EXTRACT

FROM THE SUN-RISE; A POEM,

THOU youthful goddess of the morn,
Whose blush they in the east adore,
Daughter of Phoebus, who before
Thy all-enlightening fire art born!
Hafte, and restore the day to me,
That my love's beauteous object I may fee.

Too much of time the night devours,

The cock's fhrill voice calls thee again, Then quickly mount thy golden wain, Drawn by the foftly-fliding hours, And make apparent to all eyes

With what enamel thou doft paint the skies.

Ah, now I see the sweetest dawn!

Thrice welcome to my longing fight! Hail, divine beauty, heavenly light; I fee thee through yon cloud of lawn Appear, and as thy ftar does glide, Blanching with rays the east on every fide.

Dull filence, and the drowsy king

Of fad and melancholy dreams,
Now fly before thy cheerful beams,
The darkest shadows vanquishing:
The owl, that all the night did keep
A hooting, now is fled and gone to fleep.

But all thofe little birds, whofe notes
Sweetly the liftening ear enthral,
To the clear water's murmuring fall
Accord their disagreeing throats:
The luftre of that greater ftar
Praifing, to which thou art but harbinger.

With holy reverence infpir'd,

When first the day renews its light,
The earth, at fo divine a fight,
Seems, as if all one altar fir'd,
Reeking with perfumes to the skies,
Which the prefents, her native facrifice.

The humble fhepherd, to his rays
Having his humble homage paid,
And to fome cool retired shade
Driven his bleating flocks to graze,
Sits down, delighted with the fight

Of that great lamp, fo mild, fo fair, fo bright.

The bee, through flow'ry gardens goes

Buzzing, to drink the morning's tears,
And from the early lily bears

A kifs commended to the rofe,

And, like a wary messenger,

Whispers fome amorous ftory in her ear.*

&c. &c. &c.

*The remainder of this poem would now be thought forced and

unnatural.

SONG

In the amorous Warre, by JASPER MAYNE,
Oxford, 1659.

TIME is a feather'd thing;

And whilft I praise

The fparklings of thy looks, and call them rays,

Takes wing;

Leaving behind him, as he flies,

An unperceived dimness in thine eyes.

His minutes, whilft they're told,

Do make us old,

And every fand of his fleet glass,

Increafing age as it doth pass,
Infenfibly fows wrinkles there,
Where flow'rs and roses did appear.

Whilft we do speak, our fire

Doth into ice expire:

Flames turn to froft,

And ere we can

Know how our crow turns fwan,

Or how a filver fnow

Springs there where jet did grow,

Our fading spring is in dull winter loft.

SIR ROBERT HOWARD.

The poems of this author, confifting of fongs and fonnets, and a play called the Blind Lady, were printed in 1660, in one

volume octavo.

SONG

TO THE INCONSTANT CYNTHIA.

In thy fair breaft, and once fair foul,
I thought my vows were writ alone :
But others' oaths fo blurred the scroll,
That I no more could read my own.
And am I ftill oblig❜d to pay

When had thrown the bond away?
you

Nor muft we only part in joy,

Our tears as well must be unkind;
Weep you, that could fuch truth destroy,
And I that did fuch falfeness find.
Thus we muft unconcern'd remain

In our divided joys and pain.

Yet we may love, but on this different score,
You what I am, I what you were before.

THE RESOLUTION.

No, Cynthia, never think I can
Love a divided heart and mind;
Your funshine love to every man,
Appears alike as great as kind.

None but the duller Perfians kneel,
And the bright god of beams implore;
Whilft others equal influence feel,
That never did the god adore.

Though I refolve to love no more,
Since I did once, I will advise:
The love of conquests now give o'er ;
Difquiets wait on victories.

To

your

much injured peace and name, Love's farewel as a tribute pay;

Grow more referv'd, and raise your fame By your own choice, not your decay.

She that to age her charms refigns,
And then at last turns votary,
Though virtue much the change inclines,
"Tis fullied by neceffity.