SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA.

Oh that at length our Age would raise
Into the temper of those days!
But-worse than Etna's fires-debate
And avarice inflame our state.
Alas! who was it that first found
Gold (hid of purpose) underground---
That sought out pearls, and div’d to find
Such precious perils for mankind?

Henry Vaughan.

65

SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA.

WHERE the remote Bermudas ride
In the ocean's bosom unespied,
From a small boat that row'd along
The listening winds received this song.
"What should we do but sing His praise
That led us through the watery maze
Where He the huge sea monsters wracks
That lift the deep upon their backs,
Unto an isle so long unknown,
And yet far kinder than our own?

He lands us on a grassy stage,

Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage:
He gave us this eternal spring
Which here enamels everything,
And sends the fowls to us in care
On daily visits through the air.
He hangs in shades the orange bright
Like golden lamps in a green night,
And does in the pomegranates close
Jewels more rich than Ormus shows:

E'der Poets.

5

66

SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA.

He makes the figs our mouths to meet,
And throws the melons at our feet;
But apples plants of such a price,
No tree could ever bear them twice.
With cedars chosen by his hand
From Lebanon he stores the land;
And makes the hollow seas that roar
Proclaim the ambergris on shore.
He cast (of which we rather boast)
The Gospel's pearl upon our coast;
And in these rocks for us did frame
A temple where to sound His name.
O let our voice His praise exalt
Till it arrive at Heaven's vault,
Which then perhaps rebounding may
Echo beyond the Mexique bay!"
-Thus sung they in the English boat
A holy and a cheerful note:

And all the way, to guide their chime,
With falling oars they kept the time.

Andrew Marvell.

67

PASTORAL.

PASTORAL.

My banks they are furnished with bees
Whose murmur invites one to sleep;
My grottoes are shaded with trees,
And my hills are white over with sheep.
I seldom have met with a loss,

Such health do my fountains bestow-
My fountains all bordered with moss,
Where the harebells and violets grow.

Not a pine in my grove is there seen
But with tendrils of woodbine is bound;
Not a beech's more beautiful green

But a sweetbrier entwines it around.
Not my fields in the prime of the year
More charms than my cattle unfold;
Not a brook that is limpid and clear
But it glitters with fishes of gold.

One would think she might like to retire
To the bow'r I have labored to rear;
Not a shrub that I heard her admire
But I hastened and planted it there.
O how sudden the jessamine strove
With the lilac, to render it gay!
Already it calls for my love,
To prune the wild branches away.

68

PASTORAL.

From the plains, from the woodlands and groves,
What strains of wild melody flow!
How the nightingales warble their loves
From thickets of roses that blow!
And when her bright form shall appear,
Each bird shall harmoniously join
In a concert, so soft and so clear
As she may not be fond to resign.

I have found out a gift for my fair

I have found where the wood-pigeons breed;
But let me that plunder forbear—

She will say 'twas a barbarous deed.
For he ne'er could be true, she averr'd,
Who would rob a poor bird of her young;
And I loved her the more when I heard

Such tenderness fall from her tongue.

I have heard her with sweetness unfold
How that Pity was due to a dove;
That it ever attended the bold,

And she called it the sister of Love.
But her words such a pleasure convey,
So much I her accents adore,

Let her speak, and whatever she say,
Methinks I should love her the more.

Can a bosom so gentle remain

Unmoved when her Corydon sighs?
Will a nymph that is fond of the plain,
These plains and this valley despise?
Dear regions of silence and shade!

Soft scenes of contentment and ease!
Where I could have pleasingly strayed,
If aught in her absence could please.

MAY-DAY.

But where does my Phyllida stray?

And where are her grots and her bowers?
Are the groves and the valleys as gay,
And the shepherds as gentle as ours?
The groves may perhaps be as fair,

And the face of the valleys as fine;
The swains may in manners compare—
But their love is not equal to mine.

William Shenstone.

69

MAY-DAY.

GET up, get up for shame! the blooming morn
Upon her wings presents the god unshorn.
See how Aurora throws her fair
Fresh-quilted colors through the air!
Get up, sweet slug-a-bed! and see
The dew bespangling herb and tree.

Each flower has wept and bowed toward the east,
Above an hour since, yet you are not drest-

Nay, not so much as out of bed,

When all the birds have matins said,

And sung their thankful hymns: 'tis sin,
Nay, profanation, to keep in,

Whenas a thousand virgins on this day
Spring sooner than the lark to fetch in May.

Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen
To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green,
And sweet as Flora. Take no care

For jewels for your gown or hair:
Fear not, the leaves will strew
Gems in abundance upon you;