HER eyes the glow-worm lend thee,
The shooting stars attend thee;
And the elves also,

Whose little eyes glow

Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee!

No Will-o'-the-wisp mislight thee,
Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee!
But on, on thy way,

Not making a stay,

Since ghost there is none to affright thee.

Let not the dark thee cumber;
What though the moon does slumber?

The stars of the night

Will lend thee their light,

Like tapers clear without number.

Then Julia let me woo thee,
Thus, thus to come unto me;
And, when I shall meet
Thy silvery feet,

My soul I'll pour into thee.

R. Herrick.

THE LOVER TO THE GLOW-WORMS.

III

THE LOVER TO THE GLOW-WORMS.

YE living lamps! by whose dear light
The nightingale doth sit so late,

And, studying all the summer night,
Her matchless songs doth meditate!

Ye country comets! that portend
No war, nor prince's funeral,—
Shining unto no other end

Than to presage the grass's fall!

Ye glow-worms, whose officious flame
To wandering mowers shows the way,
That in the night have lost their aim,
And after foolish fires do stray-

Your courteous lights in vain you waste,
Since Juliana here is come;

For she my mind hath so displaced,
That I shall never find my home.

A. Marvell.

112

TO ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA.

TO ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA.

You meaner beauties of the night,
Which poorly satisfy our eyes
More by your number than your light,
You common people of the skies,
What are you, when the Moon shall rise?

Ye violets that first appear,

By your pure purple mantles known
Like the proud virgins of the year

As if the spring were all your own,-
What are you, when the Rose is blown?

Ye curious chanters of the wood

That warble forth dame Nature's lays,
Thinking your passions understood

By your weak accents; what's your praise
When Philomel her voice doth raise?

So when my Mistress shall be seen
In sweetness of her looks and mind,
By virtue first, then choice, a Queen,
Tell me, if she were not design'd
Th' eclipse and glory of her kind?

Sir H. Wotton.

THE ROSES IN CASTARA'S BOSOM.

113

THE ROSES IN CASTARA'S BOSOM.

YE blushing virgins happy are

In the chaste nunnery of her breasts,
For he'd profane so chaste a fair,
Who e'er should call them Cupid's nests.

Transplanted thus, how bright ye grow!
How rich a perfume do ye yield!
In some close garden, cowslips so
Are sweeter than i' the open field.

In those white cloisters live secure
From the rude blasts of wanton breath,
Each hour more innocent and pure,
Till you shall wither into death.

Then that which living gave you room,
Your glorious sepulchre shall be.
There wants no marble for a tomb
Whose breast hath marble been to me.

William Habington.

Elder Poets.

8

114

GO, HAPPY ROSE!

GO, HAPPY ROSE!

Go, happy Rose! and, interwove
With other flowers, bind my love!
Tell her, too, she must not be
Longer flowing, longer free,
That so oft hath fettered me.

Say, if she's fretful, I have bands
Of pearl and gold to bind her hands;
Tell her, if she struggle still,

I have myrtle rods at will,
For to tame, though not to kill.

Take then my blessing thus, and go,
And tell her this,-but do not so!
Lest a handsome anger fly,
Like a lightning from her eye.
And burn thee up, as well as I.

R. Herrick.