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May no wolf howl, or screech owl stir
No boisterous winds or storms come hither,
Thy soft sweet earth; but, like a spring,
May all shy maids, at wonted hours,
Come forth to strew thy tomb with flowers;
Upon thine altar; then return,
And leave thee sleeping in thy urn.
ODE TO ENDYMION PORTER.
Not all thy flushing suns are set,
Nor doth this far-drawn hemisphere
Yet the next morn regild the fragrant East.
Alas! for me! that I have lost
Sunk is my sight, set is my sun,
And all the loom of life undone;
The staff, the elm, the prop, the sheltering wall
Now, now blown down; needs must the old stock fall.
Yet, Porter, while thou keep'st alive,
And like a Phoenix re-aspire
From out my nard and funeral fire, And as I prime my feathered youth, so I Do marvell how I could die
When I had thee, my chief preserver, by.
I'm up, I'm up, and bless that hand,
Now as I do, and, but for thee,
I must confess, I could not be ;
Invites fresh grapes to fill his press with wine.
WHAT LOVE IS.
Love is a circle, that doth restless move
UPON PREW HIS MAID.
In this little urn is laid
Prewdence Baldwin, once my maid,
THE WHITE ISLAND.
In this world, the Isle of Dreams,
But when once from hence we fly,
In that whiter Island, where
There no monstrous fancies shall
Out of hell an horror call,
To create, or cause at all
There, in calm and cooling sleep,
Pleasures such as shall pursue
Charm me asleep, and melt me so
Ease my sick head,
And make my bed,
Thou Power that canst sever
From me this ill;
And quickly still,
Though thou not kill
Thou sweetly canst convert the same
From a consuming fire,
Into a gentle-licking flame,
And make it thus expire.
Then make me weep
And give me such reposes,
That I, poor I,
May think, thereby,
I live and die
Fall on me like a silent dew,
Or like those maiden showers,
Which, by the peep of day, do strew A baptism o'er the flowers.
Melt, melt my pains
I leave this light,
Shapcot to thee the Fairy State
Because thou prizest things that are
Take first the feast; these dishes gone,
A little mushroom-table spread,
The elves present, to quench his thirst,
Quite through the table, where he spies
Of which he eats; and tastes a little
Of that we call the cuckoo's spittle;
A little fuz-ball pudding stands
That was too coarse; but then forthwith
Of sugar'd rush, and eats the sagge
Of emmet's eggs; what would he more?
With the red-capt worm, that's shut
Within the concave of a nut,
Brown as his tooth. A little moth,
Late fatten'd in a piece of cloth;
With wither'd cherries, mandrakes' ears,
Ne'er ravish'd from the flattering vine,
He fully quaffs up, to bewitch
His blood to height; this done, commended Grace by his priest; The feast is ended.
Live, live with me, and thou shalt see