So, when the sun in bed, Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, Troop to the infernal jail; Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave; And the yellow-skirted fayes Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moonloved maze. But see, the Virgin blest Hath laid her Babe to rest: Time is, our tedious song should here have ending: Heaven's youngest-teemed star Hath fix'd her polish'd car, Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp And all about the courtly stable THE PASSION. EREWHILE of music, and ethereal mirth, In wintry solstice, like the shorten'd light, Soon swallow'd up in dark and long out-living night. For now to sorrow must I tune my song, Which he for us did freely undergo: Most perfect Hero, tried in heaviest plight Of labours huge and hard, too hard for human wight! He, sovereign Priest, stooping his regal head, His starry front low-rooft beneath the skies: Yet more; the stroke of death he must abide: Then lies him meekly down fast by his brethren's side. These latest scenes confine my roving verse; Of lute, or viol still, more apt for mournful things. Befriend me, Night, best patroness of grief; That heaven and earth are colour'd with my woe; The leaves should all be black whereon I write; And letters, where my tears have wash'd, a wannish white. See, see the chariot, and those rushing wheels, There doth my soul in holy vision sit, Mine eye hath found that sad sepulchral rock For sure so well instructed are my tears, That they would fitly fall in order'd characters. Or should I thence, hurried no viewless wing, Take up a weeping on the mountains wild, The gentle neighbourhood of grove and spring Would soon unbosom all their echoes mild; And I (for grief is easily beguiled) Might think the infection of my sorrows loud Had got a race of mourners on some pregnant cloud. This subject the author finding to be above the years he had, when he wrote it, and nothing satisfied with what was begun, left it unfinished. UPON THE CIRCUMCISION. YE flaming powers, and winged warriors bright, Seas wept from our deep sorrow: He, who with all Heaven's heraldry whilere 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? And that great covenant which we still transgress And the full wrath beside Of vengeful justice bore for our excess; And seals obedience first, with wounding smart, This day; but, O! ere long, Huge pangs and strong Will pierce more near his heart. ON THE DEATH OF A FAIR INFANT, DYING OF A COUGH. O FAIREST flower, no sooner blown but blasted, Soft silken primrose fading timelessly, Summer's chief honour, if thou hadst out-lasted Bleak Winter's force that made thy blossom dry; For he, being amorous on that lovely dye That did thy cheek envermeil, thought to kiss, But kill'd, alas! and then bewail'd his fatal bliss. For since grim Aquilo, his charioteer, Of long-uncoupled bed and childless eld, Which, 'mongst the wanton gods, a foul reproach was held. So, mounting up in icy-pearled car, Through middle empire of the freezing air But, all unawares, with his cold-kind embrace Unhoused thy virgin soul from her fair bidingplace. Yet art thou not inglorious in thy fate; |