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,
The serpent made up three.

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,

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.

EDWARD, LORD HERBERT OF

CHERBURY.

(1581-1648.)

LOVE'S ETERNITY.

Portions of An Ode, upon a Question moved whether Love should Continue for Ever, published among his Occasional Verses, 1665. His Poems have been edited by Mr. Churton Collins (London, 1881).

0

NO, Beloved: I am most sure
These virtuous habits we acquire,

As being with the soul entire,

Must with it evermore endure.

Else should our souls in vain elect,
And vainer yet were Heaven's laws,
When to an everlasting cause

They gave a perishing effect.

These eyes again thine eyes shall see,
And hands again these hands enfold,
And all chaste pleasures can be told

Shall with us everlasting be.

For if no use of sense remain,

When bodies once this life forsake

Or they could no delight partake,

Why should they ever rise again?

An if every imperfect mind

Make love the end of knowledge here,
How perfect will our love be, where

All imperfection is refined!

So when from hence we shall be gone,
And be no more, nor you, nor I,

As one another's mystery,

Each shall be both, yet both but one.

GEORGE HERBERT.

(1593-1633.)

VIRTUE.

From The Temple, Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations, 1633. Dr. Grosart's edition of the Complete Works of Herbert in the Fuller Worthies Library, 3 vols., 1874, is the standard modern edition.

I

WEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright!

SWEET

The bridal of the earth and sky,—

The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;
For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,

Thy root is ever in its grave,

And thou must die.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,

My music shows ye have your closes
And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,

Like seasoned timber, never gives;
But though the whole world turn to coal,
Then chiefly lives.

THE COLLAR.

STRUCK the board, and cried, "No more;
I will abroad!

What, shall I ever sigh and pine?

My lines and life are free; free as the road,
Loose as the wind, as large as store.

Shall I be still in suit?