

AVENGE, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones
Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold;
Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old,
When all our fathers worshiped stocks and stones,
Forget not in thy book record their groans

Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold
Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that rolled
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans

The vales redoubled to the hills, and they

To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow
O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway
The triple Tyrant; that from these may grow
A hundredfold, who, having learnt thy way,
Early may fly the Babylonian woe.

THE CAVALIER POETS

THERE is no such charming group of men and poets in English literature as that which surrounds the throne of Charles I. Not one of them is great, but every one is delightful. They are all contemporaries of Milton; and just as his solemn and stately epics furnish a fitting close for the heroic age of English literature, so the light-hearted laughing songs of these poets, whom Milton, it must be confessed, heartily despised, are the last outpourings of the fountain of pure lyric verse that had flowed so freely since the days of Sidney and Spenser.

In some ways, no doubt, the Cavalier songs are inferior to the Elizabethan. They have less passion, less imagination, less frequent flashes of dazzling poetry. On the other hand, they are as a rule less wild in flight, more modern in tone and manner, more carefully polished in style. They cover a wide range of subjects; the court, the camp, the grove are their familiar themes. And they entered at times into the temple and sang there with a fervor of devotion that has rarely been equaled in English poetry. The work of such men as Herbert and Vaughan is of itself sufficient to free the whole group from the charge sometimes made against them of being only the idle singers of roses, wine cups, and light loves.

The short lyrics of this school of poets do not lend themselves easily to class-room study and critical analysis. Perhaps the best way to study these poems is simply to get them by heart. It is better to learn a song of Herrick's than the best definition of a lyric ever framed. And in no way can a perception of grace and charm and perfect art in poetry be more easily acquired than by an intimate acquaintance with the best songs of the best poets of this delightful group.

TO HIS MISTRESS THE QUEEN OF

BOHEMIA

You meaner beauties of the night,
That poorly satisfy our eyes
More by your number than your light,

You common people of the skies,
What are you when the moon shall rise?

You curious chanters of the wood,

That warble forth Dame Nature's lays, Thinking your passions understood

By your weak accents, what's your praise When Philomel her voice shall raise?

You violets that first appear,

By your pure purple mantles known Like the proud virgins of the year,

As if the spring were all your own, What are you when the rose is blown?

So when my mistress shall be seen

In form and beauty of her mind, By virtue first, then choice, a Queen, Tell me if she were not designed The eclipse and glory of her kind?

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SIR HENRY WOTTON.

ASK ME NO MORE

Ask me no more where Jove bestows,
When June is past, the fading rose:
For in your beauty's orient deep
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.