songs were never written than these wild and irregular ditties. Here are some of them. HYMN TO DIANA, IN CYNTHIA'S REVELS." Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, Seated in thy silver car, State in wonted manner keep. Hesperus entreats thy light, Goddess excellently bright! Earth, let not thy envious shade Heaven to clear, when day did close. Lay thy bow of pearl apart, And thy crystal shining quiver; Give unto the flying hart Space to breathe, how short soever. SONG, FROM THE SAME. Slow, slow fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears, List to the heavy part the music bears, Woe weeps out her division when she sings. Droop herbs and flowers, Fall grief in showers, Our beauties are not our's. OI could still (Like melting snow upon some craggy hill) Since summer's pride is now a withered daffodil. SONG OF NIGHT, IN THE MASQUE OF THE VISION OF DELIGHT." Break, Phantasie, from thy cave of cloud, And spread thy purple wings; Now all thy figures are allowed, And various shapes of things. It must have blood, and nought of phlegm ; Chorus. Yet let it like an odour rise And fall like sleep upon their Or music in their ear. eyes, CHORUS, FROM THE SAME. In curious knots and mazes so, As if the wind, not she, did walk, SONG, IN THE MASQUE OF BEAUTY." So Beauty on the waters stood When Love had severed Earth from Flood! So, when he parted Air from Fire, He did with concord all inspire! SONG, FROM THE SILENT WOMAN." (A lesson, dear ladies.) Still to be neat, still to be drest As you were going to a feast; Still to be powdered, still perfumed: Though art's hid causes are not found, Give me a look, give me a face They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. FROM A CELEBRATION OF CHARIS. See the chariot at hand here of Love, Each that draws is a swan or a dove, And well the car Love guideth. As she goes all hearts do duty Unto her beauty, And enamoured do wish that they might But enjoy such a sight, That they still were to run by her side Thorough swords, thorough seas wheresoever she would ride. Do but look on her eyes, they do light All that loves world compriseth! Do but look on her hair, it is bright As love's star, when it riseth! Do but mark, her forehead's smoother Than words that soothe her! And from her arched brows such a grace Sheds itself through the face, As alone there triumphs to the life All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife! Have you seen but a bright lily grow Before rude hands have touched it ? Have you Imarked but the fall o' the snow Before the soil hath smutched it? Ha' you felt the wool of the beaver, Or swan's down ever? Or have smelt o' the bud o' the briar? Or the nard in the fire? Or have tasted the bag of the bee? O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she! SONG. Oh! do not worship with those eyes, Lest I be sick with seeing! Nor cast them down, but let them rise, Lest shame destroy their being. Oh! be not angry with those fires For then my hopes will spill me. Nor spread them, as distract with fears, SONG TO CELIA. I should hardly perhaps have thought of inserting a song so familiar to every ear as the following, had I not, in turning over Jonson's huge volume, been reminded of a circumstance connected with it which greatly startled me at the moment. Milton talks of airs "married to immortal verse;" but it should seem that there is no marriage without an occasional divorce; for the last time I heard the well-known melody which belongs to this fine Anacreontic, as indissolubly as its own peculiar perfume to a flower, was in an Independent Chapel, where widely different words—the words of a hymn—were adapted to the air. It was John Wesley, I believe, who said that he saw no reason why Satan should have all the best tunes; and I should not lightly. impugn the wisdom of any axiom of John Wesley, who understood human nature as well as most men. But in this instance, such is the force of association, that I can scarcely say how strongly I felt the dis |