SWEET IS LOVE.

Aн, how sweet it is to love!
Ah, how gay is young Desire !
And what pleasing pains we prove
When we first approach Love's fire!
Pains of love be sweeter far
Than all other pleasures are.

Sighs which are from lovers blown
Do but gently heave the heart:
E'en the tears they shed alone
Cure like trickling balm their smart.
Lovers when they lose their breath,
Bleed away in easy death.

Love and Time with reverence use!
Treat them like a parting friend:
Nor the golden gifts refuse

Which in youth sincere they send :
For each year their price is more,
And they less simple than before.

Love, like spring-tides full and high,
Swells in every youthful vein :
But each tide does less supply,
Till they quite shrink in again:

If a flow in age appear,

"Tis but rain, and runs not clear.

DRYDEN.

ENDYMION.

THE rising moon has hid the stars;
Her level rays, like golden bars,
Lie on the Landscape green,
With shadows brown between.

And silver white the river gleams,
As if Diana, in her dreams,
Had dropped her silver bow
Upon the meadows low.

On such a tranquil night as this,
She woke Endymion with a kiss,
When sleeping in the grove,
He dreamed not of her love.

Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought,
Love gives itself, but is not bought
Nor voice nor sound betrays
Its deep, impassioned gaze.

It comes, the beautiful, the free,
The crown of all humanity,-

In silence and alone

To seek the elected one.

It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep
Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep,
And kisses the closed eyes

Of him who slumbering lies.

O, weary hearts! O, slumbering eyes!
O, drooping souls, whose destinies
Are fraught with fear and pain,
Ye shall be loved again!

No one is so accursed by fate,
No one so utterly desolate,

But some heart, though unknown,

Responds unto his own.

Responds, as if, with unseen wings,

A breath from heaven had touched its strings,

And whispers, in its song,

"Where hast thou stayed so long!"

LONGFELLOW.

TO THE DEW;

IN HOPE TO SEE CASTARA WALKING.

BRIGHT DEW! which dost the field adorn,
As th' Earth, to welcome in the morn,
Would hang a jewel on each corn:

Did not the piteous Night, whose ears
Have oft been conscious of my fears,
Distil you from her eyes, as tears?

Or that Castara, for your zeal,
When she her beauties shall reveal,
Might you to diamonds congeal?

If not your pity, yet, howe'er,

Your care I praise: 'gainst she appear,

To make the wealthy Indies here.

But see, she comes! Bright lamp o' th' sky

Put out thy light; the world shall spy
A fairer sun in either eye!

And liquid pearl hang heavy now
On every grass, that it may bow
In veneration of her brow!

Yet if the wind should curious be,
And where I here should question thee:
He's full of whispers, speak not me!

But if the busy tell-tale Day
Our happy interview betray;

Lest thou confess too, melt away!

W. HABINGTON.

SERENADE.

THE lark now leaves his wat'ry nest,
And, climbing, shakes his dewy wings;
He takes your window for the east,
And, to implore your light, he sings.
Awake, awake, the morn will never rise,
Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.

The merchant bows unto the seaman's star, The ploughman from the sun his season takes; But still the lover wonders what they are,

Who look for day before his mistress wakes. Awake, awake, break through your vails of lawn! Then draw your curtains, and, begin the dawn.

DAVENANT.