And whilst I wish to be retired,
Into this private room I'm turn'd,
As if their wisdom had conspired

The salamander should be burn'd:

Or, like those sophists who would drown a fish, I am condemn'd to suffer what I wish.

The cynic hugs his poverty,
The pelican her wilderness,
And 'tis the Indian's pride to be

Naked on frosty Caucasus:
Contentment feels no smart-stoics we see
Make torments easy by their apathy.

I'm in this cabinet lock'd up,

Like some high-prized Margarite;
Or, like some great Mogul or Pope,
I'm cloister'd up from public sight:-
Retiredness is part of majesty,

And thus, proud Sultan, I'm as great as thee!

These manacles upon mine arm,
I as my mistress' favours wear;
And for to keep my ancles warm,

I have some iron shackles there :-
These walls are but my garrison-this cell-
Which men call jail-is but my citadel.

Thus he that struck at Jason's life,
Thinking to make his purpose sure,
By a malicious friendly knife

Did only wound him to his cure:

Malice, we see, wants wit for what is meant ; Mischief oft-times proves favour by the event.

Altho' I cannot see my king,
Neither in person, nor in coin,
Yet contemplation is a thing,

That renders what I have not mine:-
My king from me no adamant can part,
Whom I do wear engraven in my heart.

Have you not heard the nightingale, A prisoner close kept in a cage, How she doth chaunt her woeful tale In that her narrow hermitage?Ev'n that her melody doth plainly prove, Her boughs are trees, her cage a pleasant grove.

I am that bird which they combine

Thus to deprive of liberty;

And though my corpse they can confine,
Yet maugre that my soul is free:---
Tho' I'm mur'd up, yet I can chirp and sing,
Disgrace to rebels !-glory to my king!

My soul is free as is the ambient air
Which doth my outward parts include,
Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair
To company my solitude:-

What tho' they do with chains my body bind,
My king can only captivate my mind.

THE GARLAND.

A SONG.

THE pride of ev'ry grove I chose,
The violet sweet and lily fair,
The dappled pink, and blushing rose,
To deck my charming Chloe's hair.

At morn, the nymph vouchsaf'd to place
Upon her brow the various wreath;
The flow'rs less blooming than her face,
The scent less fragrant than her breath.

The flow'rs she wore along the day;

And ev'ry nymph and shepherd said,
That in her hair they look'd more gay

Than glowing in their native bed.

Undrest at ev'ning, when she found Their colours lost, their odours past, She chang'd her look, and on the ground Her garland and her eye she cast.

That eye dropt sense distinct and clear,
As any muses tongue could speak;
When from its lid a pearly tear

Ran trickling down her beauteous cheek.

Dissembling what I knew too well—
My love, my life, said I, explain
This change of humour, prythee tell,
That falling tear, what does it mean ?

She sigh'd, she smil'd; and to the flow'rs
Pointing, the lovely moralist said,
See, friend, in some few fleeting hours,
See yonder what a change is made!

Ah, me! the blooming pride of May,
And that of beauty are but one;
At noon, both flourish bright and gay,

Both fade at ev❜ning, pale and gone.

At dawn poor Stella danc'd and sung,
The am'rous youth around her bow'd;
At night her fatal knell was rung,
I saw, and kiss'd her in her shroud.

Such as she is who died to day,
Such I, alas! may be to-morrow!
Go, Damon, bid thy muse display
The justice of thy Chloe's sorrow.

Prior.

ON A TUFT OF EARLY VIOLETS.

SWEET flowers! that from your humble beds
Thus prematurely dare to rise,

And trust your unprotected heads
To cold, unfriendly, wat'ry skies;

Retire, retire! these tepid airs

Are not the genial breath of May; That sun with warmth malignant glares, And flatters only to betray.

Stern Winter's reign is not yet past,

Lo! while your buds prepare to blow,

On icy pinions comes the blast,

And nips your root, and lays you low.

Alas, from such ungentle doom!

But I will shield you; and supply A kindlier soil on which to bloom, A nobler bed on which to die.

P