A flower that dies, when first it 'gins to bud;
A brittle glass that's broken presently;
A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower,
Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour,

And as goods lost are seld, or never found,
As faded gloss no rubbing will refresh,
As flowers dead, lie wither'd on the ground,
As broken glass no cement can redress,
So beauty blemish'd once, for ever's lost,
In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost.

Beauty and truth combined are not inefficiently celebrated by our poet in the following elegant outburst of sentiment and feeling:

Oh, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem,
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem,
For that sweet odour which doth in it live.

SONG.

IN TWELFTH NIGHT.'

Come away, come away, death,

And in sad cypress let me be laid;

Fly away, fly away, breath,

I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O prepare it!

My part of death no one so true

Did share it.

Not a flower, not a flower sweet,

On my black coffin let there be strewn;
Not a friend, not a friend greet

My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown:
A thousand thousand sighs to save,

Lay me, O! where

Sad true lover never find my grave,

Το

weep there!

Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,

Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must
As chimney-sweepers come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o' the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat,

To thee the reed is as the oak.
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor th' all-dreaded thunder stone;

Fear not slander, censure rash,
Thou hast finished joy and moan.
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

No exorcisor harm thee!

Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have,
And renowned be thy grave!

This song was chanted over the supposed dead body of Fidele, (so called) by Guiderius and Arviragus. These young men had just before exhibited their sympathy towards their strange, but to them, most interesting object. We give a portion of their discourse:

Gui.

Why, he but sleeps;
If he be gone, he'll make his grave a bed;
With female fairies will his tomb be haunted,
And worms will not come to thee.

Arv.

With fairest flowers,

Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele,
I'll sweeten thy sad grave: Thou shalt not lack
The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose; nor
The azured hare-bell, like thy veins; no, nor
The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander,
Out-sweeten'd not thy breath: the ruddock would
With charitable bill, (O bill, sore shaming
Those rich left heirs, that let their fathers lie
Without a monument!) bring thee all this;

Yea, and furr'd moss besides, when flowers are none, To winter-ground thy corse.

Is it not from these passages that the poet Collins has derived some of those beautiful thoughts which are so elegantly embodied in the following lines? The piece which we believe may be here subjoined without any apology, we extract from the works of Collins. It is thus entitled:

DIRGE IN CYMBELINE.'

Sung by Guiderius and Arviragus over Fidele, supposed to be dead.

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Each opening sweet of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks his quiet grove;
But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.

No wither'd witch shall here be seen;
No goblins lead their nightly crew :
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew.

The redbreast oft, at evening hours,
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gather'd flowers,

To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempests shake the sylvan cell;
Or 'midst the chase, on every plain,
The tender thought on thee shall dwell;

Each lovely scene shall thee restore;
For thee the tear be duly shed,
Beloved, till life could charm no more,
And mourn'd till Pity's self be dead.

SONG OF FAIRIES.

BY PUCK IN MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.

Now the hungry lion roars,

And the wolf behowls the moon,
Whilst the heavy ploughman snores,
All with weary task foredone.
Now the wasted brands do glow;

Whilst the screech-owl, screeching loud,

Puts the wretch, that lies in woe,
In remembrance of a shroud.
Now it is the time of night

That the graves, all gaping wide,
Every one lets forth his sprite,
In the churchway paths to glide:
And we fairies, that do run

By the triple Hecate's team,

From the presence of the sun,
Following darkness like a dream,