GAT

TO THE VIRGINS

ATHER ye rose-buds * while ye may:
Old Time is still a-flying;

And this same flower that smiles to-day,
To-morrow will be dying.

"Gather ye rose-buds." The idea underlying these beautiful lines was very probably suggested to Herrick by Tasso, who, some seventy years earlier, had thus written in his "Gerusalemme Liberata," Canto XVI:

Così trapassa al trapassar d' un giorno
Della vita mortale il fiore e il verde;
Nè, perché faccia indietro April ritorno,
Si rinfiora ella mai, nè si rinverde.
Cogliam la rosa in sul mattino adorno
Di questo dì, che tosto il seren perde;
Cogliam d'amor la rosa; amiamo or quando
Esser si puote riamato amando.

These lines may be translated as follows:

So passeth in the passing of a day
The flower and foliage of our mortal life;
Nor will it e'er grow green or bloom again
Though April comes with each returning spring.
Gather we roses in the morning's prime
Of this fair day that soon will fade to night;
Gather love's roses now, while yet we may
Hope in our loving to be loved again.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the Sun,

The higher he's a-getting,

The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best, which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times, still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time, And while ye may, go marry; For having lost but once your prime, You may for ever tarry.

Waller

SONG

Go, lovely Rose,

Tell her that wastes her time and me,

That now she knows,

When I resemble her to thee

How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,

And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung

In deserts where no men abide,

Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth

Of beauty from the light retired;

Bid her come forth,

Suffer herself to be desired,

And not blush so to be admired.

Then die, that she

The common fate of all things rare

May read in thee:

How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair.

O

Milton

TO THE NIGHTINGALE

NIGHTINGALE that on yon bloomy spray

Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still, Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill, While the jolly hours lead on propitious May. Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day, First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill, Portend success in love — O, if Jove's will Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay, Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate Foretell my hopeless doom, in some grove nigh; As thou from year to year hast sung too late For my relief, yet hadst no reason why.

Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate, Both them I serve, and of their train am I.

ON HIS BLINDNESS

WHEN I consider how my light is spent

WHEN

Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,

And that one talent,* which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more

bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide;
"Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his

state

Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,

And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait."

*"That one talent." See Matthew xxv. 14.