Nor lurking wild thyme's spicy sweet
To bathe in dew my roving feet:
Nor wants there note of Philomel,
Nor sound of distant tinkling bell:
Nor lowings faint of herds remote,
Nor mastiff's bark from bosom'd cot;
Rustle the breezes lightly borne
O'er deep embattled ears of corn:
Round ancient elm, with humming noise,
Full loud the chaffer swarms rejoice.
Meantime a thousand dyes invest
The ruby chambers of the west!
That all aslant the village tower
A mild reflected radiance pour,
While, with the level-streaming rays,
Far seen its arched windows blaze:
And the tall grove's green top is dight
In russet tints, and gleams of light:
So that the gay scene by degrees
Bathes my blithe heart in ecstacies;
And fancy to my ravish'd sight
Portrays her kindred visions bright.
At length the parting light subdues
My soften'd soul to calmer views;
And fainter shapes of pensive joy,
As twilight dawns, my mind employ,
Till from the path I fondly stray
In musing lapt, nor heed the way;
Wandering through the landscape still,
Till melancholy has her fill;
And on each moss-wove border damp
The glow-worm hangs his fairy lamp.-WARTON.
Byron sings the evening of Italian skies :
The Moon is up, and yet it is not night-
Sunset divides the sky with her—a sea
Of glory streams along the Alpine height
Of blue Friuli's mountains; heaven is free
From clouds, but of all colors seems to be,
Melted to one vast Iris of the west,
Where the day joins the past eternity;
While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest Floats through the azure air-an island of the blest!
A single star is at her side, and reigns
With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still
Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains
Roll'd o'er the peak of the far Rhætian hill,
As day and night contending were, until
Nature reclaimed her order :-gently flows
The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil
The odorous purple of a new-born rose,
Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within it glows.
Fill'd with the face of heaven, which from afar
Comes down upon the waters; all its hues,
From the rich sunset to the rising star,
Their magical variety diffuse:
And now they change; a paler shadow strews
Its mantle o'er the mountains; parting day
Dies like a dolphin, whom each pang imbues
With a new color as it gasps away,
The last still loveliest, till-'tis gone-and all is gray.-BYRON.
Brilliant as these stanzas are, the older poets have a more natural charm, to our taste:
Look, the world's comforter, with weary gait,
His day's hot task has ended in the west :
The owl, night's herald, shrieks,―tis very late;
The sheep are gone to fold, birds to their nest;
And coal-black clouds that shadow heaven's light
Do summon us to part, and bid good night.-SHAKSPEARE.
Shepherds all, and maidens fair,
Fold your flocks up, for the air
'Gins to thicken, and the sun
Already his great course hath run.
See the dew-drops, how they kiss
Ev'ry little flower that is;
Hanging on their velvet heads,
Like a rope of crystal beads.
See the heavy clouds low falling,
And bright Hesperus down calling
The dead Night from under ground;
At whose rising mists unsound,
Damps and vapors fly apace,
Hov'ring o'er the wanton face
Of these pastures, where they come,
Striking dead both bud and bloom;
Therefore, from such danger, lock
Ev'ry one his loved flock;
And let your dogs lie loose without,
Lest the wolf come as a scout
From the mountain, and, ere day,
Bear a lamb or kid away;
Or the crafty thievish fox
Break
upon your simple flocks.
To secure yourselves from these
Be not too secure in ease;
Let one eye his watches keep,
While the other eye doth sleep;
So you shall good shepherds prove,
And forever hold the love
Of our great God. Sweetest slumbers,
And soft silence, fall in numbers
On your eyelids! So, farewell!
Thus I end my evening's knell.-FLETCHER.
Look how the flower, which ling'ringly doth fade,
The morning's darling late, the summer's queen,
Spoil'd of that juice which kept it fresh and green,
As high as it did raise, bows low the head:
Right so the pleasures of my life being dead,
Or in their contraries but only seen,
With swifter speed declines than erst it spread,
And (blasted) scarce now shows what it hath been.
Therefore, as doth the pilgrim, whom the night
Hastes darkly to imprison on his way,
Think on thy home (my soul), and think aright
Of what's yet left thee of life's wasting day:
Thy sun posts westward, passed is thy morn,
And twice it is not given thee to be born.-DRUmmond.
Such time as from her mother's tender lap
The Night arose, guarded with gentle winds,
And with her precious dew refresh'd the sap
Of bloom, and dark (whilst that her mantle blinds
The veil of heaven), and every bird was still
Save Philomel, that did bemoan her ill:
When in the west Orion lift aloft
His stately crest, and smiled upon the Twins,
And Cynthia, serenely bright (whose eye full oft
Had watch'd her love), with radiant light begins
To pierce the veil of silence with her beams,
Sporting with wanton clear in ocean-streams.
When little winds, in beating of their wings,
Did woo the eyes to leave their constant walk,
And all was hush'd save Zephyrus, that sings
With lovely breathings for the sea-nymph's sake,
My wrathful griefs perplex my mind so sore
That forth I walk'd, my sorrows to deplore.-LODGE.
Now black-brow'd Night, placed in her chair of jet,
Sat wrapt in clouds within her cabinet,
And with her dusky mantle overspread
The path the sunny palfreys used to tread;
And Cynthia, sitting in crystal chair,
In all her pomp did ride along her sphere:
The honey'd dew descended in soft showers,
Drizzled in pearl upon the tender flowers,
And Zephyr hush'd, who, with a whispering gale,
Seemed to hearken to the nightingale,
Which in the thorny brakes, with her sweet song,
Unto the silent Night bewray'd her wrong.-DRAYTON.
Midnight was come, when every vital thing
With sweet sound sleep their weary limbs did rest;
The beasts were still, the little birds that sing
Now sweetly slept beside their mother's breast;
The old and all were shrouded in their rest,
The waters calm, the cruel seas did cease,
The woods, the fields, and all things, held their peace:
The golden stars were whirl'd amidst their race,
And on the earth did laugh with twinkling light,
When each thing, nestled in its resting-place,
Forgot day's pain with pleasure of the night;
The hare had not the greedy hounds in sight,
The fearful deer of death stood not in doubt,
The partridge dreamed not of the falcon's foot,
The ugly bear now minded not the stake,
Nor how the cruel mastiffs do her tear;
The stag lay still unroused from the brake,
The foamy boar fear'd not the hunter's spear;
All things were still in desert, bush, and brere:
The quiet heart, now from their travails rest,
Soundly they slept in most of all their rest.-SACKVILLE.
147.-COURT OF JAMES THE FIRST.
[THERE is a very curious collection of original papers, written at various times, from the reign of Henry VIII. to that of James I., entitled "Nugæ Antiquæ ;" and the most valuable of these miscellanies are the letters and tracts of Sir John Harrington. This very able courtier is principally known as the translator of Ariosto's “ Orlando Furioso ;" and the characteristic of his mind, which was that of a ready and genial wit, has been established by the custom of Queen Elizabeth to speak of him as "that witty fellow, my godson," or "that merry poet, my godson." The following extract from one of his letters exhib
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