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Perfumes far sweeter than the best
Which make the Phænix' urn and nest.

Fear not your ships
Nor any to oppose you, save our lips;

But come on shore,
Where no joy dies, till love hath gotten more.

For swelling waves, our panting breasts,

Where never storms arise,
Exchange, and be awhile our guests,

For stars gaze on our eyes ;
The compass, love shall hourly sing,
And, as he goes about the ring,

We will not miss
To tell each point he nameth with a kiss ;

Then come on shore,
Where no joy dies, till love have gotten more.

Middle Temple, and published, in 1613, the first part of his “ Britannia's Pastorals," folio. In 1614 was published his “ Shepherd's pipe,” 8vo. (containing also the pirated edition of Wither, 1620,) and in 1616, the second part of the “ Pastorals.” Both parts were reprinted in 1625, 8vo. In 1624, he re. turned to Exeter College and became tutor to Robert Dormer, afterwards Earl of Cærnarvon. During his stay he was created A. M. being styled in the public register “ Vir omni humana literatura et bonarum artium cogni. tione instructus." He then went into the family of the Earl of Pembroke, obtained wealth, and purchased an estate, and is supposed to have died in 1645. See Wood (Ath. Ox. I. 491.) who says “ that as he had a little body, so a great mind.” We are indebted to Browne for having preserved in his "Shepherd's Pipe" a curious poem by Occleve. Mr. Warton conceives his works “to have been well known to Milton,” and refers to “ Britannia's Pastorals" for the same assemblage of circumstances in the morning land. scape as were brought together more than thirty years afterwards by Milton, in a passage of L'Allegro, which has been supposed to serve as a repository of imagery on that subject for all succeeding poets."

CCXX.

WEEP NOT FOR THE FALLEN BRAVE.

AIR."Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled."

Weep not for the fallen brave,
Mourn not those who died to save;
Hallow'd is the bloody grave

Where a Patriot lies.
His the loveliest wreath that fame
Ere shall twine for mortal name;
His the tale that long shall claim

Beauty's softest sighs.

Who that boasts a Briton's pride,
Who to heroes so allied,
Would not woo the death they died,

Crown'd by victory?
Who, that is a freeman's son,
Would not do as they have done;
Win with death, as they have won,

Europe's liberty,

Waterloo ! that morning field
Glitter'd

gay with spear and shield,
Barbed steed, and warrior steel'd,

Gallia's chivalry,
But night saw a sterner scene,
Blood was gushing on thy green,
Groans were heard, where shouts had been,

Joy and revelry.

Waterloo, thy field shall well
Mark where Britons fought and fell;
How they fought let foemen tell,

They that shrunk to see.
But they bled in freedom's cause,
Fought and feil for Europe's laws;
Nobly earn'd the world's applause

Bless their memory!

CCXXI.

WHEN FIRST UPON YOUR TENDER CHEEK.

When first upon your tender cheek,
I saw the morn of beauty break,

With mild and cheering beam,

* Tbe composition of Miss Aiken, now Mrs.Barbauld, the distinguished sis. ter of Dr. Aiken, who, by condescending, amidst more splendid efforts of intel.

I bow'd before your infant shrine,
The earliest sighs you had were mine,

And you my darling theme.

I saw you in that opening morn,
For beauty's boundless empire born,

And first confess'd your sway,
And ere your thoughts, devoid of art,
Could learn the value of a heart,

I gave my heart away.

I watch'd the dawn of every grace,
And gaz'd upon that angel face,

While yet 'twas safe to gaze;
And fondly bless'd each rising charm,
Nor thought that innocence could harm,

The peace of future days.

But now, despotic o'er the plains,
The awful noon of beauty reigns,

And kneeling crowds adore ;
These charms arise too fiercely bright,
Danger and death attend the sight,

And I must hope no more.

Ject, to write “Hymns in prose for children," has ensured to herself the respect and gratitude of every filial and parental heart.

Thus, to the rising god of day
Their early vows the Persians pay,

And bless the spreading fire,
Whose glowing chariot, mounting soon,
Pours on their heads the burning noon,

They sicken and expire.

CCXXII.

OH, ONCE THERE WERE MINUTES.

Oh, once there were minutes when light my heart beat,
Traversing the wild and the woodland retreat;
But there was a wild and a woodland I ween,
Whose bowers were to me ever lovely and green,
Where fancy, enamour'd, exultingly wove,
And twin'd the fair garland to Rosa and Love.

The gay hours of summer, pass'd lightly along,
The beam of the morning gave life to the song:
At eve, ’mid the choristers, lightly I trode,
Nor broke their repose, nor disturb’d their abode;
Fond fancy, enamour'd, exultingly wove,
And twin'd the fair garland to Rosa and Love.

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