But come on shore,

Where no joy dies 'till love hath gotten more.
For swelling waves, our panting breasts,
Where never storms arise,
Exchange; and be a while our guests;

For stars, gaze on our eyes;

The compass love shall hourly sing,
And, as he goes about the ring,

We will not miss

To tell each point he nameth with a kiss. Then come on shore,

Where no joy dies 'till love hath gotten more.

HENRY KING,

Bishop of Chichester, was born in 1591. He turned the Psalms into verse in 1651, and published in 1657 a small volume of Poems, Elegies, Paradoxes, and Sonnets. His Elegies are written on the deaths of Prince Henry, Sir Walter Raleigh, Gustavus Adolphus, Dr. Donne, and Ben Jonson, whom he laments as his dead friends, and some others; particularly his father, Dr. John King, bishop of London.

His poems are terse and elegant, but, like those of most of his contemporaries, deficient in simplicity. He died in

1669.

A DIRGE.

WHAT is th' existence of man's life?
But open war, or slumber'd strife?
Where sickness to his sense presents
The combat of the elements:

And never feels a perfect peace

Till death's cold hand signs his release.

It is a storm, where the hot blood
Outvies in rage the boiling flood:
And each loose passion of the mind
Is like a furious gust of wind,

Which beats his bark with many a wave Till he casts anchor in the grave.

It is a flow'r, which buds, and grows,
And withers as the leaves disclose;
Whose spring and fall, faint seasons keep,
Like fits of waking before sleep:
Then shrinks into that fatal mold,
Where its first being was enroll'd.

It is a dream, whose seeming truth
Is moralized in age and youth:
Where all the comforts he can share
As wand'ring as his fancies are;
Till in a mist of dark decay
The dreamer vanish quite away.

It is a dial, which points out
The sun-set, as it moves about;
And shadows out, in lines of night,
The subtle stages of time's flight,
Till all-obscuring earth hath laid
The body in perpetual shade.

It is a weary interlude,

Which doth short joys, long woes include;

The world the stage, the prologue, tears: The acts, vain hope, and varied fears. The scene shuts up with loss of breath, And leaves no epilogue but death.

TO PATIENCE.

Down! stormy passions, down! no more Let your rude waves invade the shore Where blushing reason sits, and hides

Her from the fury of your tides.

Fall, easy patience, fall, like rest,

Whose soft spells charm a troubled breast; And where those rebels you espy,

O! in your silken cordage tie

Their malice up! so shall I raise

Altars to thank your power, and praise
The sov'reign virtue of your balm, '

Which cures a tempest by a calm,

THE SURRENDER.

My once dear love, hapless that I no more
Must call thee so, the rich affection's store
That fed on hopes, lies now exhaust and spent,
Like sums of treasure unto bankrupts lent.
We, that did nothing study, but the way
To love each other, with which thoughts the day
Rose with delight to us, and with them set,
Must learn the hateful art, how to forget.
We, that did nothing wish that heav'n could give,
Beyond ourselves, nor did desire to live
Beyond that wish; all these now cancel must,
As if not writ in faith, but words, and dust.

Yet witness those clear vows which lovers make;
Witness the chaste desires that never brake
Into unruly hearts; witness that breast
Which in thy bosom anchor'd his whole rest;
"Tis no default in us, I dare acquite
Thy maiden faith, thy purpose fair and white
As thy pure self. Cross planets did envy
Us to each other, and heav'n did untie
Faster than vows could bind— * * *

** Like turtle doves

Dislodged from their haunts, we must in tears
Unwind a love, knit up in many years;