28 JANUARY. 



flk 

 tiful is that passing view \> \;h Chaucer gives 



us of Emilia, in Palemon and Arcite ! 



Emily ere day 



Arose and dress'd herself in rich array ; 

 Fresh as the month, and as the morning fair, 

 Adown her shoulders fell her length of hair ; 

 A riband did the braided tresses bind, 

 The rest was loose and wantoned in the wind. 

 Aurora had but newly chased the night, 

 And purpled o'er the sky with blushing light, 

 When to the garden walk she took her way, 

 To sport and trip along in cool of day, 

 And offer maiden vows in honour of the May. 

 At every turn she made a little stand, 

 And thrust among the thorns her lily hand 

 To draw the rose ; and every rose she drew 

 She shook its stalk, and brush'd away the dew ; 

 Then party-colour flowers of white and red 

 She wove, to make a garland for her head ; 

 This done, she sung and caroll'd out so clear, 

 Then men and angels might rejoice to hear. 



But how much more beautiful is Milton's 

 picture of our first mother, pursuing her plea- 

 sant labours in the first garden, issuing from 

 her bower at Adam's call, 



Awake ! the morning shines, and the fresh field 

 Calls us ; we lose the prime to mark how spring 

 Our tender plants, how blows the citron grove, 

 What drops the myrrh, and what the balmy reed, 



