64 THE GOLDEN AGE. THE GOLDEN AGE. HAPPY that first White Age, when we Had effeminated men— No other meat, nor wine, had any SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA. Oh that at length our Age would raise Henry Vaughan. 65 SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA. WHERE the remote Bermudas ride And yet far kinder than our own? He lands us on a grassy stage, Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage: 66 SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA. He makes the figs our mouths to meet, And all the way, to guide their chime, PASTORAL. 67 PASTORAL. My banks they are furnished with bees And my hills are white over with sheep. Such health do my fountains bestowMy fountains all bordered with moss, Where the harebells and violets grow. Not a pine in my grove is there seen But a sweetbrier entwines it around. One would think she might like to retire 68 PASTORAL. From the plains, from the woodlands and groves, I have found out a gift for my fair I have found where the wood-pigeons breed; She will say 'twas a barbarous deed. I have heard her with sweetness unfold And she called it the sister of Love. Can a bosom so gentle remain Unmoved when her Corydon sighs? Soft scenes of contentment and ease! |