UPON SUDDEN NEWS OF THE MUCH LAMENTED DEATH OF JUDGE TREVERS.

Learning and Law, your day is done, And your work too; you may be gone Trever, that lov'd you, hence is fled: And Right, which long lay sick, is dead. Trever! whose rare and envied part Was both a wise and winning heart, Whose sweet civilities could move Tartars and Goths to noblest love. Bold vice and blindness now dare act, And—like the grey groat—pass, though crack'd; While those sage lips lie dumb and cold, Whose words are well-weigh'd and tried gold. O, how much to discreet desires Differs pure light from foolish fires! But nasty dregs outlast the wine, And after sunset glow-worms shine.



TO ETESIA (FOR TIMANDER); THE FIRST SIGHT.

What smiling star in that fair night Which gave you birth gave me this sight, And with a kind aspect tho' keen Made me the subject, you the queen? That sparkling planet is got now Into your eyes, and shines below, Where nearer force and more acute It doth dispense, without dispute; For I who yesterday did know Love's fire no more than doth cool snow, With one bright look am since undone, Yet must adore and seek my sun. Before I walk'd free as the wind And if but stay'd—like it—unkind; I could like daring eagles gaze And not be blinded by a face; For what I saw till I saw thee, Was only not deformity. Such shapes appear—compar'd with thine— In arras, or a tavern-sign, And do but mind me to explore A fairer piece, that is in store. So some hang ivy to their wine, To signify there is a vine. Those princely flow'rs—by no storms vex'd— Which smile one day, and droop the next, The gallant tulip and the rose, Emblems which some use to disclose Bodied ideas—their weak grace Is mere imposture to thy face. For Nature in all things, but thee, Did practise only sophistry; Or else she made them to express How she could vary in her dress: But thou wert form'd, that we might see Perfection, not variety. Have you observ'd how the day-star Sparkles and smiles and shines from far; Then to the gazer doth convey A silent but a piercing ray? So wounds my love, but that her eyes Are in effects the better skies. A brisk bright agent from them streams Arm'd with no arrows, but their beams, And with such stillness smites our hearts, No noise betrays him, nor his darts. He, working on my easy soul, Did soon persuade, and then control; And now he flies—and I conspire— Through all my blood with wings of fire, And when I would—which will be never— With cold despair allay the fever, The spiteful thing Etesia names, And that new-fuels all my flames.



THE CHARACTER, TO ETESIA.

Go catch the ph[oe]nix, and then bring A quill drawn for me from his wing. Give me a maiden beauty's blood, A pure, rich crimson, without mud, In whose sweet blushes that may live, Which a dull verse can never give. Now for an untouch'd, spotless white, For blackest things on paper write, Etesia, at thine own expense Give me the robes of innocence. Could we but see a spring to run Pure milk, as sometimes springs have done, And in the snow-white streams it sheds, Carnations wash their bloody heads, While ev'ry eddy that came down Did—as thou dost—both smile and frown. Such objects, and so fresh would be But dull resemblances of thee. Thou art the dark world's morning-star, Seen only, and seen but from far; Where, like astronomers, we gaze Upon the glories of thy face, But no acquaintance more can have, Though all our lives we watch and crave. Thou art a world thyself alone, Yea, three great worlds refin'd to one; Which shows all those, and in thine eyes The shining East and Paradise. Thy soul—a spark of the first fire— Is like the sun, the world's desire; And with a nobler influence Works upon all, that claim to sense; But in summers hath no fever, And in frosts is cheerful ever. As flow'rs besides their curious dress Rich odours have, and sweetnesses, Which tacitly infuse desire, And ev'n oblige us to admire: Such, and so full of innocence Are all the charms, thou dost dispense; And like fair Nature without arts At once they seize, and please our hearts. O, thou art such, that I could be A lover to idolatry! I could, and should from heav'n stray, But that thy life shows mine the way, And leave a while the Deity To serve His image here in thee.



TO ETESIA LOOKING FROM HER CASEMENT AT THE FULL MOON.

See you that beauteous queen, which no age tames? Her train is azure, set with golden flames: My brighter fair, fix on the East your eyes, And view that bed of clouds, whence she doth rise. Above all others in that one short hour Which most concern'd me,[64] she had greatest pow'r. This made my fortunes humorous as wind, But fix'd affections to my constant mind. She fed me with the tears of stars, and thence I suck'd in sorrows with their influence. To some in smiles, and store of light she broke, To me in sad eclipses still she spoke. She bent me with the motion of her sphere, And made me feel what first I did but fear. But when I came to age, and had o'ergrown Her rules, and saw my freedom was my own, I did reply unto the laws of Fate, And made my reason my great advocate: I labour'd to inherit my just right; But then—O, hear Etesia!—lest I might Redeem myself, my unkind starry mother Took my poor heart, and gave it to another.

FOOTNOTES:

[64] The original has concerned in.



TO ETESIA PARTED FROM HIM, AND LOOKING BACK.

O, subtle Love! thy peace is war, It wounds and kills without a scar, It works unknown to any sense, Like the decrees of Providence, And with strange silence shoots me through, The fire of Love doth fell like snow. Hath she no quiver, but my heart? Must all her arrows hit that part? Beauties like heav'n their gifts should deal Not to destroy us, but to heal. Strange art of Love! that can make sound, And yet exasperates the wound: That look she lent to ease my heart, Hath pierc'd it, and improv'd the smart.



IN ETESIAM LACHRYMANTEM.

O Dulcis Iuctus, risuque potentior omni! Quem decorant lachrimis sidera tanta suis. Quam tacitae spirant aurae! vultusque nitentes Contristant veneres, collachrimantque suae! Ornat gutta genas, oculisque simillima gemma: Et tepido vivas irrigat imbre rosas. Dicite Chaldaei! quae me fortuna fatigat, [C?D?]um formosa dies et sine nube perit[65]?

FOOTNOTES:

[65] The original has peruit.



TO ETESIA GOING BEYOND SEA.

Go, if you must! but stay—and know And mind before you go, my vow. To ev'ry thing, but heav'n and you, With all my heart I bid adieu! Now to those happy shades I'll go Where first I saw my beauteous foe! I'll seek each silent path where we Did walk; and where you sat with me I'll sit again, and never rest Till I can find some flow'r you press'd. That near my dying heart I'll keep, And when it wants dew I will weep: Sadly I will repeat past joys And words, which you did sometimes voice I'll listen to the woods, and hear The echo answer for you there. But famish'd with long absence I, Like infants left, at last shall cry, And tears—as they do milk—will sup Until you come, and take me up.



ETESIA ABSENT.

Love, the world's life! what a sad death Thy absence is! to lose our breath At once and die, is but to live Enlarg'd, without the scant reprieve Of pulse and air; whose dull returns And narrow circles the soul mourns. But to be dead alive, and still To wish, but never have our will, To be possess'd, and yet to miss, To wed a true but absent bliss, Are ling'ring tortures, and their smart Dissects and racks and grinds the heart! As soul and body in that state Which unto us, seems separate, Cannot be said to live, until Reunion; which days fulfil And slow-pac'd seasons; so in vain Through hours and minutes—Time's long train— I look for thee, and from thy sight, As from my soul, for life and light. For till thine eyes shine so on me, Mine are fast-clos'd and will not see.



TRANSLATIONS.

SOME ODES OF THE EXCELLENT AND KNOWING [ANICIUS MANLIUS] SEVERINUS [BOETHIUS], ENGLISHED.



[DE CONSOLATIONE] LIB. III. METRUM XII.

Happy is he, that with fix'd eyes The fountain of all goodness spies! Happy is he that can break through Those bonds which tie him here below! The Thracian poet long ago, Kind Orpheus, full of tears and woe, Did for his lov'd Eurydice In such sad numbers mourn, that he Made the trees run in to his moan, And streams stand still to hear him groan. The does came fearless in one throng With lions to his mournful song, And charmed by the harmonious sound, The hare stay'd by the quiet hound. But when Love height'n'd by despair And deep reflections on his fair Had swell'd his heart, and made it rise And run in tears out at his eyes, And those sweet airs, which did appease Wild beasts, could give their lord no ease; Then, vex'd that so much grief and love Mov'd not at all the gods above, With desperate thoughts and bold intent, Towards the shades below he went; For thither his fair love was fled, And he must have her from the dead. There in such lines, as did well suit With sad airs and a lover's lute, And in the richest language dress'd That could be thought on or express'd, Did he complain; whatever grief Or art or love—which is the chief, And all ennobles—could lay out, In well-tun'd woes he dealt about. And humbly bowing to the prince Of ghosts begg'd some intelligence Of his Eurydice, and where His beauteous saint resided there. Then to his lute's instructed groans He sigh'd out new melodious moans; And in a melting, charming strain Begg'd his dear love to life again. The music flowing through the shade And darkness did with ease invade The silent and attentive ghosts; And Cerberus, which guards those coasts With his loud barkings, overcome By the sweet notes, was now struck dumb. The Furies, us'd to rave and howl And prosecute each guilty soul, Had lost their rage, and in a deep Transport, did most profusely weep. Ixion's wheel stopp'd, and the curs'd Tantalus, almost kill'd with thirst, Though the streams now did make no haste, But wait'd for him, none would taste. That vulture, which fed still upon Tityus his liver, now was gone To feed on air, and would not stay, Though almost famish'd, with her prey. Won with these wonders, their fierce prince At last cried out, "We yield! and since Thy merits claim no less, take hence Thy consort for thy recompense: But Orpheus, to this law we bind Our grant: you must not look behind, Nor of your fair love have one sight, Till out of our dominions quite." Alas! what laws can lovers awe? Love is itself the greatest law! Or who can such hard bondage brook To be in love, and not to look? Poor Orpheus almost in the light Lost his dear love for one short sight; And by those eyes, which Love did guide, What he most lov'd unkindly died! This tale of Orpheus and his love Was meant for you, who ever move Upwards, and tend into that light, Which is not seen by mortal sight. For if, while you strive to ascend, You droop, and towards Earth once bend Your seduc'd eyes, down you will fall Ev'n while you look, and forfeit all.



LIB. III. METRUM II.

What fix'd affections, and lov'd laws —Which are the hid, magnetic cause— Wise Nature governs with, and by What fast, inviolable tie The whole creation to her ends For ever provident she bends: All this I purpose to rehearse In the sweet airs of solemn verse. Although the Libyan lions should Be bound in chains of purest gold, And duly fed were taught to know Their keeper's voice, and fear his blow: Yet, if they chance to taste of blood, Their rage which slept, stirr'd by that food In furious roaring will awake, And fiercely for their freedom make. No chains nor bars their fury brooks, But with enrag'd and bloody looks They will break through, and dull'd with fear Their keeper all to pieces tear. The bird, which on the wood's tall boughs Sings sweetly, if you cage or house, And out of kindest care should think To give her honey with her drink, And get her store of pleasant meat, Ev'n such as she delights to eat: Yet, if from her close prison she The shady groves doth chance to see, Straightway she loathes her pleasant food, And with sad looks longs for the wood. The wood, the wood alone she loves! And towards it she looks and moves: And in sweet notes—though distant from— Sings to her first and happy home! That plant, which of itself doth grow Upwards, if forc'd, will downwards bow; But give it freedom, and it will Get up, and grow erectly still. The sun, which by his prone descent Seems westward in the evening bent, Doth nightly by an unseen way Haste to the East, and bring up day. Thus all things long for their first state, And gladly to't return, though late. Nor is there here to anything A course allow'd, but in a ring: Which, where it first began, must end, And to that point directly tend.



LIB. IV. METRUM VI.

Who would unclouded see the laws Of the supreme, eternal Cause, Let him with careful thoughts and eyes Observe the high and spacious skies. There in one league of love the stars Keep their old peace, and show our wars. The sun, though flaming still and hot, The cold, pale moon annoyeth not. Arcturus with his sons—though they See other stars go a far way, And out of sight—yet still are found Near the North Pole, their noted bound. Bright Hesper—at set times—delights To usher in the dusky nights: And in the East again attends To warn us, when the day ascends. So alternate Love supplies Eternal courses still, and vies Mutual kindness; that no jars Nor discord can disturb the stars.

The same sweet concord here below Makes the fierce elements to flow And circle without quarrel still, Though temper'd diversely; thus will The hot assist the cold; the dry Is a friend to humidity: And by the law of kindness they The like relief to them repay. The fire, which active is and bright, Tends upward, and from thence gives light. The earth allows it all that space And makes choice of the lower place; For things of weight haste to the centre, A fall to them is no adventure.

From these kind turns and circulation Seasons proceed, and generation. This makes the Spring to yield us flow'rs, And melts the clouds to gentle show'rs. The Summer thus matures all seeds And ripens both the corn and weeds. This brings on Autumn, which recruits Our old, spent store, with new fresh fruits. And the cold Winter's blust'ring season Hath snow and storms for the same reason. This temper and wise mixture breed And bring forth ev'ry living seed. And when their strength and substance spend —For while they live, they drive and tend Still to a change—it takes them hence And shifts their dress! and to our sense Their course is over, as their birth: And hid from us they turn to earth.

But all this while the Prince of life Sits without loss, or change, or strife: Holding the reins, by which all move —And those His wisdom, power, love And justice are—and still what He The first life bids, that needs must be, And live on for a time; that done He calls it back, merely to shun The mischief, which His creature might Run into by a further flight. For if this dear and tender sense Of His preventing providence, Did not restrain and call things back, Both heav'n and earth would go to rack, And from their great Preserver part; As blood let out forsakes the heart And perisheth, but what returns With fresh and brighter spirits burns.

This is the cause why ev'ry living Creature affects an endless being. A grain of this bright love each thing Had giv'n at first by their great King; And still they creep—drawn on by this— And look back towards their first bliss. For, otherwise, it is most sure, Nothing that liveth could endure: Unless its love turn'd retrograde Sought that First Life, which all things made.



LIB. IV. METRUM III.

If old tradition hath not fail'd, Ulysses, when from Troy he sail'd Was by a tempest forc'd to land Where beauteous Circe did command. Circe, the daughter of the sun, Which had with charms and herbs undone Many poor strangers, and could then Turn into beasts the bravest men. Such magic in her potions lay, That whosoever passed that way And drank, his shape was quickly lost. Some into swine she turn'd, but most To lions arm'd with teeth and claws; Others like wolves with open jaws Did howl; but some—more savage—took The tiger's dreadful shape and look. But wise Ulysses, by the aid Of Hermes, had to him convey'd A flow'r, whose virtue did suppress The force of charms, and their success: While his mates drank so deep, that they Were turn'd to swine, which fed all day On mast, and human food had left, Of shape and voice at once bereft; Only the mind—above all charms— Unchang'd did mourn those monstrous harms. O, worthless herbs, and weaker arts, To change their limbs, but not their hearts! Man's life and vigour keep within, Lodg'd in the centre, not the skin. Those piercing charms and poisons, which His inward parts taint and bewitch, More fatal are, than such, which can Outwardly only spoil the man. Those change his shape and make it foul, But these deform and kill his soul.



LIB. III. METRUM VI.

All sorts of men, that live on Earth, Have one beginning and one birth. For all things there is one Father, Who lays out all, and all doth gather. He the warm sun with rays adorns, And fills with brightness the moon's horns. The azur'd heav'ns with stars He burnish'd, And the round world with creatures furnish'd. But men—made to inherit all— His own sons He was pleas'd to call, And that they might be so indeed, He gave them souls of divine seed. A noble offspring surely then Without distinction are all men. O, why so vainly do some boast Their birth and blood and a great host Of ancestors, whose coats and crests Are some rav'nous birds or beasts! If extraction they look for, And God, the great Progenitor, No man, though of the meanest state, Is base, or can degenerate, Unless, to vice and lewdness bent, He leaves and taints his true descent.



THE OLD MAN OF VERONA OUT OF CLAUDIAN, [EPIGRAMMA II.]

Felix, qui propriis avum transegit in arvis, Una domus puerum, &c.

Most happy man! who in his own sweet fields Spent all his time; to whom one cottage yields In age and youth a lodging; who, grown old, Walks with his staff on the same soil and mould Where he did creep an infant, and can tell Many fair years spent in one quiet cell! No toils of fate made him from home far known, Nor foreign waters drank, driv'n from his own. No loss by sea, no wild land's wasteful war Vex'd him, not the brib'd coil of gowns at bar. Exempt from cares, in cities never seen, The fresh field-air he loves, and rural green. The year's set turns by fruits, not consuls, knows; Autumn by apples, May by blossom'd boughs. Within one hedge his sun doth set and rise, The world's wide day his short demesnes comprise; Where he observes some known, concrescent twig Now grown an oak, and old, like him, and big. Verona he doth for the Indies take, And as the Red Sea counts Benacus' Lake. Yet are his limbs and strength untir'd, and he, A lusty grandsire, three descents doth see. Travel and sail who will, search sea or shore; This man hath liv'd, and that hath wander'd more.



THE SPHERE OF ARCHIMEDES OUT OF CLAUDIAN, [EPIGRAMMA XVIII.]

Jupiter in parvo cum cerneret aethera vitro Risit, et ad superos, &c.

When Jove a heav'n of small glass did behold, He smil'd, and to the gods these words he told. "Comes then the power of man's art to this? In a frail orb my work new acted is, The poles' decrees, the fate of things, God's laws, Down by his art old Archimedes draws. Spirits inclos'd the sev'ral stars attend, And orderly the living work they bend. A feigned Zodiac measures out the year, Ev'ry new month a false moon doth appear. And now bold industry is proud, it can Wheel round its world, and rule the stars by man. Why at Salmoneus' thunder do I stand? Nature is rivall'd by a single hand."



THE PH[OE]NIX OUT OF CLAUDIAN, [IDYLL I.]

Oceani summo circumfluus aequore lucus Trans Indos, Eurumque viret, &c.

A grove there grows, round with the sea confin'd, Beyond the Indies and the Eastern wind, Which, as the sun breaks forth in his first beam, Salutes his steeds, and hears him whip his team; When with his dewy coach the Eastern bay Crackles, whence blusheth the approaching Day, And blasted with his burnish'd wheels the Night In a pale dress doth vanish from the light. This the bless'd Ph[oe]nix' empire is, here he, Alone exempted from mortality, Enjoys a land, where no diseases reign, And ne'er afflicted like our world with pain. A bird most equal to the gods, which vies For length of life and durance with the skies, And with renew'd limbs tires ev'ry age His appetite he never doth assuage With common food. Nor doth he use to drink When thirsty on some river's muddy brink. A purer, vital heat shot from the sun Doth nourish him, and airy sweets that come From Tethys lap he tasteth at his need; On such abstracted diet doth he feed. A secret light there streams from both his eyes, A fiery hue about his cheeks doth rise. His crest grows up into a glorious star Giv'n t' adorn his head, and shines so far, That piercing through the bosom of the night It rends the darkness with a gladsome light. His thighs like Tyrian scarlet, and his wings —More swift than winds are—have sky-colour'd rings Flow'ry and rich: and round about enroll'd Their utmost borders glister all with gold. He's not conceiv'd, nor springs he from the Earth, But is himself the parent, and the birth. None him begets; his fruitful death reprieves Old age, and by his funerals he lives. For when the tedious Summer's gone about A thousand times: so many Winters out, So many Springs: and May doth still restore Those leaves, which Autumn had blown off before; Then press'd with years his vigour doth decline, Foil'd with the number; as a stately pine Tir'd out with storms bends from the top and height Of Caucasus, and falls with its own weight, Whose part is torn with daily blasts, with rain Part is consum'd, and part with age again; So now his eyes grown dusky, fail to see Far off, and drops of colder rheums there be Fall'n slow and dreggy from them; such in sight The cloudy moon is, having spent her light. And now his wings, which used to contend With tempests, scarce from the low earth ascend. He knows his time is out! and doth provide New principles of life; herbs he brings dried From the hot hills, and with rich spices frames A pile, shall burn, and hatch him with its flames. On this the weakling sits; salutes the sun With pleasant noise, and prays and begs for some Of his own fire, that quickly may restore The youth and vigour, which he had before. Whom, soon as Ph[oe]bus spies, stopping his reins, He makes a stand and thus allays his pains. O thou that buriest old age in thy grave, And art by seeming funerals to have A new return of life, whose custom 'tis To rise by ruin, and by death to miss Ev'n death itself, a new beginning take, And that thy wither'd body now forsake! Better thyself by this thy change! This said He shakes his locks, and from his golden head Shoots one bright beam, which smites with vital fire The willing bird; to burn is his desire, That he may live again: he's proud in death, And goes in haste to gain a better breath. The spicy heap fir'd with celestial rays Doth burn the aged Ph[oe]nix, when straight stays The chariot of th' amazed moon; the pole Resists the wheeling swift orbs, and the whole Fabric of Nature at a stand remains, Till the old bird a new young being gains. All stop and charge the faithful flames, that they Suffer not Nature's glory to decay. By this time, life which in the ashes lurks Hath fram'd the heart, and taught new blood new works; The whole heap stirs, and ev'ry part assumes Due vigour; th' embers too are turn'd to plumes; The parent in the issue now revives, But young and brisk; the bounds of both these lives, With very little space between the same, Were parted only by the middle flame. To Nilus straight he goes to consecrate His parent's ghost; his mind is to translate His dust to Egypt. Now he hastes away Into a distant land, and doth convey The ashes in a turf. Birds do attend His journey without number, and defend His pious flight, like to a guard; the sky Is clouded with the army, as they fly. Nor is there one of all those thousands dares Affront his leader: they with solemn cares Attend the progress of their youthful king; Not the rude hawk, nor th' eagle that doth bring Arms up to Jove, fight now, lest they displease; The miracle enacts a common peace. So doth the Parthian lead from Tigris' side His barbarous troops, full of a lavish pride In pearls and habit; he adorns his head With royal tires: his steed with gold is led; His robes, for which the scarlet fish is sought, With rare Assyrian needle-work are wrought; And proudly reigning o'er his rascal bands, He raves and triumphs in his large commands. A city of Egypt, famous in all lands For rites, adores the sun; his temple stands There on a hundred pillars by account, Digg'd from the quarries of the Theban mount. Here, as the custom did require—they say— His happy parent's dust down he doth lay; Then to the image of his lord he bends And to the flames his burden straight commends. Unto the altars thus he destinates His own remains; the light doth gild the gates; Perfumes divine the censers up do send: While th' Indian odour doth itself extend To the Pelusian fens, and filleth all The men it meets with the sweet storm. A gale, To which compar'd nectar itself is vile, Fills the sev'n channels of the misty Nile. O happy bird! sole heir to thy own dust! Death, to whose force all other creatures must Submit, saves thee. Thy ashes make thee rise; 'Tis not thy nature, but thy age that dies. Thou hast seen all! and to the times that run Thou art as great a witness as the sun. Thou saw'st the deluge, when the sea outvied The land, and drown'd the mountains with the tide. What year the straggling Phaeton did fire The world, thou know'st. And no plagues can conspire Against thy life; alone thou dost arise Above mortality; the destinies Spin not thy days out with their fatal clue; They have no law, to which thy life is due.



PIOUS THOUGHTS AND EJACULATIONS.



TO HIS BOOKS.

Bright books! the perspectives to our weak sights, The clear projections of discerning lights, Burning and shining thoughts, man's posthume day, The track of fled souls, and their Milky Way, The dead alive and busy, the still voice Of enlarg'd spirits, kind Heav'n's white decoys! Who lives with you, lives like those knowing flow'rs, Which in commerce with light spend all their hours: Which shut to clouds, and shadows nicely shun, But with glad haste unveil to kiss the sun. Beneath you, all is dark, and a dead night, Which whoso lives in, wants both health and sight. By sucking you, the wise—like bees—do grow Healing and rich, though this they do most slow, Because most choicely; for as great a store Have we of books, as bees of herbs, or more: And the great task, to try, then know, the good. To discern weeds, and judge of wholesome food, Is a rare, scant performance: for man dies Oft ere 'tis done, while the bee feeds and flies. But you were all choice flow'rs, all set and drest By old sage florists, who well knew the best: And I amidst you all am turned a weed! Not wanting knowledge, but for want of heed. Then thank thyself, wild fool, that wouldst not be Content to know—what was too much for thee!



LOOKING BACK.

Fair shining mountains of my pilgrimage And flowery vales, whose flow'rs were stars, The days and nights of my first happy age; An age without distaste and wars! When I by thoughts ascend your sunny heads, And mind those sacred midnight lights By which I walk'd, when curtain'd rooms and beds Confin'd or seal'd up others' sights: O then, how bright, And quick a light Doth brush my heart and scatter night; Chasing that shade, Which my sins made, While I so spring, as if I could not fade! How brave a prospect is a bright back-side! Where flow'rs and palms refresh the eye! And days well spent like the glad East abide, Whose morning-glories cannot die!



THE SHOWER.

Waters above! eternal springs! The dew that silvers the Dove's wings! O welcome, welcome to the sad! Give dry dust drink; drink that makes glad! Many fair ev'nings, many flow'rs Sweeten'd with rich and gentle showers, Have I enjoy'd, and down have run Many a fine and shining sun; But never, till this happy hour, Was blest with such an evening-shower!



DISCIPLINE.

Fair Prince of Light! Light's living Well Who hast the keys of death and Hell! If the mole[66] man despise Thy day, Put chains of darkness in his way. Teach him how deep, how various are The counsels of Thy love and care. When acts of grace and a long peace, Breed but rebellion, and displease, Then give him his own way and will, Where lawless he may run, until His own choice hurts him, and the sting Of his foul sins full sorrows bring. If Heaven and angels, hopes and mirth, Please not the mole so much as earth: Give him his mine to dig, or dwell, And one sad scheme of hideous Hell.

FOOTNOTES:

[66] The original edition has mule.



THE ECLIPSE.

Whither, O whither didst thou fly When I did grieve Thine holy eye? When Thou didst mourn to see me lost, And all Thy care and counsels cross'd. O do not grieve, where'er Thou art! Thy grief is an undoing smart, Which doth not only pain, but break My heart, and makes me blush to speak. Thy anger I could kiss, and will; But O Thy grief, Thy grief, doth kill.



AFFLICTION.

O come, and welcome! come, refine! For Moors, if wash'd by Thee, will shine. Man blossoms at Thy touch; and he, When Thou draw'st blood is Thy rose-tree. Crosses make straight his crooked ways, And clouds but cool his dog-star days; Diseases too, when by Thee blest, Are both restoratives and rest. Flow'rs that in sunshines riot still, Die scorch'd and sapless; though storms kill, The fall is fair, e'en to desire, Where in their sweetness all expire. O come, pour on! what calms can be So fair as storms, that appease Thee?



RETIREMENT.

Fresh fields and woods! the Earth's fair face! God's footstool! and man's dwelling-place! I ask not why the first believer Did love to be a country liver? Who, to secure pious content, Did pitch by groves and wells his tent; Where he might view the boundless sky, And all those glorious lights on high, With flying meteors, mists, and show'rs, Subjected hills, trees, meads, and flow'rs, And ev'ry minute bless the King And wise Creator of each thing.

I ask not why he did remove To happy Mamre's holy grove, Leaving the cities of the plain To Lot and his successless train? All various lusts in cities still Are found; they are the thrones of ill, The dismal sinks, where blood is spill'd, Cages with much uncleanness fill'd: But rural shades are the sweet sense Of piety and innocence; They are the meek's calm region, where Angels descend and rule the sphere; Where Heaven lies leiguer, and the Dove Duly as dew comes from above. If Eden be on Earth at all, 'Tis that which we the country call.



THE REVIVAL.

Unfold! unfold! Take in His light, Who makes thy cares more short than night. The joys which with His day-star rise He deals to all but drowsy eyes; And, what the men of this world miss, Some drops and dews of future bliss.

Hark! how His winds have chang'd their note! And with warm whispers call thee out; The frosts are past, the storms are gone, And backward life at last comes on. The lofty groves in express joys Reply unto the turtle's voice; And here in dust and dirt, O here The lilies of His love appear!



THE DAY SPRING.

Early, while yet the dark was gay And gilt with stars, more trim than day, Heav'n's Lily, and the Earth's chaste Rose, The green immortal Branch arose; } And in a solitary place } S. Mark, Bow'd to His Father His blest face. } c. 1, v. 35- If this calm season pleased my Prince, Whose fulness no need could evince, Why should not I, poor silly sheep, His hours, as well as practice, keep? Not that His hand is tied to these, From whom Time holds his transient lease But mornings new creations are, When men, all night sav'd by His care, Are still reviv'd; and well He may Expect them grateful with the day. So for that first draught of His hand, } Which finish'd heav'n, and sea, and land, } Job, c. 38, The sons of God their thanks did bring, } v. 7- And all the morning stars did sing. } Besides, as His part heretofore The firstlings were of all that bore So now each day from all He saves Their soul's first thoughts and fruits He craves. This makes Him daily shed and show'r His graces at this early hour; Which both His care and kindness show, Cheering the good, quickening the slow. As holy friends mourn at delay, And think each minute an hour's stay, So His Divine and loving Dove With longing throes[67] doth heave and move, And soar about us while we sleep; Sometimes quite through that lock doth peep, And shine, but always without fail, Before the slow sun can unveil, In new compassions breaks, like light, And morning-looks, which scatter night. And wilt Thou let Thy creature be, When Thou hast watch'd, asleep to Thee? Why to unwelcome loath'd surprises Dost leave him, having left his vices? Since these, if suffer'd, may again Lead back the living to the slain. O, change this scourge; or, if as yet None less will my transgressions fit, Dissolve, dissolve! Death cannot do What I would not submit unto.

FOOTNOTES:

[67] The original has throws.



THE RECOVERY.

I.

Fair vessel of our daily light, whose proud And previous glories gild that blushing cloud; Whose lively fires in swift projections glance From hill to hill, and by refracted chance Burnish some neighbour-rock, or tree, and then Fly off in coy and winged flames again: If thou this day Hold on thy way, Know, I have got a greater light than thine; A light, whose shade and back-parts make thee shine. Then get thee down! then get thee down! I have a Sun now of my own.

II.

Those nicer livers, who without thy rays Stir not abroad, those may thy lustre praise; And wanting light—light, which no wants doth know— To thee—weak shiner!—like blind Persians bow. But where that Sun, which tramples on thy head, From His own bright eternal eye doth shed One living ray, There thy dead day Is needless, and man to a light made free, Which shows that thou canst neither show nor see. Then get thee down! then get thee down! I have a Sun now of my own.



THE NATIVITY.

Written in the year 1656.

Peace? and to all the world? Sure One, And He the Prince of Peace, hath none! He travels to be born, and then Is born to travel more again. Poor Galilee! thou canst not be The place for His Nativity. His restless mother's call'd away, And not deliver'd till she pay.

A tax? 'tis so still! we can see The Church thrive in her misery, And, like her Head at Beth'lem, rise, When she, oppress'd with troubles, lies. Rise?—should all fall, we cannot be In more extremities than He. Great Type of passions! Come what will, Thy grief exceeds all copies still. Thou cam'st from Heav'n to Earth, that we Might go from Earth to Heav'n with Thee: And though Thou found'st no welcome here, Thou didst provide us mansions there. A stable was Thy Court, and when Men turn'd to beasts, beasts would be men: They were Thy courtiers; others none; And their poor manger was Thy throne. No swaddling silks Thy limbs did fold, Though Thou couldst turn Thy rays to gold. No rockers waited on Thy birth, No cradles stirr'd, nor songs of mirth; But her chaste lap and sacred breast, Which lodg'd Thee first, did give Thee rest.

But stay: what light is that doth stream And drop here in a gilded beam? It is Thy star runs page, and brings Thy tributary Eastern kings. Lord! grant some light to us, that we May with them find the way to Thee! Behold what mists eclipse the day! How dark it is! Shed down one ray, To guide us out of this dark night, And say once more, "Let there be light!"



THE TRUE CHRISTMAS.

So, stick up ivy and the bays, And then restore the heathen ways. Green will remind you of the spring, Though this great day denies the thing; And mortifies the earth, and all But your wild revels, and loose hall. Could you wear flow'rs, and roses strow Blushing upon your breasts' warm snow, That very dress your lightness will Rebuke, and wither at the ill. The brightness of this day we owe Not unto music, masque, nor show, Nor gallant furniture, nor plate, But to the manger's mean estate. His life while here, as well as birth, Was but a check to pomp and mirth; And all man's greatness you may see Condemned by His humility.

Then leave your open house and noise, To welcome Him with holy joys, And the poor shepherds' watchfulness, Whom light and hymns from Heav'n did bless. What you abound with, cast abroad To those that want, and ease your load. Who empties thus, will bring more in; But riot is both loss and sin. Dress finely what comes not in sight, And then you keep your Christmas right.



THE REQUEST.

O thou who didst deny to me This world's ador'd felicity, And ev'ry big imperious lust, Which fools admire in sinful dust, With those fine subtle twists, that tie Their bundles of foul gallantry— Keep still my weak eyes from the shine Of those gay things which are not Thine! And shut my ears against the noise Of wicked, though applauded, joys! For Thou in any land hast store Of shades and coverts for Thy poor; Where from the busy dust and heat, As well as storms, they may retreat. A rock or bush are downy beds, When Thou art there, crowning their heads With secret blessings, or a tire Made of the Comforter's live fire. And when Thy goodness in the dress Of anger will not seem to bless, Yet dost Thou give them that rich rain, Which, as it drops, clears all again. O what kind visits daily pass 'Twixt Thy great self and such poor grass: With what sweet looks doth Thy love shine On those low violets of Thine, While the tall tulip is accurst, And crowns imperial die with thirst! O give me still those secret meals, Those rare repasts which Thy love deals! Give me that joy, which none can grieve, And which in all griefs doth relieve! This is the portion Thy child begs; Not that of rust, and rags, and dregs.



JORDANIS.

Quid celebras auratam undam, et combusta pyropis Flumina, vel medio quae serit aethra salo? Aeternum refluis si pernoctaret in undis Ph[oe]bus, et incertam sidera suda Tethyn Si colerent, tantae gemmae! nil caerula librem: Sorderet rubro in littore dives Eos. Pactoli mea lympha macras ditabit arenas, Atque universum gutta minuta Tagum. O caram caput! O cincinnos unda beatos Libata! O Domini balnea sancta mei! Quod fortunatum voluit spectare canalem, Hoc erat in laudes area parva tuas. Jordanis in medio perfusus flumine lavit, Divinoque tuas ore beavit aquas. Ah! Solyma infelix rivis obsessa prophanis! Amisit genium porta Bethesda suum. Hic Orientis aquae currunt, et apostata Parphar, Atque Abana immundo turbidus amne fluit, Ethnica te totam cum f[oe]davere fluenta, Mansit Christicola Jordanis unus aqua.



SERVILII FATUM, SIVE VINDICTA DIVINA.

Et sic in cithara, sic in dulcedine vitae Et facti et luctus regnat amarities. Quam subito in fastum extensos atque esseda[68] vultus Ultrici oppressit vilis arena sinu! Si violae, spiransque crocus: si lilium [Greek: aeinon] Non nisi justorum nascitur e cinere: Spinarum, tribulique atque infelicis avenae Quantus in hoc tumulo et qualis acervus erit? Dii superi! damnosa piis sub sidera longum Mansuris stabilem conciliate fidem! Sic olim in c[oe]lum post nimbos clarius ibunt, Supremo occidui tot velut astra die. Quippe ruunt horae, qualisque in corpore vixit, Talis it in tenebras bis moriturus homo.

FOOTNOTES:

[68] The original edition misprints essera.



DE SALMONE

Ad virum optimum, et sibi familiarius notum: D. Thomam Poellum Cantrevensem: S. S. Theologiae Doctorem.

Accipe praerapido salmonem in gurgite captum, Ex imo in summas cum penetrasset aquas, Mentitae culicis quem forma elusit inanis: Picta coloratis plumea musca notis. Dum captat, capitur; vorat inscius, ipse vorandus; Fitque cibi raptor grata rapina mali. Alma quies! miserae merces ditissima vitae, Quam tuto in tacitis hic latuisset aquis! Qui dum spumosi fremitus et murmura rivi Quaeritat, hamato sit cita praeda cibo, Quam grave magnarum specimen dant ludicra rerum? Gurges est mundus: salmo, homo: pluma, dolus.



THE WORLD.

Can any tell me what it is? Can you That wind your thoughts into a clue To guide out others, while yourselves stay in, And hug the sin? I, who so long have in it liv'd, That, if I might, In truth I would not be repriev'd, Have neither sight Nor sense that knows These ebbs and flows: But since of all all may be said, And likeliness doth but upbraid And mock the truth, which still is lost In fine conceits, like streams in a sharp frost; I will not strive, nor the rule break, Which doth give losers leave to speak. Then false and foul world, and unknown Ev'n to thy own, Here I renounce thee, and resign Whatever thou canst say is thine.

Thou art not Truth! for he that tries Shall find thee all deceit and lies, Thou art not Friendship! for in thee 'Tis but the bait of policy; Which like a viper lodg'd in flow'rs, Its venom through that sweetness pours; And when not so, then always 'tis A fading paint, the short-liv'd bliss Of air and humour; out and in, Like colours in a dolphin's skin; But must not live beyond one day, Or convenience; then away. Thou art not Riches! for that trash, Which one age hoards, the next doth wash And so severely sweep away, That few remember where it lay. So rapid streams the wealthy land About them have at their command; And shifting channels here restore, There break down, what they bank'd before. Thou art not Honour! for those gay Feathers will wear and drop away; And princes to some upstart line Gives new ones, that are full as fine. Thou art not Pleasure! for thy rose Upon a thorn doth still repose; Which, if not cropp'd, will quickly shed, But soon as cropp'd, grows dull and dead. Thou art the sand, which fills one glass, And then doth to another pass; And could I put thee to a stay, Thou art but dust! Then go thy way, And leave me clean and bright, though poor; Who stops thee doth but daub his floor; And, swallow-like, when he hath done, To unknown dwellings must be gone! Welcome, pure thoughts, and peaceful hours, Enrich'd with sunshine and with show'rs; Welcome fair hopes, and holy cares, The not to be repented shares Of time and business; the sure road Unto my last and lov'd abode! O supreme Bliss! The Circle, Centre, and Abyss Of blessings, never let me miss Nor leave that path which leads to Thee, Who art alone all things to me! I hear, I see, all the long day The noise and pomp of the broad way. I note their coarse and proud approaches, Their silks, perfumes, and glittering coaches. But in the narrow way to Thee I observe only poverty, And despis'd things; and all along The ragged, mean, and humble throng Are still on foot; and as they go They sigh, and say, their Lord went so. Give me my staff then, as it stood When green and growing in the wood; —Those stones, which for the altar serv'd, Might not be smooth'd, nor finely carv'd— With this poor stick I'll pass the ford, As Jacob did; and Thy dear word, As Thou hast dress'd it, not as wit And deprav'd tastes have poison'd it, Shall in the passage be my meat, And none else will Thy servant eat. Thus, thus, and in no other sort, Will I set forth, though laugh'd at for't; And leaving the wise world their way, Go through, though judg'd to go astray.



THE BEE.

From fruitful beds and flow'ry borders, Parcell'd to wasteful ranks and orders, Where State grasps more than plain Truth needs, And wholesome herbs are starv'd by weeds, To the wild woods I will be gone, And the coarse meals of great Saint John.

When truth and piety are miss'd Both in the rulers and the priest; When pity is not cold, but dead, And the rich eat the poor like bread; While factious heads with open coil And force, first make, then share, the spoil; To Horeb then Elias goes, And in the desert grows the rose. Hail crystal fountains and fresh shades, Where no proud look invades, No busy worldling hunts away The sad retirer all the day! Hail, happy, harmless solitude! Our sanctuary from the rude And scornful world; the calm recess Of faith, and hope, and holiness! Here something still like Eden looks; Honey in woods, juleps in brooks, And flow'rs, whose rich, unrifled sweets With a chaste kiss the cool dew greets, When the toils of the day are done, And the tir'd world sets with the sun. Here flying winds and flowing wells Are the wise, watchful hermit's bells; Their busy murmurs all the night To praise or prayer do invite, And with an awful sound arrest, And piously employ his breast.

When in the East the dawn doth blush, Here cool, fresh spirits the air brush; Herbs straight get up, flow'rs peep and spread, Trees whisper praise, and bow the head: Birds, from the shades of night releas'd, Look round about, then quit the nest, And with united gladness sing The glory of the morning's King. The hermit hears, and with meek voice Offers his own up, and their joys: Then prays that all the world may be Bless'd with as sweet an unity.

If sudden storms the day invade, They flock about him to the shade: Where wisely they expect the end, Giving the tempest time to spend; And hard by shelters on some bough Hilarion's servant, the sage crow.

O purer years of light and grace! The diff'rence is great as the space 'Twixt you and us, who blindly run After false fires, and leave the sun. Is not fair Nature of herself Much richer than dull paint or pelf? And are not streams at the spring-head More sweet than in carv'd stone or lead? But fancy and some artist's tools Frame a religion for fools.

The truth, which once was plainly taught, With thorns and briars now is fraught. Some part is with bold fables spotted, Some by strange comments wildly blotted; And Discord—old Corruption's crest— With blood and blame hath stain'd the rest. So snow, which in its first descents A whiteness, like pure Heav'n, presents, When touch'd by man is quickly soil'd, And after, trodden down and spoil'd.

O lead me, where I may be free In truth and spirit to serve Thee! Where undisturb'd I may converse With Thy great Self; and there rehearse Thy gifts with thanks; and from Thy store, Who art all blessings, beg much more. Give me the wisdom of the bee, And her unwearied industry! That from the wild gourds of these days, I may extract health, and Thy praise, Who canst turn darkness into light, And in my weakness show Thy might.

Suffer me not in any want To seek refreshment from a plant Thou didst not set; since all must be Pluck'd up, whose growth is not from Thee. 'Tis not the garden, and the bow'rs, Nor sense and forms, that give to flow'rs Their wholesomeness, but Thy good will, Which truth and pureness purchase still.

Then since corrupt man hath driv'n hence Thy kind and saving influence, And balm is no more to be had In all the coasts of Gilead; Go with me to the shade and cell, Where Thy best servants once did dwell. There let me know Thy will, and see Exil'd Religion own'd by Thee; For Thou canst turn dark grots to halls, And make hills blossom like the vales; Decking their untill'd heads with flow'rs, And fresh delights for all sad hours; Till from them, like a laden bee, I may fly home, and hive with Thee



TO CHRISTIAN RELIGION.

Farewell, thou true and tried reflection Of the still poor, and meek election: Farewell, soul's joy, the quick'ning health Of spirits, and their secret wealth! Farewell, my morning-star, the bright And dawning looks of the True Light! O blessed shiner, tell me whither Thou wilt be gone, when night comes hither! A seer that observ'd thee in Thy course, and watch'd the growth of sin, Hath giv'n his judgment, and foretold, That westward hence thy course will hold; And when the day with us is done, There fix, and shine a glorious sun. O hated shades and darkness! when You have got here the sway again, And like unwholesome fogs withstood The light, and blasted all that's good, Who shall the happy shepherds be, To watch the next nativity Of truth and brightness, and make way For the returning, rising day? O what year will bring back our bliss? Or who shall live, when God doth this? Thou Rock of Ages! and the Rest Of all, that for Thee are oppress'd! Send down the Spirit of Thy truth, That Spirit, which the tender youth, And first growths of Thy Spouse did spread Through all the world, from one small head! Then if to blood we must resist, Let Thy mild Dove, and our High-Priest, Help us, when man proves false or frowns, To bear the Cross, and save our crowns. O honour those that honour Thee! Make babes to still the enemy! And teach an infant of few days To perfect by his death Thy praise! Let none defile what Thou didst wed, Nor tear the garland from her head! But chaste and cheerful let her die, And precious in the Bridegroom's eye So to Thy glory and her praise, These last shall be her brightest days.

Revel[ation] chap. last, vers. 17. "The Spirit and the Bride say, Come."



DAPHNIS.

An Elegiac Eclogue. The Interlocutors, Damon, Menalcas.

Damon.

What clouds, Menalcas, do oppress thy brow, Flow'rs in a sunshine never look so low? Is Nisa still cold flint? or have thy lambs Met with the fox by straying from their dams?

Menalcas.

Ah, Damon, no! my lambs are safe; and she Is kind, and much more white than they can be. But what doth life when most serene afford Without a worm which gnaws her fairest gourd? Our days of gladness are but short reliefs, Giv'n to reserve us for enduring griefs: So smiling calms close tempests breed, which break Like spoilers out, and kill our flocks when weak. I heard last May—and May is still high Spring— The pleasant Philomel her vespers sing. The green wood glitter'd with the golden sun. And all the west like silver shin'd; not one Black cloud; no rags, nor spots did stain The welkin's beauty; nothing frown'd like rain. But ere night came, that scene of fine sights turn'd To fierce dark show'rs; the air with lightnings burn'd; The wood's sweet syren, rudely thus oppress'd, Gave to the storm her weak and weary breast. I saw her next day on her last cold bed: And Daphnis so, just so is Daphnis, dead!

Damon.

So violets, so doth the primrose, fall, At once the Spring's pride, and its funeral. Such easy sweets get off still in their prime, And stay not here to wear the soil of time; While coarser flow'rs, which none would miss, if past, To scorching Summers and cold Autumns last.

Menalcas.

Souls need not time. The early forward things Are always fledg'd, and gladly use their wings. Or else great parts, when injur'd, quit the crowd, To shine above still, not behind, the cloud. And is't not just to leave those to the night That madly hate and persecute the light? Who, doubly dark, all negroes do exceed, And inwardly are true black Moors indeed?

Damon.

The punishment still manifests the sin, As outward signs show the disease within. While worth oppress'd mounts to a nobler height, And palm-like bravely overtops the weight. So where swift Isca from our lofty hills With loud farewells descends, and foaming fills A wider channel, like some great port-vein With large rich streams to fill the humble plain: I saw an oak, whose stately height and shade, Projected far, a goodly shelter made; And from the top with thick diffused boughs In distant rounds grew like a wood-nymph's house. Here many garlands won at roundel-lays Old shepherds hung up in those happy days With knots and girdles, the dear spoils and dress Of such bright maids as did true lovers bless. And many times had old Amphion made His beauteous flock acquainted with this shade: His flock, whose fleeces were as smooth and white As those the welkin shows in moonshine night. Here, when the careless world did sleep, have I In dark records and numbers nobly high, The visions of our black, but brightest bard From old Amphion's mouth full often heard; With all those plagues poor shepherds since have known, And riddles more, which future time must own: While on his pipe young Hylas play'd, and made Music as solemn as the song and shade. But the curs'd owner from the trembling top To the firm brink did all those branches lop; And in one hour what many years had bred, The pride and beauty of the plain, lay dead. The undone swains in sad songs mourn'd their loss, While storms and cold winds did improve the cross; But nature, which—like virtue—scorns to yield, Brought new recruits and succours to the field; For by next spring the check'd sap wak'd from sleep, And upwards still to feel the sun did creep; Till at those wounds, the hated hewer made, There sprang a thicker and a fresher shade.

Menalcas.

So thrives afflicted Truth, and so the light When put out gains a value from the night. How glad are we, when but one twinkling star Peeps betwixt clouds more black than is our tar: And Providence was kind, that order'd this To the brave suff'rer should be solid bliss: Nor is it so till this short life be done, But goes hence with him, and is still his sun.

Damon.

Come, shepherds, then, and with your greenest bays Refresh his dust, who lov'd your learned lays. Bring here the florid glories of the spring, And, as you strew them, pious anthems sing, Which to your children and the years to come May speak of Daphnis, and be never dumb. While prostrate I drop on his quiet urn My tears, not gifts; and like the poor that mourn With green but humble turfs, write o'er his hearse For false, foul prose-men this fair truth in verse.

"Here Daphnis sleeps, and while the great watch goes Of loud and restless Time, takes his repose. Fame is but noise; all Learning but a thought; Which one admires, another sets at nought, Nature mocks both, and Wit still keeps ado: But Death brings knowledge and assurance too."

Menalcas.

Cast in your garlands! strew on all the flow'rs, Which May with smiles or April feeds with show'rs, Let this day's rites as steadfast as the sun Keep pace with Time and through all ages run; The public character and famous test Of our long sorrows and his lasting rest. And when we make procession on the plains, Or yearly keep the holiday of swains, Let Daphnis still be the recorded name, And solemn honour of our feasts and fame. For though the Isis and the prouder Thames Can show his relics lodg'd hard by their streams: And must for ever to the honour'd name Of noble Murrey chiefly owe that fame: Yet here his stars first saw him, and when Fate Beckon'd him hence, it knew no other date. Nor will these vocal woods and valleys fail, Nor Isca's louder streams, this to bewail; But while swains hope, and seasons change, will glide With moving murmurs because Daphnis died.

Damon.

A fatal sadness, such as still foregoes, Then runs along with public plagues and woes, Lies heavy on us; and the very light, Turn'd mourner too, hath the dull looks of night. Our vales, like those of death, a darkness show More sad than cypress or the gloomy yew; And on our hills, where health with height complied, Thick drowsy mists hang round, and there reside. Not one short parcel of the tedious year In its old dress and beauty doth appear. Flow'rs hate the spring, and with a sullen bend Thrust down their heads, which to the root still tend. And though the sun, like a cold lover, peeps A little at them, still the day's-eye sleeps. But when the Crab and Lion with acute And active fires their sluggish heat recruit, Our grass straight russets, and each scorching day Drinks up our brooks as fast as dew in May; Till the sad herdsman with his cattle faints, And empty channels ring with loud complaints.

Menalcas.

Heaven's just displeasure, and our unjust ways, Change Nature's course; bring plagues, dearth, and decays. This turns our lands to dust, the skies to brass, Makes old kind blessings into curses pass: And when we learn unknown and foreign crimes, Brings in the vengeance due unto those climes. The dregs and puddle of all ages now, Like rivers near their fall, on us do flow. Ah, happy Daphnis! who while yet the streams Ran clear and warm, though but with setting beams, Got through, and saw by that declining light, His toil's and journey's end before the night.

Damon.

A night, where darkness lays her chains and bars, And feral fires appear instead of stars. But he, along with the last looks of day, Went hence, and setting—sunlike—pass'd away. What future storms our present sins do hatch Some in the dark discern, and others watch; Though foresight makes no hurricane prove mild, Fury that's long fermenting is most wild. But see, while thus our sorrows we discourse, Ph[oe]bus hath finish'd his diurnal course; The shades prevail: each bush seems bigger grown; Darkness—like State—makes small things swell and frown: The hills and woods with pipes and sonnets round, And bleating sheep our swains drive home, resound.

Menalcas.

What voice from yonder lawn tends hither? Hark! 'Tis Thyrsis calls! I hear Lycanthe bark! His flocks left out so late, and weary grown, Are to the thickets gone, and there laid down.

Damon.

Menalcas, haste to look them out! poor sheep, When day is done, go willingly to sleep: And could bad man his time spend as they do, He might go sleep, or die, as willing too.

Menalcas.

Farewell! kind Damon! now the shepherd's star With beauteous looks smiles on us, though from far. All creatures that were favourites of day Are with the sun retir'd and gone away. While feral birds send forth unpleasant notes, And night—the nurse of thoughts—sad thoughts promotes: But joy will yet come with the morning light, Though sadly now we bid good night!

Damon.

Good night!



FRAGMENTS AND TRANSLATIONS.

From Eucharistica Oxoniensia in Caroli Regis nostri e Scotia Reditum Gratulatoria (1641).



[TO CHARLES THE FIRST.]

As kings do rule like th' heavens, who dispense To parts remote and near their influence; So doth our Charles move also; while he posts From south to north, and back to southern coasts; Like to the starry orb, which in its round Moves to those very points; but while 'tis bound For north, there is—some guess—a trembling fit And shivering in the part that's opposite. What were our fears and pantings, what dire fame Heard we of Irish tumults, sword, and flame! Which now we think but blessings, as being sent Only as matter, whereupon 'twas meant, The British thus united might express, The strength of joined Powers to suppress, Or conquer foes. This is Great Britain's bliss; The island in itself a just world is. Here no commotion shall we find or fear, But of the Court's removal, no sad tear Or cloudy brow, but when you leave us. Then Discord is loyalty professed, when Nations do strive, which shall the happier be T' enjoy your bounteous rays of majesty Which yet you throw in undivided dart, For things divine allow no share or part. The same kind virtue doth at once disclose The beauty of their thistle and our rose. Thus you do mingle souls and firmly knit What were but join'd before; you Scotsmen fit Closely with us, and reuniter prove; You fetch'd the crown before, and now their love.

H. Vaughan, Ies. Col.

From Of the Benefit we may get by our Enemies: translated from Plutarch (1651).



1. [HOMER. ILIAD, I. 255-6.]

Sure Priam will to mirth incline, And all that are of Priam's line.



2. [AESCHYLUS. SEPTEM CONTRA THEBES, 600-1.]

Feeding on fruits which in the heavens do grow, Whence all divine and holy counsels flow.



3. [EURIPIDES. ORESTES, 251-2.]

Excel then if thou canst, be not withstood, But strive and overcome the evil with good.



4. [EURIPIDES. FRAGM. MLXXI.]

You minister to others' wounds a cure, But leave your own all rotten and impure.



5. [EURIPIDES. CRESPHONTES, FRAGM. CCCCLV.]

Chance, taking from me things of highest price, At a dear rate hath taught me to be wise.



6. [INCERTI.]

[He] Knaves' tongues and calumnies no more doth prize Than the vain buzzing of so many flies.



7. [PINDAR. FRAGM. C.]

His deep, dark heart—bent to supplant— Is iron, or else adamant.



8. [SOLON. FRAGM. XV.]

What though they boast their riches unto us? Those cannot say that they are virtuous.

From Of the Diseases of the Mind and the Body: translated from Plutarch (1651).



1. [HOMER. ILIAD, XVII. 446-7.]

That man for misery excell'd All creatures which the wide world held.



2. [EURIPIDES. BACCHAE, 1170-4.]

A tender kid—see, where 'tis put— I on the hills did slay, Now dress'd and into quarters cut, A pleasant, dainty prey.

From Of the Diseases of the Mind and the Body: translated from Maximus Tyrius (1651).



1. [ARIPHRON.]

O health, the chief of gifts divine! I would I might with thee and thine Live all those days appointed mine!

From The Mount of Olives (1652).



1. [DEATH.]

Draw near, fond man, and dress thee by this glass, Mark how thy bravery and big looks must pass Into corruption, rottenness and dust; The frail supporters which betray'd thy trust. O weigh in time thy last and loathsome state! To purchase heav'n for tears is no hard rate. Our glory, greatness, wisdom, all we have, If mis-employ'd, but add hell to the grave: Only a fair redemption of evil times Finds life in death, and buries all our crimes.



2. [HADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL.]

My soul, my pleasant soul, and witty, The guest and consort of my body. Into what place now all alone Naked and sad wilt thou be gone? No mirth, no wit, as heretofore, Nor jests wilt thou afford me more.



3. [PAULINUS. CARM. APP. I. 35-40.]

What is't to me that spacious rivers run Whole ages, and their streams are never done? Those still remain: but all my fathers died, And I myself but for few days abide.



4. [ANEURIN. ENGLYNION Y MISOEDD, III. 1-4.]

In March birds couple, a new birth Of herbs and flow'rs breaks through the earth; But in the grave none stirs his head, Long is the impris'ment of the dead.



5. [INCERTI.]

So our decays God comforts by The stars' concurrent state on high.



6. [JUVENAL. SATIRE XIII. 86-8.]

There are that do believe all things succeed By chance or fortune: and that nought's decreed By a divine, wise Will; but blindly call Old Time and Nature rulers over all.



7. [INCERTI.]

From the first hour the heavens were made Unto the last, when all shall fade, Count—if thou canst—the drops of dew, The stars of heav'n and streams that flow, The falling snow, the dropping show'rs, And in the month of May, the flow'rs, Their scents and colours, and what store Of grapes and apples Autumn bore, How many grains the Summer bears, What leaves the wind in Winter tears; Count all the creatures in the world, The motes which in the air are hurl'd, The hairs of beasts and mankind, and The shore's innumerable sand, The blades of grass, and to these last Add all the years which now are past, With those whose course is yet to come, And all their minutes in one sum. When all is done, the damned's state Outruns them still, and knows no date.



8. [VIRGIL. GEORGICS, IV. 12-138.]

I saw beneath Tarentum's stately towers An old Cilician spend his peaceful hours. Some few bad acres in a waste, wild field, Which neither grass, nor corn, nor vines would yield, He did possess. There—amongst thorns and weeds— Cheap herbs and coleworts, with the common seeds Of chesboule or tame poppies, he did sow, And vervain with white lilies caused to grow. Content he was, as are successful kings, And late at night come home—for long work brings The night still home—with unbought messes laid On his low table he his hunger stay'd. Roses he gather'd in the youthful Spring, And apples in the Autumn home did bring: And when the sad, cold Winter burst with frost The stones, and the still streams in ice were lost, He would soft leaves of bear's-foot crop, and chide The slow west winds and ling'ring Summer-tide!



9. [VIRGIL. AENEID, III. 515.]

And rising at midnight the stars espied, All posting westward in a silent glide.



10. [VIRGIL. GEORGICS, II. 58.]

The trees we set grow slowly, and their shade Stays for our sons, while we—the planters—fade. From Man in Glory: translated from Anselm (1652).



1. [ANSELM.]

Here holy Anselm lives in ev'ry page, And sits archbishop still, to vex the age. Had he foreseen—and who knows but he did?— This fatal wrack, which deep in time lay hid, 'Tis but just to believe, that little hand Which clouded him, but now benights our land, Had never—like Elias—driv'n him hence, A sad retirer for a slight offence. For were he now, like the returning year, Restor'd, to view these desolations here, He would do penance for his old complaint, And—weeping—say, that Rufus was a saint.

From the Epistle-Dedicatory to Flores Solitudinis (1654).



1. [BISSELLIUS.]

The whole wench—how complete soe'er—was but A specious bait; a soft, sly, tempting slut; A pleasing witch; a living death; a fair, Thriving disease; a fresh, infectious air; A precious plague; a fury sweetly drawn; Wild fire laid up and finely dress'd in lawn.



2. [AUGURELLIUS.]

Peter, when thou this pleasant world dost see, Believe, thou seest mere dreams and vanity, Not real things, but false, and through the air Each-where an empty, slipp'ry scene, though fair. The chirping birds, the fresh woods' shady boughs, The leaves' shrill whispers, when the west wind blows, The swift, fierce greyhounds coursing on the plains, The flying hare, distress'd 'twixt fear and pains, The bloomy maid decking with flow'rs her head, The gladsome, easy youth by light love led; And whatsoe'er here with admiring eyes Thou seem'st to see, 'tis but a frail disguise Worn by eternal things, a passive dress Put on by beings that are passiveless.

From a Discourse Of Temperance and Patience: translated from Nierembergius (1654).



1. [INCERTI.]

The naked man too gets the field, And often makes the armed foe to yield.



2. [LUCRETIUS, IV. 1012-1020.]

[Some] struggle and groan as if by panthers torn, Or lions' teeth, which makes them loudly mourn; Some others seem unto themselves to die; Some climb steep solitudes and mountains high, From whence they seem to fall inanely down, Panting with fear, till wak'd, and scarce their own They feel about them if in bed they lie, Deceiv'd with dreams, and Night's imagery.

In vain with earnest strugglings they contend To ease themselves: for when they stir and bend Their greatest force to do it, even then most Of all they faint, and in their hopes are cross'd. Nor tongue, nor hand, nor foot will serve their turn, But without speech and strength within, they mourn.



3. [INCERTI.]

Thou the nepenthe easing grief Art, and the mind's healing relief.



4. [INCERTI.]

Base man! and couldst thou think Cato alone Wants courage to be dry? and but him, none? Look'd I so soft? breath'd I such base desires, Not proof against this Lybic sun's weak fires? That shame and plague on thee more justly lie! To drink alone, when all our troops are dry.

* * * * *

For with brave rage he flung it on the sand, And the spilt draught suffic'd each thirsty band



5. [INCERTI.]

[Death keeps off] And will not bear the cry Of distress'd man, nor shut his weeping eye



6. [MAXIMUS.]

It lives when kill'd, and brancheth when 'tis lopp'd.



7. [MAXIMUS.]

Like some fair oak, that when her boughs Are cut by rude hands, thicker grows; And from those wounds the iron made Resumes a rich and fresher shade.



8. [GREGORY NAZIANZEN.]

Patience digesteth misery.



9. [MARIUS VICTOR.]

——They fain would—if they might— Descend to hide themselves in Hell. So light Of foot is Vengeance; and so near to sin, That soon as done, the actors do begin To fear and suffer by themselves: Death moves Before their eyes; sad dens and dusky groves They haunt, and hope—vain hope which Fear doth guide!— That those dark shades their inward guilt can hide.



10. [INCERTI.]

But night and day doth his own life molest, And bears his judge and witness in his breast.



11. [THEODOTUS.]

Virtue's fair cares some people measure For poisonous works that hinder pleasure.



12. [INCERTI.]

Man should with virtue arm'd and hearten'd be, And innocently watch his enemy: For fearless freedom, which none can control, Is gotten by a pure and upright soul.



13. [INCERTI.]

Whose guilty soul, with terrors fraught, doth frame New torments still, and still doth blow that flame Which still burns him, nor sees what end can be Of his dire plagues, and fruitful penalty; But fears them living, and fears more to die; Which makes his life a constant tragedy.



14. [INCERTI.]

And for life's sake to lose the crown of life.



15. [INCERTI.]

Nature even for herself doth lay a snare, And handsome faces their own traitors are.



16. [MENANDER.]

True life in this is shown, To live for all men's good, not for our own.



17. [INCERTI.]

As Egypt's drought by Nilus is redress'd, So thy wise tongue doth comfort the oppress'd.



18. [INCERTI.]

[Like] to speedy posts, bear hence the lamp of life.



19. [DIONYSIUS LYRINENSIS.]

All worldly things, even while they grow, decay; As smoke doth, by ascending, waste away.



20. [INCERTI.]

To live a stranger unto life.

From a Discourse of Life and Death: translated from Nierembergius (1654).



1. [INCERTI.]

Whose hissings fright all Nature's monstrous ills; His eye darts death, more swift than poison kills. All monsters by instinct to him give place, They fly for life, for death lives in his face; And he alone by Nature's hid commands Reigns paramount, and prince of all the sands.



2. [INCERTI.]

The plenteous evils of frail life fill the old: Their wasted limbs the loose skin in dry folds Doth hang about: their joints are numb'd, and through Their veins, not blood, but rheums and waters flow. Their trembling bodies with a staff they stay, Nor do they breathe, but sadly sigh all day. Thoughts tire their hearts, to them their very mind Is a disease; their eyes no sleep can find.



3. [MIMNERMUS.]

Against the virtuous man we all make head, And hate him while he lives, but praise him dead.



4. [INCERTI.]

Long life, oppress'd with many woes, Meets more, the further still it goes.



5. [JUVENAL. SATIRE X. 278-286.]

What greater good had deck'd great Pompey's crown Than death, if in his honours fully blown, And mature glories he had died? those piles Of huge success, loud fame, and lofty styles Built in his active youth, long lazy life Saw quite demolish'd by ambitious strife. He lived to wear the weak and melting snow Of luckless age, where garlands seldom grow, But by repining Fate torn from the head Which wore them once, are on another shed.



6. [MENANDER. FRAGM. CXXVIII.]

Whom God doth take care for, and love, He dies young here, to live above.



7. [INCERTI.]

Sickness and death, you are but sluggish things, And cannot reach a heart that hath got wings.

From Primitive Holiness, set forth in the Life of Blessed Paulinus (1654).



1. [AUSONIUS. EPIST. XXIV. 115-16.]

Let me not weep to see thy ravish'd house All sad and silent, without lord or spouse, And all those vast dominions once thine own Torn 'twixt a hundred slaves to me unknown.



2. [AUSONIUS. EPIST. XXIII. 30-1; XXV. 5-9, 14, 17.]

How could that paper sent, That luckless paper, merit thy contempt? Ev'n foe to foe—though furiously—replies, And the defied his enemy defies. Amidst the swords and wounds, there's a salute, Rocks answer man, and though hard are not mute. Nature made nothing dumb, nothing unkind: The trees and leaves speak trembling to the wind. If thou dost fear discoveries, and the blot Of my love, Tanaquil shall know it not.



3. [PAULINUS. CARM. XI. 1-5; X. 189-92.]

Obdurate still and tongue-tied, you accuse —Though yours is ever vocal—my dull muse; You blame my lazy, lurking life, and add I scorn your love, a calumny most sad; Then tell me, that I fear my wife, and dart Harsh, cutting words against my dearest heart. Leave, learned father, leave this bitter course, My studies are not turn'd unto the worse; I am not mad, nor idle, nor deny Your great deserts, and my debt, nor have I A wife like Tanaquil, as wildly you Object, but a Lucretia, chaste and true.



4. [PAULINUS. CARM. XXXI. 581-2, 585-90, 601-2, 607-12.]

This pledge of your joint love, to heaven now fled, With honey-combs and milk of life is fed. Or with the Bethlem babes—whom Herod's rage Kill'd in their tender, happy, holy age— Doth walk the groves of Paradise, and make Garlands, which those young martyrs from him take. With these his eyes on the mild Lamb are fix'd, A virgin-child with virgin-infants mix'd. Such is my Celsus too, who soon as given, Was taken back—on the eighth day—to heaven To whom at Alcala I sadly gave Amongst the martyrs' tombs a little grave. He now with yours—gone both the blessed way— Amongst the trees of life doth smile and play; And this one drop of our mix'd blood may be A light for my Therasia, and for me.



5. [AUSONIUS. EPIST. XXV. 50, 56-7, 60-2.]

Sweet Paulinus, and is thy nature turn'd? Have I so long in vain thy absence mourn'd? Wilt thou, my glory, and great Rome's delight, The Senate's prop, their oracle, and light, In Bilbilis and Calagurris dwell, Changing thy ivory-chair for a dark cell? Wilt bury there thy purple, and contemn All the great honours of thy noble stem?



6. [PAULINUS. CARM. X. 110-331.]

Shall I believe you can make me return, Who pour your fruitless prayers when you mourn, Not to your Maker? Who can hear you cry, But to the fabled nymphs of Castaly? You never shall by such false gods bring me Either to Rome, or to your company. As for those former things you once did know, And which you still call mine, I freely now Confess, I am not he, whom you knew then; I have died since, and have been born again. Nor dare I think my sage instructor can Believe it error, for redeemed man To serve his great Redeemer. I grieve not But glory so to err. Let the wise knot Of worldlings call me fool; I slight their noise, And hear my God approving of my choice. Man is but glass, a building of no trust, A moving shade, and, without Christ, mere dust. His choice in life concerns the chooser much: For when he dies, his good or ill—just such As here it was—goes with him hence, and stays Still by him, his strict judge in the last days. These serious thoughts take up my soul, and I, While yet 'tis daylight, fix my busy eye Upon His sacred rules, life's precious sum Who in the twilight of the world shall come To judge the lofty looks, and show mankind The diff'rence 'twixt the ill and well inclin'd. This second coming of the world's great King Makes my heart tremble, and doth timely bring A saving care into my watchful soul, Lest in that day all vitiated and foul I should be found—that day, Time's utmost line, When all shall perish but what is divine; When the great trumpet's mighty blast shall shake The earth's foundations, till the hard rocks quake And melt like piles of snow; when lightnings move Like hail, and the white thrones are set above: That day, when sent in glory by the Father, The Prince of Life His blest elect shall gather; Millions of angels round about Him flying, While all the kindreds of the Earth are crying; And He enthron'd upon the clouds shall give His last just sentence, who must die, who live. This is the fear, this is the saving care That makes me leave false honours, and that share Which fell to me of this frail world, lest by A frequent use of present pleasures I Should quite forget the future, and let in Foul atheism, or some presumptuous sin. Now by their loss I have secur'd my life, And bought my peace ev'n with the cause of strife. I live to Him Who gave me life and breath, And without fear expect the hour of death. If you like this, bid joy to my rich state, If not, leave me to Christ at any rate.



7. [PAULINUS.]

And is the bargain thought too dear, To give for heaven our frail subsistence here? To change our mortal with immortal homes, And purchase the bright stars with darksome stones? Behold! my God—a rate great as His breath!— On the sad cross bought me with bitter death, Did put on flesh, and suffer'd for our good, For ours—vile slaves!—the loss of His dear blood.



8. [EPITAPH ON MARCELLINA.]

Life, Marcellina, leaving thy fair frame, Thou didst contemn those tombs of costly fame, Built by thy Roman ancestors, and liest At Milan, where great Ambrose sleeps in Christ. Hope, the dead's life, and faith, which never faints, Made thee rest here, that thou mayst rise with saints.



9. [PAULINUS. VERSUS APUD EPIST. XXXII. 3.]

You that to wash your flesh and souls draw near, Ponder these two examples set you here: Great Martin shows the holy life, and white, Paulinus to repentance doth invite; Martin's pure, harmless life, took heaven by force, Paulinus took it by tears and remorse; Martin leads through victorious palms and flow'rs, Paulinus leads you through the pools and show'rs; You that are sinners, on Paulinus look, You that are saints, great Martin is your book; The first example bright and holy is, The last, though sad and weeping, leads to bliss



10. [PAULINUS. VERSUS APUD EPIST. XXXII. 5.]

Here the great well-spring of wash'd souls with beams Of living light quickens the lively streams; The Dove descends, and stirs them with her wings, So weds these waters to the upper springs. They straight conceive; a new birth doth proceed From the bright streams by an immortal seed. O the rare love of God! sinners wash'd here Come forth pure saints, all justified and clear. So blest in death and life, man dies to sins, And lives to God: sin dies, and life begins To be reviv'd: old Adam falls away And the new lives, born for eternal sway.



11. [PAULINUS. VERSUS APUD EPIST. XXXII. 12.]

Through pleasant green fields enter you the way To bliss; and well through shades and blossoms may The walks lead here, from whence directly lies The good man's path to sacred Paradise.



12. [PAULINUS. VERSUS APUD EPIST. XXXII. 14.]

The painful cross with flowers and palms is crown'd, Which prove, it springs; though all in blood 'tis drown'd; The doves above it show with one consent, Heaven opens only to the innocent.



13. [PAULINUS. CARM. XXVII. 387-92.]

You see what splendour through the spacious aisle, As if the Church were glorified, doth smile. The ivory-wrought beams seem to the sight Engraven, while the carv'd roof looks curl'd and bright. On brass hoops to the upmost vaults we tie The hovering lamps, which nod and tremble by The yielding cords; fresh oil doth still repair The waving flames, vex'd with the fleeting air.



14. [PAULINUS. VERSUS APUD EPIST. XXXII. 17.]

The pains of Saints and Saints' rewards are twins, The sad cross, and the crown which the cross wins. Here Christ, the Prince both of the cross and crown, Amongst fresh groves and lilies fully blown Stands, a white Lamb bearing the purple cross: White shows His pureness, red His blood's dear loss. To ease His sorrows the chaste turtle sings, And fans Him, sweating blood, with her bright wings; While from a shining cloud the Father eyes His Son's sad conflict with His enemies, And on His blessed head lets gently down Eternal glory made into a crown. About Him stand two flocks of diff'ring notes, One of white sheep, and one of speckled goats; The first possess His right hand, and the last Stand on His left; the spotted goats are cast All into thick, deep shades, while from His right The white sheep pass into a whiter light.



15. [PAULINUS.]

Those sacred days by tedious Time delay'd, While the slow years' bright line about is laid, I patiently expect, though much distrest By busy longing and a love-sick breast. I wish they may outshine all other days; Or, when they come, so recompense delays As to outlast the summer hours' bright length; Or that fam'd day, when stopp'd by divine strength The sun did tire the world with his long light, Doubling men's labours, and adjourning night. As the bright sky with stars, the field with flow'rs, The years with diff'ring seasons, months and hours, God hath distinguished and mark'd, so He With sacred feasts did ease and beautify The working days: because that mixture may Make men—loth to be holy ev'ry day— After long labours, with a freer will, Adore their Maker, and keep mindful still Of holiness, by keeping holy days: For otherwise they would dislike the ways Of piety as too severe. To cast Old customs quite off, and from sin to fast Is a great work. To run which way we will, On plains is easy, not so up a hill. Hence 'tis our good God—Who would all men bring Under the covert of His saving wing— Appointed at set times His solemn feasts, That by mean services men might at least Take hold of Christ as by the hem, and steal Help from His lowest skirts, their souls to heal. For the first step to heaven is to live well All our life long, and each day to excel In holiness; but since that tares are found In the best corn, and thistles will confound And prick my heart with vain cares, I will strive To weed them out on feast-days, and so thrive By handfuls, 'till I may full life obtain, And not be swallow'd of eternal pain.



16. [PAULINUS (?). CARM. APP. I.]

Come, my true consort in my joys and care! Let this uncertain and still wasting share Of our frail life be giv'n to God. You see How the swift days drive hence incessantly, And the frail, drooping world—though still thought gay[69]— In secret, slow consumption wears away. All that we have pass from us, and once past Return no more; like clouds, they seem to last, And so delude loose, greedy minds. But where Are now those trim deceits? to what dark sphere Are all those false fires sunk, which once so shin'd, They captivated souls, and rul'd mankind? He that with fifty ploughs his lands did sow, Will scarce be trusted for two oxen now; His rich, loud coach, known to each crowded street, Is sold, and he quite tir'd walks on his feet. Merchants that—like the sun—their voyage made From East to West, and by wholesale did trade, Are now turn'd sculler-men, or sadly sweat In a poor fisher's boat, with line and net. Kingdoms and cities to a period tend; Earth nothing hath, but what must have an end; Mankind by plagues, distempers, dearth and war, Tortures and prisons, die both near and far; Fury and hate rage in each living breast, Princes with princes, States with States contest; An universal discord mads each land, Peace is quite lost, the last times are at hand. But were these days from the Last Day secure, So that the world might for more years endure, Yet we—like hirelings—should our term expect, And on our day of death each day reflect. For what—Therasia—doth it us avail That spacious streams shall flow and never fail, That aged forests hie to tire the winds, And flow'rs each Spring return and keep their kinds! Those still remain: but all our fathers died, And we ourselves but for few days abide. This short time then was not giv'n us in vain, To whom Time dies, in which we dying gain, But that in time eternal life should be Our care, and endless rest our industry. And yet this task, which the rebellious deem Too harsh, who God's mild laws for chains esteem, Suits with the meek and harmless heart so right That 'tis all ease, all comfort and delight. "To love our God with all our strength and will; To covet nothing; to devise no ill Against our neighbours; to procure or do Nothing to others, which we would not to Our very selves; not to revenge our wrong; To be content with little, not to long For wealth and greatness; to despise or jeer No man, and if we be despised, to bear; To feed the hungry; to hold fast our crown; To take from others naught; to give our own," —These are His precepts: and—alas!—in these What is so hard, but faith can do with ease? He that the holy prophets doth believe, And on God's words relies, words that still live And cannot die; that in his heart hath writ His Saviour's death and triumph, and doth yet With constant care, admitting no neglect, His second, dreadful coming still expect: To such a liver earthy things are dead, With Heav'n alone, and hopes of Heav'n, he's fed, He is no vassal unto worldly trash, Nor that black knowledge which pretends to wash, But doth defile: a knowledge, by which men With studied care lose Paradise again. Commands and titles, the vain world's device, With gold—the forward seed of sin and vice— He never minds: his aim is far more high, And stoops to nothing lower than the sky. Nor grief, nor pleasures breed him any pain, He nothing fears to lose, would nothing gain, Whatever hath not God, he doth detest, He lives to Christ, is dead to all the rest. This Holy One sent hither from above A virgin brought forth, shadow'd by the Dove; His skin with stripes, with wicked hands His face And with foul spittle soil'd and beaten was; A crown of thorns His blessed head did wound. Nails pierc'd His hands and feet, and He fast bound Stuck to the painful Cross, where hang'd till dead, With a cold spear His heart's dear blood was shed. All this for man, for bad, ungrateful man, The true God suffer'd! not that suff'rings can Add to His glory aught, Who can receive Access from nothing, Whom none can bereave Of His all-fulness: but the blest design Of His sad death was to save me from mine: He dying bore my sins, and the third day His early rising rais'd me from the clay. To such great mercies what shall I prefer, Or who from loving God shall me deter? Burn me alive, with curious, skilful pain, Cut up and search each warm and breathing vein; When all is done, death brings a quick release, And the poor mangled body sleeps in peace. Hale me to prisons, shut me up in brass, My still free soul from thence to God shall pass. Banish or bind me, I can be nowhere A stranger, nor alone; my God is there. I fear not famine; how can he be said To starve who feeds upon the Living Bread? And yet this courage springs not from my store, Christ gave it me, Who can give much, much more I of myself can nothing dare or do, He bids me fight, and makes me conquer too. If—like great Abr'ham—I should have command To leave my father's house and native land, I would with joy to unknown regions run, Bearing the banner of His blessed Son. On worldly goods I will have no design, But use my own, as if mine were not mine; Wealth I'll not wonder at, nor greatness seek, But choose—though laugh'd at—to be poor and meek. In woe and wealth I'll keep the same staid mind, Grief shall not break me, nor joys make me blind: My dearest Jesus I'll still praise, and He Shall with songs of deliv'rance compass me. Then come, my faithful consort! join with me In this good fight, and my true helper be; Cheer me when sad, advise me when I stray, Let us be each the other's guide and stay; Be your lord's guardian: give joint aid and due, Help him when fall'n, rise, when he helpeth you, That so we may not only one flesh be, But in one spirit and one will agree.