THE DIRGE OF JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER.

O thou, the wonder of all days!
O paragon, and pearl of praise!
O Virgin-martyr, ever blest

Above the rest

Of all the maiden-train! We come,
And bring fresh strewings to thy tomb.

Thus, thus, and thus, we compass round
Thy harmless and unhaunted ground;
And as we sing thy dirge, we will
The daffadil,

And other flowers, lay upon

The altar of our love, thy stone.

Thou wonder of all maids, liest here,
Of daughters all, the dearest dear;
The eye of virgins; nay, the queen
Of this smooth green,

And all sweet meads, from whence we get
The primrose and the violet.

Too soon, too dear did Jephthah buy,

By thy sad loss, our liberty;

His was the bond and cov'nant, yet
Thou paid'st the debt;

Lamented Maid! he won the day:
But for the conquest thou didst pay.

Thy father brought with him along
The olive branch and victor's song;
He slew the Ammonites, we know,
But to thy woe;

And in the purchase of our peace,
The cure was worse than the disease.

For which obedient zeal of thine,
We offer here, before thy shrine,
Our sighs for storax, tears for wine;
And to make fine

And fresh thy hearse-cloth, we will here
Four times bestrew thee every year.

Receive, for this thy praise, our tears;
Receive this offering of our hairs;

Receive these crystal vials, fill'd
With tears, distill'd

From teeming eyes; to these we bring,
Each maid, her silver filleting,

To gild thy tomb; besides, these cauls,
These laces, ribbons, and these falls,
These veils, wherewith we use to hide
The bashful bride,

When we conduct her to her groom;
All, all we lay upon thy tomb.

No more, no more, since thou art dead,
Shall we e'er bring coy brides to bed;
No more, at yearly festivals,

We, cowslip balls,

Or chains of columbines shall make,
For this or that occasion's sake.

No, no; our maiden pleasures be
Wrapt in the winding-sheet with thee;
'Tis we are dead, though not i' th' grave;
Or if we have

One seed of life left, 'tis to keep

A Lent for thee, to fast and weep.

Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice,

And make this place all paradise;

May sweets grow here, and smoke from hence Fat frankincense;

Let balm and cassia send their scent

From out thy maiden-monument.

May no wolf howl, or screech owl stir
A wing about thy sepulchre !

No boisterous winds or storms come hither,
To starve or wither

Thy soft sweet earth; but, like a spring,
Love keep it ever flourishing.

May all shy maids, at wonted hours,
Come forth to strew thy tomb with flowers;
May virgins, when they come to mourn,
Male-incense burn

Upon thine altar; then return,
And leave thee sleeping in thy urn.

ODE TO ENDYMION PORTER.

Not all thy flushing suns are set,
Herrick, as yet;

Nor doth this far-drawn hemisphere
Frown and look sullen everywhere;
Days may conclude in nights, and suns may rest
As dead within the West,

Yet the next morn regild the fragrant East.

Alas! for me! that I have lost
E'en all, almost !

Sunk is my sight, set is my sun,

And all the loom of life undone;

The staff, the elm, the prop, the sheltering wall
Whereon my vine did crawl,

Now, now blown down; needs must the old stock fall.

Yet, Porter, while thou keep'st alive,
In death I thrive,

And like a Phoenix re-aspire

From out my nard and funeral fire, And as I prime my feathered youth, so I Do marvell how I could die

When I had thee, my chief preserver, by.

I'm up, I'm up, and bless that hand,
Which makes me stand

Now as I do, and, but for thee,

I must confess, I could not be ;
The debt is paid, for he who doth resign
Thanks to the generous Vine,

Invites fresh grapes to fill his press with wine.

WHAT LOVE IS.

Love is a circle, that doth restless move
In the same sweet eternity of Love.

There, in calm and cooling sleep,
We our eyes shall never steep,
But eternal watch shall keep,
Attending

Pleasures such as shall pursue
Me immortalized, and you;
And fresh joys, as never too
Have ending.

MUSIC.

Charm me asleep, and melt me so
With thy delicious numbers,
That being ravish'd, hence I go
Away in easy slumbers.

Ease my sick head,

And make my bed,

Thou Power that canst sever

From me this ill;—

And quickly still,

Though thou not kill

My fever.

Thou sweetly canst convert the same

From a consuming fire,

Into a gentle-licking flame,

And make it thus expire.

Then make me weep
My pains asleep,

And give me such reposes,
That I, poor I,

May think, thereby,

I live and die

'Mongst roses.

Fall on me like a silent dew,

Or like those maiden showers,

Which, by the peep of day, do strew A baptism o'er the flowers.