ODE XXX.— THE DEDICATION OF GLYCERA'S CHAPEL .

O Venus! Queen of Cyprus isle,
Of Paphos and of Gnidus,
Hie from thy favourite haunts awhile,
And make abode amid us;
Glycera's altar for thee smokes,
With frankincense sweet-smelling—
Thee, while the charming maid invokes,
Hie to her lovely dwelling!

Let yon bright Boy, whose hand hath grasped
Love's blazing torch, precede thee,
While gliding on, with zone unclasped,
The sister Graces lead thee:
Nor be thy Nymph-attendants missed:
Nor can it harm thy court, if

Ode XXV.

'Tis the last rose of summer
Left blooming alone—
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone!

No flower of her kindred,
No rose-bud, is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou come one,
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go sleep thou with them.

Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o'er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow
When friendships decay

To the Summer Haunt of Laura.

Sweet fountain of Vaucluse!
The virgin freshness of whose crystal bed
The ladye, idol of my soul! hath led
Within thy wave her fairy bath to choose!
And thou, O favourite tree!
Whose branches she loved best
To shade her hour of rest —
Her own dear native land's green mulberry!
Roses, whose earliest bud

I am the Nymph Confidence : —
I drive away distrust and doubt,
That into homes like serpents crawl;
And jealousy, that coils about
The heart and turns the blood to gall.
Mine are the true and loving eyes,
Through which one looks in on the Soul,
The loyal troth that Time defies,
The faith that can mistrust control.
Here I abide, a constant guest,
With Peace and Love, and sweet Content;
By us this home shall still be blest,
Beyond the reach of accident.

I am the life of the household,
The Love of the husband and wife,
The love between parents and children,
The love that is dearer than life.
Eyes by me lighted grow brighter,
Hearts by me warmed are glad,
Homes where I live are lighter,
And sorrowing souls less sad.
When the bridal flowers have withered,
I do not pine away,
My flowers bloom and are gathered
In November as in May.
They fade not, this home perfuming,
As they did so long ago
Here they shall still be blooming,
When Winter brings his snow.

SLEEP.

But come to me, O Sleep! I love thy spell,
Although thy waving mirror hath no power
To stay the visions of the midnight hour,
Or, like the certain shapes of day, compel
The forms that haunt the shade of memory's cell
To stand before me. Come and bring thy dreams!
I love to see the dim and wavering gleams,
As journeying downward to thy mystic dell,
I stand beside thy deep and shadowy lake;
Still let me come and wander at thy will,
Through summer woods, by stream and sunny hill,

Old Time is a pilgrim — with onward course
He journeys for months, for years;
But the trav'ller to-day must halt perforce —
Behold, a broad river appears!
" Pass me over, " Time cried; " O! tarry not,
For I count each hour with my glass:
Ye whose skiff is moored to yon pleasant spot —
Young maidens, old Time come pass! "

Many maids saw with pity, upon the bank,
The old man with his glass in grief;
Their kindness, he said, he would ever thank,
If they'd row him across in their skiff.
While some wanted Love to unmoor the bark,

ACT V.

SCENE I. The same .

Enter HOLOFERNES , SIR NATHANIEL , and DULL .

Hol. Satis quod sufficit.
Nath. I praise God for you, sir: your reasons at dinner have been sharp and sententious: pleasant without scurrility, witty, without affection, audacious without impudency, learned without opinion, and strange without heresy. I did converse this quondam day with a companion of the king's, who is intituled, nominated or called, Don Adriano de Armado.

ACT IV.

Scene I. The same .

Enter the Princess, and her train, a Forester, BOYET , ROSALINE , MARIA , and KATHARINE .

Prin. Was that the king, that spurr'd his horse so hard
Against the steep uprising of the hill?
Boyet. I know not; but I think it was not he.
Prin. Whoe'er a was, a' show'd a mounting mind.
Well, lords, to-day we shall have our dispatch:
On Saturday we will return to France.
Then, forester, my friend, where is the bush
That we must stand and play the murderer in?
For. Hereby, upon the edge of yonder coppice;

ACT III.

Scene I. The same .

Enter ARMADO and MOTH .

Arm. Warble, child; make passionate my sense of hearing.
Moth. Concolinel.
Arm. Sweet air! Go, tenderness of years; take this key, give enlargement to the swain, bring him festinately hither: I must employ him in a letter to my love.
Moth. Master, will you win your love with a French brawl?
Arm. How meanest thou? brawling in French?