Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,
Where the great Vision of the guarded Mount, Looks tow'rd Namancos and Bayona's hold; Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth.
Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more, For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor; So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky; So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,
Through the dear might of Him that walk'd the waves Where other groves and other streams along, With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, And hears th' unexpressive nuptial song, In the bless'd kingdoms meek of joy and love. There entertain him all the saints above, In solemn troops, and sweet societies, That, singing, in their glory move,
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more; Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore, In thy large recompense, and shalt be good To all that wander in that perilous flood.
Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills, While the still morn went out with sandals gray, He touch'd the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay: And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills, And now was dropp'd into the western bay; At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue: To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.
ON THE NEW FORCERS OF CONSCIENCE UNDER THE LONG PARLIAMENT.*
BECAUSE you have thrown off your Prelate-Lord, And with stiff vow renounc'd his Liturgy, To seize the widow'd whore Plurality From them whose sin ye envied, not abhorr'd; Dare ye for this abjure the civil sword
To force our consciences that Christ set free And ride us with a classic hierarchy,† Taught ye by mere A. S. and Rotherford ? Men whose life, learning, faith and pure intent, Would have been held in high esteem with Paul, Must now be named and printed Heretics By shallow Edwards and scotch what d'ye call :|| But we do hope to find out all your tricks, Your blots and packing worse than those of Trent; That so the parliament May, with their wholesome and preventive shears, Clip your phylacteries, though balk your ears, And succour our just fears, When they shall read this clearly in your charge, New Presbyter is but Old Priest writ large.
*This poem is supposed to have been made when the Directory was established, and disputes ran high between the Presbyterians and Independents in 1645, the latter pleading for a toleration, and the former against it.
+ In the Presbyterian form of government there are congregational, classical, provincial, and national assemblies.
It is not known who is meant by A. S. Mr. Samuel Rotherford was Professor of Divinity at St. Andrew's, and one of the Scotch commissioners to the Westminister assembly.
§ Mr. Thomas Edwards, author of the Gangræna.
Either Mr. Alexander Henderson or Mr. George Gillespie,
both commissioners to the Westminister assembly.
THE FIFTH ODE OF HORACE, Lib. I.
Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa, rendered almost word for word without rhyme, according to the Latin measure, as near as the language will permit.
WHAT slender youth, bedew'd with liquid odours, Courts thee on roses in some pleasant cave, Pyrrha? for whom bind'st thou
In wreaths thy golden hair,
Plain in thy neatness? O, how oft shall he On faith and changed gods complain, and seas Rough with black winds, and storms Unwonted shall admire!
Who now enjoys thee credulous, all gold, Who always vacant, always amiable
Hopes thee, of flattering gales
Unmindful. Hapless they
To whom thou untried seem'st fair! Me, in my vow'd
Picture, the sacred wall declares to have hung
My dank and dropping weeds
To the stern god of sea.
O NIGHTINGALE, that on yon bloomy spray Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still; Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fili, While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May. Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day, First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill, Portend success in love; O, if Jove's will Have link'd that amorous power to thy soft lay, Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate Foretel my hopeless doom, in some grove nigh; As thou, from year to year, hast sung too late my relief, yet hadst no reason why: Whether the Muse, or Love, call thee his mate, Both them I serve, and of their train am I.
ON HIS BEING ARRIVED TO THE AGE OF TWENTY-THREE.
How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, Stol'n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year! My hasting days fly on with full career,
But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th. Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth, That I to manhood am arriv'd so near; And inward ripeness doth much less appear That some more timely-happy spirits endu❜th.
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