| What! neither flower nor cypress on thy grave |
|
|
| Bright was the moon as from thy gates I went |
|
|
| My Love she is a lowly but sweet flower |
|
|
| Sidney, thou star of beaming chivalry |
|
|
| And do I then behold again the scene |
|
|
| Lo! yonder barks that from the calm bay glide |
|
|
| If I were asked what most my soul doth prize |
|
|
| Why doth the tear, my soul, unbidden start |
|
|
| Sleep, infant Pilgrim! Over thee one bends |
|
|
| Divinest Poesy! without thy wings |
|
|