Time poems/ page 8 of 792 /
The Aucthour (though loth to leave the Citie)vpon her Friendes procurement, is constrainedto departe: wherfore (she fayneth as she would die)and maketh her WYLL and Testæment, as foloweth:With large Legacies of such Goods and richeswhich she moste aboundantly hath left behind her:and therof maketh LONDON sole executor to seher Legacies performed
Ye Virgins, ye from Cupid's tents do bear away the foil,Whose hearts as yet with raging love most painfully do boil.
To Thomas Pennant, Esquire. ... equidem credo, quia sit divinitus illis Ingenium. Virg., Georg.
All the flowers of the springMeet to perfume our burying;These have but their growing prime,And man does flourish but his time
Scarce suffer'd more upon Melita's shore,Than did his Temple in the sea of Time(Our Nation's Glory, and our Nation's Crime)When the first Monarch of this happy Isle,Mov'd with the ruin of so brave a pile,This work of cost and piety begunTo be accomplish'd by his glorious Son:Who all that came within the ample thoughtOf his wise Sire, has to perfection brought
There are no heathen gods to play the rogueWith wandering maidens, as in olden time;Whose wild Olympian hearts were all agogTo choose their victim, and inflict their crime:Thou hast been gathering flowers, a fragrant store,But no grim Dis has seiz'd thee for his bride;And though thou rovest on this houseless shoreNo horned Zeus betrays thee to the tide
When my hand closed upon thee, worn and spentWith idly dashing on the window-pane,Or clinging to the cornice -- I, that meantAt once to free thee, could not but detain;I dropt my pen, I left th' unfinished lay,To give thee back to freedom; but I took --Oh, charm of sweet occasion! -- one brief lookAt thy bright eyes and innocent dismay;Then forth I sent thee on thy homeward quest,My lesson learnt -- thy beauty got by heart:And if, at times, my sonnet-muse would restShort of her topmost skill, her little best,The memory of thy delicate gold crestShall plead for one last touch, -- the crown of Art
The humming bee purrs softly o'er his flower, From lawn and thicketThe dogday locust singeth in the sun, From hour to hour;Each has his bard, and thou, ere day be done Shalt have no wrong;So bright that murmur mid the insect crowdMuffled and lost in bottom grass, or loud By pale and picket:Shall I not take to help me in my song A little cooing cricket?
The afternoon is sleepy!, let us lieBeneath these branches, whilst the burdened brookMuttering and moaning to himself goes by,And mark our minstrel's carol, whilst we lookToward the faint horizon, swooning-blue