When once our heav'nly-guided soul shall climb,
Then, all this earthy grossness quit,
Attired with stars, we shall for ever sit,
Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee,

O Time.

VI.

UPON THE CIRCUMCISION.

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; 5
Now mourn, and if sad share with us to bear
Your fiery essence can distil no tear,
Burn in your sighs, and borrow
Seas wept from our deep sorrow :
He who with all Heav'n's heraldry whilere 10
Enter'd the world, now bleeds to give us ease ;
Alas, how soon our sin

Sore doth begin

His infancy to seize!
O more exceeding love, or law more just?

15
Just law indeed, but more exceeding love!
For we by rightful doom remediless
Were lost in death, till he that dwelt above
High throned in secret bliss, for us frail dust
Emptied his glory,' even to nakedness;

20 And that great covenant which we still transgress Entirely satisfied, And the full wrath beside Of vengeful Justice bore for our excess, And seals obedience first with wounding smart 25 This day, but O ere long Huge pangs and strong

Will pierce more near his heart. • Philip. ii. 7. In our translation, He made himself of no reputation, but Milton's expression, Emptied his glory, is nearer the original

=

VII.

AT A SOLEMN MUSIC.

BLEST pair of Sirens, pledges of Hear'n's joy,
Sphere-born harmonious sisters, Voice and Verse,
Wed your divine sounds, and mix'd pow'r employ,
Dead things with inbreath'd sense able to pierce,
And to our high-raised phantasy present

5
That undisturbed song of pure concert,
Ay sung before the sapphire-colour'd throne
To Hirn that sits thereon
With saintly shout, and solemn jubilee,
Where the bright seraphim in burning row 10
Their loud up-lifted angel-trumpets blow,
And the cherubic host in thousand quires
Touch their immortal harps of golden wires,
With those just spirits that wear victorious palms,
Hymns devout and holy psalms

15
Singing everlastingly;
That we on earth with undiscording voice
May rightly answer that melodious noise ;
As once we did, till disproportion's Sin
Jarr'd against Nature's chime, and with harsh din 20
Broke the fair music that all creatures made
To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway'd
In perfect diapason, whilst they stood,
In first obedience, and their state of good.
O may we soon again renew that song,

25
And keep in tune with Heav'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.

This rich marble doth inter
The honour'd wife of Winchester

6. Concent; from the Italian concento, harmony.
7. Ezek. i. 26.

14. Rev. vii. 9.
pason, a harmony running through the whole

scale of notes in every key.

5

10

15

20

A Viscount's daughter, an Earl's heir,
Besides what her virtues fair
Added to her noble birth,
More than she could own from eartb.
Summers three times eight 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 quire for her request
The god that sits at marriage feast;
He at their invoking came
But with a scarce well-lighted flame;
And in his garland as he stood
Ye might discern a cypress bud.
Once had the early matrous 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,
Saved with care from Winter'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,

25

30

25

40

And those pearls of dew she wears,
Prove to be presaging tears,
Which the sad Morn had let fall

45
On her hast'ning funeral.
Gentle Lady, may thy grave
Peace and quiet ever have;
After this thy travail sore
Sweet rest seize thee evermore,

50
That to give the world increase,
Shorten'd hast thy own life's lease.
Here, beside the sorrowing
That thy noble house doth brina,
Here be tears of perfect moan

55
Wept for thee in Helicon,
And some flowers, and some bays,
For thy hearse, to strow the ways,
Sent thee from the banks of Came,
Devoted to thy virtuous name;

60
Whilst thou, bright Saint, high sitst in g.ory,
Next her much like to thee in story,
That fair Syrian shepherdess
Who, after years of barrenness,
The highly-favour'd Joseph bore

65
To him that served for her before,
And at her next birth, much like thee,
Through pangs fled to felicity,
Far within the bosom bright
Of blazing Majesty and Light:

70
There with thee, new welcome Saint,
Like fortunes may her soul acquaint,
With thee there clad in radiant sheen,
No Marchioness, but now a Queen.

IX.

SONG.-ON MAY MORNING.
Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger,
Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her
The flow'ry May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose.

Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire
Mirth and youth and warm desire;

5

Woods and groves are of thy dressing,

Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

X.

ON SHAKSPEARE. 1630. What needs my Shakspeare for his honour'd bones The labour of an age in piled stones, Or that his hallow'd reliques should be hid Under a starry-sointing pyramid ? Dear son of Memory, great heir of Fame,

5 What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name ? Thou in our wonder and astonishment Hast built thyself a live-long monument. For whilst to th’ shame of slow-endeavouring Art Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart 10 Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book Those Delphic lines with deep impression took, Then thou our fancy of itself bereaving, Dost make us marble with too much conceiving ; And so sepulcher'd in such pomp dost lie,

15 That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.

XI