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Yet your Chrysostom, you praised him,
With his glorious mouth of gold— And your Basil, you upraised him
To the height of speaker old: And we both praised Heliodorus
For his secret of pure lies !— Who forged first his linked stories
In the heat of lady's eyes.
Do you mind that deed of Ate,
Which you bound me to so fast,— Reading 'De Virginitate,'
From the first line to the last? How I said at ending, solemn,
As I turn'd and look'd at you, That St. Simeon on the column
Had had somewhat less to do?
Ah, my gossip! you were older,
And more learned, and a man! Yet that shadow, the unfolder
Of your quiet eyelids,—ran
And I turn'd from hill and lea
To your eyes that could not see.
Now Christ bless you with the one light
Which goes shining night and day! May the flowers which grow in sunlight
Shed their fragrance in your way! Is it not right to remember
All your kindness, friend of mine— When we too sat in the chamber,
And the poets found us wine?
So, to come back to the drinking
But those memories, to my thinking,
And whoever be the speaker,
That, in drinking from that beaker,
THE APPARITION OF HIS MISTRESS CALLING HIM TO ELISIUM.
By Robert Herriuk, one of our oldest and truest poets.
Come, then, and like two doves with silvery wings,
Let our souls fly to the shades where even springs,
Sit smiling in the meads; where balm and oil,
Roses and cassia crown the untill'd soil;
Where no disease reigns, or infection comes
To blast the air, but ambergris and gums.
This, that, and every thicket doth transpire
More sweet than storax from the hallow'd fire,
Where every tree a wealthy issue bears
Of fragrant apples, blushing plums, and pears;
And all the shrubs, with sparkling spangles show
Like morning sunshine tinselling the dew.
Here in green meadows sits eternal May,
Purfling the margents, while perpetual day
So double gilds the air, as that no night
Can ever rust the enamel of the light:
Here naked younglings, handsome striplings run
Their goals for virgins' kisses; which, when done,
Then unto dancing forth the learned round
Commix'd they meet, with endless roses crown'd,
And here we'll sit on primrose banks, and see
Loves' chorus led by Cupid; and we'll be
Two loving followers, too, unto the grove,
Where poets sing the stories of our love:
There shall thou hear divine Museus sing
Of Hero and Leander; then I'll bring
Thee to the stand, where honour'd Homer reads
His Odes and his high Iliads;
About whose throne the crowd of poets throng
To hear the incantation of his tongue:
To Lintis then to Pindar; and that done,
Then stately Virgil, witty Ovid, by
Beaumont and Fletcher, swains to whom all ears
DEATH IN SLEEP.
How wonderful is Death,
Death and his brother Sleep!
With lips of lurid blue;
The other, rosy as the morn
It blushes o'er the world:
Hath then the gloomy power
As breathing marble, perish?
But loathsomeness and ruin?
Or is it only a sweet slumber
Stealing o'er sensation,
Chaseth into darkness?
Will Ianthe wake again,
Yes! she will wake again,
From The Lover's Melancholy, a tragedy, by John Ford, one of the dramatists of Elizabeth's reign.
Amethus. This little isle of Cyprus sure abounds
Menaphon. Than any
Amet. Jewel, Menaphon?
Men. A jewel, my Amethus, a fair youth;
Amet. Prithee do.
Men. Passing from Italy to Greece, the tales
Amet. I cannot yet conceive what you infer
Men. I shall soon resolve you.