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FLY, envions Time, till thou run out thy race ;
Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,
Whose speed is but the heavy plummet's pace;
And glut thyself with wbat thy womb devours,
Which is no more than what is false and vain,
And merely mortal dross;
So little is our loss,
So little is thy gain!
For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb’d,
And last of all thy greedy self consum'd,
Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss
With an individual kiss;
And Joy shall overtake us as a flood,
When every thing that is sincerely good
And perfectly divine,
With truth, and peace, and love, shall ever shine
About the supreme throne
Of hin, ť whose happy-making siglit alone
When once our heav'nly-guided soul shall climb;
Then, all this earthly grossness quit,

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* In these poems where no date is prefixed, and no circumstances direct is to ascertain the time when they were composed, we follow the order of Milton's own editions. And before this copy of verses, it appears from the manuscript, that the poet had written To be set on a clock-case.

Attir'd with stars, we shall forever sit,
Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee, o Time.

VI.

UPON THE CIRCUMCISION.

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Ye flaming Pow'rs, and winged Warriors bright,
That erst with music, and triumphant song,
First heard by happy watchful shepherds' ear,
So sweetly sung your joy the clouds along
Through the soft silence of the list’ning night;
Now mouro; and, if sad share with us to bear
Yanr fiery essence can distil no tear,
Burn in your sighs and borrow
Seas wept from our deep sorrow:
He, wbo with all Heav'n's-heraldry whilere
Enter'd the world, now bleeds to give us ease;
Als, how snon our sin
Sore doth begin

His infancy to seize!
Owore exceeding love, or law more just?
Just luw iunieed, but more exceeding love!
For we, by rightsul doom remediless,
Were lost in death, till he that dwelt above
High thron'd in secret bliss, for us frail dust
Emptied his glory, ev'n to jakodness
And that great covenant which we still transgress
Eutirely satisfied;
And the full wrath beside
Of vengetit jarine böre for our excess;
Aud seals obedience arst; with woundiný sínart,

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This day; but 0, ere long, fluge pangs and strong

Will pierce more near his heart.

VII.

AT A SOLEMN MUSIC.

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BLEST pair of Syrens, pledges of Heav'n's joy,
Sphere born harmonious sisters, Voice and Verse,
Wed
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divine sounds, and mix'd pow'r employ
Dead thiugs with inbreath'd sense able to pierce;
And to our high-rais'd phantasy present
That undisturb’d song of pure consent,
Aye sung before the sapphire-colour'd throne
To hin that sits thereon,
With saintly shout, and solemn jubilee;
Where the bright Seraphim, in burning row,
Their loud-uplifted angel-trumpets blow;
And the cherubic host, in thousand quires,
Tonch their immortal harps of golden wires,
With those just Spirits that wear victorious palms,
Hymns devout and holy psalms
Singing everlastingly:
That we on earth, with undiscording voice,
May rightly answer that melodious noise;
As once we did, till disproportion'd sin
Jarr'd against nature's chime, and with harsh din
Broke the fair music that all creatures made
To their great lord, whose love their motion sway'd
Iq perfect diapason, whilst they stood

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In first obedience, and their state of good.
O may we soon again renew that song,
And keep in tune with Ileav'n, till God ere long
To his celestial consort us unite,
To live with him, and sing in endless morn of light.

VIII.

AN EPITAPH

ON THE

MARCHIONESS OF WINCHESTER,

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TAIS rich marble doth inter
The honour'd wife of Winchester,
A viscount's danghter, an earl's heir,
Besides what her virtues fair
Added to her noble birth,
More than she could own from earth.
Summers three times cight save one
She had told; alas ! too soon,
After so short time of breath,
To house with darkness, and with death.
Yet had the number of her days
Been as complete as was her praise,
Nature and Fate had had no strife
In giving limit to her life.

Her high birth and her graces sweet,
Quickly found a lover meet;
The virgin qnire for her request
The God that sits at marriage feast;

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He at their invoking caine,
But with a scarce well-lighted flame;
Aud in his garland, as he stood;
Ye might discern a cypress hud.
Once had th: early matrons run
To greet her of a lovely son,
And now with second hope she goes,
And calls Lucina to her throes ;
But, whether by mischance or blame
Atropos for Lucina came;
And with remorseless cruelty
Spoil'd at once both fruit and tree :
The hapless babe, before his birth,
Had burial, yet not laid in earth;
And the languish'd mother's womb
Was not long a living tomb.

So have I seen some tender slip
Sav'd with care from wiąter's nip,
The pride of her carnation train,
Pluck'd up by some unheedy swain,
Who only thought to crop the flow'r
New shot up from vernal show'r;
But the fair blossom hangs the head
Side-ways as on a dying bed,
And those pearls of dew she wears;
Prove to be presaging tears,
Which the sad morn had let fall
On her hast’ning funeral.

Gentle lady, may thy grave
Peace and quiet ever have ;
After this thy travel sore
Siveet rest seize thee evermore,

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