So when the sun in bed, XXVI. Curtain'd with cloudy red, Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, The flocking shadows pale 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 moon-loved maze. But see the Virgin blest XXVII. Hath laid her Babe to rest, Time is our tedious song should here have ending; Heaven's youngest teemèd star Hath fix'd her polish'd car, Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending; And all about the courtly stable Bright-harness'd Angels sit in order serviceable. UPON THE CIRCUMCISION. YE flaming Pow'rs, and wingèd Warriors bright, Seas wept from our deep sorrow: He who with all heaven's heraldry whilere Alas, how soon our sin Sore doth begin His infancy to seize! O more exceeding love, or law more just? Were lost in death, till He that dwelt above 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. THE PASSION. 1629. EREWHILE of music, and ethereal mirth, But headlong joy is ever on the wing, In wintry solstice like the shorten'd light Soon swallow'd up in dark and long out-living night II. For now to sorrow must I tune my song, Which on our dearest Lord did seize ere long, Dangers, and snares, and wrongs, and worse than so, Which he for us did freely undergo : Most perfect Hero, tried in heaviest plight Of labours huge and hard, too hard for human wight: с III. He Sov'reign Priest stooping his regal head, His starry front low-roof'd beneath the skies: Yet more; the stroke of death he must abide, IV. These latest scenes confine my roving verse, Of lute, or viol still, more apt for mournful things. V. Befriend me, Night, best patroness of grief, And work my flatter'd fancy to belief, That Heaven and Earth are colour'd 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 wash'd a wannish white. VI. See, see the chariot, and those rushing wheels, In pensive trance, and anguish, and ecstatic fit. 1 Hieronymus Vida's Christiad, a fine Latin poem. Vida dwelt at Cremona 2 Ezek. i. 15. VIL lock. Mine eye hath found that sad sepulchral rock For sure so well instructed are my tears, VIII. Or should I thence hurried on viewless wing, Might think th' infection of my sorrows loud 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. ON TIME.' 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 intomb'd, And last of all thy greedy self consumed, Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss With an individual kiss; In Milton's MS. written with his own hand,-"On Time. To be set on clock-case."- WARTON. And Joy shall overtake us as a flood, With truth, and peace, and love, shall ever shine Of Him, to whose happy-making sight alone Attired with stars, we shall for ever sit, AT A SOLEMN MUSIC. BLEST pair of Sirens, pledges of heav'n's joy, With saintly shout, and solemn jubilee, 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 In perfect diapason, whilst they stood |