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A LILY BY MOONLIGHT.

"Know'st thou not me?" the deep voice cried, "So long enjoy'd, so oft misused; Alternate, in thy fickle pride,

Desir'd, neglected, and accused?

Before my breath, like blazing flax,
Man and his marvels pass away;
And changing empires wane and wax,
Are founded, flourish, and decay.
Redeem mine hours;-the space is brief,
While in my glass the sand-grains shiver,
And measureless thy joy or grief

When time and thou shall part for ever!"

SCOTT.

TO A LILY FLOWERING BY MOONLIGHT.

Он, why, thou lily pale,

Lov'st thou to blossom in the wan moonlight, And shed thy rich perfume upon the night? When all thy sisterhood,

In silken cowl and hood,

Screen their soft faces from the sickly gale, Fair-horned Cynthia wooes thy modest flower, And with her beaming lips

Thy kisses cold she sips, For thou art aye her only paramour; What time she nightly quits her starry bower, Trick'd in celestial light,

And silver crescent bright.

GOOD MORROW.

Oh, ask thy vestal queen,

If she will thee advise,

Where in the blessed skies

That maiden may be seen,

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[day,

Who hung, like thee, her pale head through the

Love-sick and pining for the evening ray;

And lived a maiden chaste amid the folly
Of this bad world, and died of melancholy?
Oh, tell me where she dwells!

So on thy mournful bells

Shall Dian nightly fling

Her tender sighs to give thee fresh perfume,
Her pale night-lustre to enhance thy bloom,
And find thee tears to feed thy sorrowing.

ROSCOE.

GOOD MORROW.

You that have spent the silent night

In sleep and quiet rest,

And joy to see the cheerful light

That riseth in the east ;

Now clear your voice, now cheer your heart,
Come help me now to sing;
Each willing wight come bear a part
To praise the heav'nly King.

And you whom care in prison keeps,
Or sickness doth suppress,

Or secret sorrow breaks your sleeps,
Or dolours do distress ;

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GOOD MORROW.

Yet bear a part in dolefulwise,
Yea, think it good accord,
And acceptable sacrifice,

Each sprite to praise the Lord.

The dreadful night with darksomeness
Had overspread our light,
And sluggish sleep with drowsiness
Had overprest our might:
A glass wherein you may behold
Each storm that stops our breath;
Our bed the grave, our clothes like mould,
And sleep like dreadful death.

Yet as this dreadful night did last
But for a little space,

And heavenly day, now night is past,
Doth shew his pleasant face;

So must we hope to see God's face
At least in heaven on high,

When we have chang'd this mortal place
For immortality.

And of such haps and heav'nly joys
As then we hope to hold,

All earthly sight and worldly toys

Are tokens to behold.

The day is like the day of doom,

The sun the Son of man,

The skies the heaven, the earth the tomb Wherein we rest till then.

GOOD MORROW.

The rainbow bending in the sky,
Bedeck'd with sundry hues,
Is like the seat of God on high,
And seems to tell these news:
That as thereby He promised

To drown the world no more,
So by the blood which Christ hath shed
He will our health restore.

The misty clouds that fall sometime,
And overcast the skies,

Are like to troubles of our time
Which do but dim our eyes :
But as such dews are dried up quite
When Phoebus shews his face,
So are such fancies put to flight
When God doth guide by grace.

The little birds which sing so sweet
Are like the angels' voice,
Which render God His praises meet,
And teach us to rejoice:

And as they more esteem that mirth
Than dread the night's annoy,
So must we deem our days on earth
But hell to heavenly joy.

Unto which joys for to attain
God grant us all His grace,
And send us, after worldly pain,
In heaven to have a place;

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PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES.

Where we may still enjoy that light
Which never shall decay :

Lord, for Thy mercy, lend us might
To see that joyful day.

GASCOIGNE.

PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES.

WE

E are kindly things,

And like her offspring nestle with the dove,-
Witness these hearts embroidered on our wings
To shew our constant patronage of love :
We sit at even in sweet bow'rs above
Lovers, and shake rich odours on the air
To mingle with their sighs, and still remove
The startling owl, and bid the bat forbear
Their privacy, and haunt some other where.

And we are near the mother when she sits
Beside her infant in its wicker bed;

And we are in the fairy scene that flits
Across its tender brain; sweet dreams we shed,
And whilst the tender little soul is fled
Away, to sport with our young elves, the while
We touch the dimpled cheek with roses red,
And tickle the soft lips until they smile,
So that their careful parents they beguile.

T. HOOD.