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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,
Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose ;
Bless us then with wished sight,
Lay thy bow of pearl apart,
And thy crystal shining quiver ;
Thou that mak'st a day of night,
SONG, FROM THE SAME.
Slow, slow fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears,
Yet slower, yet, О faintly, gentle springs !
Woe weeps out her division when she sings.
Droop herbs and flowers,
O I could still
Drop, drop, drop, drop,
THE VISION OF
SONG OF NIGHT, IN THE MASQUE OF
Break, Phantasie, from thy cave of cloud,
And spread thy purple wings;
And various shapes of things.
To all the senses here,
Or music in their ear.
CHORUS, FROM THE SAME.
In curious knots and mazes so,
The Idalian brawls, and so to tread
So Beauty on the waters stood
Still to be neat, still to be drest
Give me a look, give me a face
FROM A CELEBRATION OF CHARIS.
See the chariot at hand here of Love,
Wherein my lady rideth;
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 !
As love's star, when it riseth!
Than words that soothe her!
Sheds itself through the face,
Have you seen but a bright lily grow
Before rude hands have touched it ? Have
marked 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 the nard in the fire ?
Oh! do not worship with those eyes,
Lest I be sick with seeing !
Lest shame destroy their being.
Oh! be not angry with those fires
For then their threats will kill me;
For then my hopes will spill me.
For so will sorrow slay me;
Mine own enough betray me.
SONG TO CELIA.
I should hardly perbaps 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