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Troop to the infernal jail,
Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave,
And the yellow-skirted fays
Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.
But see! the Virgin blest
Hath laid her Babe to rest.
Time is our tedious song should here have ending :
Hath fixed her polished car,
Her sleeping Lord, with handmaid lamp, attending;
UPON THE CIRCUMCISION.
YE flaming powers, and wingèd warriors bright,
He, who with all Heaven's heraldry whilere
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 oh! ere long,
Huge pangs and strong
Will pierce more near His heart.
EREWHILE of music, and ethereal mirth,
In wintry solstice like the shortened light
For now to sorrow must I tune my song,
And set my harp to notes of saddest woe,
Which on our dearest Lord did seize ere long,
Dangers, and snares, and wrongs, and worse than so,
Most pefect 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-roofed beneath the skies:
Yet more the stroke of death He must abide ;
These latest scenes confine my roving verse;
Of lute, or viol still, more apt for mournful things.
Befriend me, night, best patroness of grief!
And work my flattered fancy to belief
That Heaven and earth are coloured with my woe;
My sorrows are too dark for day to know:
The leaves should all be black whereon I write, And letters, where my tears have washed, a wannish white.
See, see the chariot, and those rushing wheels,
Mine eye hath found that sad sepulchral rock
For sure so well instructed are my tears
Or, should I thence, hurried on viewless wing,
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.
FLY, envious Time, till thou run out thy race:
So little is our loss,
So little is thy gain!
For, when as each thing bad thou hast entombed,
And, last of all, thy greedy self consumed,
Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss
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
Of Him, to whose happy-making sight alone
When once our heavenly-guided soul shall climb,
Attired with stars we shall for ever sit,
Triumphing over death, and chance, and thee, O Time!
AT A SOLEMN MUSIC.
BLESSED pair of sirens, pledges of Heaven's joy,
With saintly shout and solemn jubilee ;
Singing everlastingly :
That we on earth, with undiscording voice,
Jarred against nature's chime, and with harsh din
To their great Lord, whose love their motion swayed
In first obedience, and their state of good.
Oh, may we soon again renew that song,
And keep in tune with Heaven, till God ere long
To His celestial consort us unite,
To live with Him, and sing in endless morn of light!
AN EPITAPH ON THE MARCHIONESS OF WINCHESTER. THIS rich marble doth inter
The honoured wife of Winchester,
A Viscount's daughter, an Earl's heir,
Added to her noble birth,
More than she could own from earth.