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These latest scenes confine my roving verse,
To this horizon is my Phoebus bound;
His Godlike acts, and his temptations fierce,
And former sufferings other where are found'; 25
Loud o'er the rest Cremona's trump doth found;
Me fofter airs befit, and softer ftrings
Of lute, or viol ftill, more apt for mournful things.


Befriend me Night, best patroness of grief,
Oyer the pole thy thickeft mantle throw,
And work my flatter'd fancy to belief,
That Heav'n and Earth are color'd with my woe;
My forrows are too dark for day to know:

The leaves fhould all be black whereon I write, 34
And letters where my tears have wash'd a wannish
See, see the chariot, and those rushing wheels,
That whirl'd the Prophet up at Chebar flood,
My fpirit fome tranfporting Cherub feels,
To bear me where the tow'rs of Salem ftood,
Once glorious tow'rs, now funk in guiltless blood; 40
There doth my foul in holy vifion fit

In penfive trance, and anguish, and ecstatic fit.


Mine eye hath found that fad fepulchral rock

That was the casket of Heav'n's richeft ftore,

And here though grief my feeble hands up lock, 45

Yet on the foften'd quarry would I fcore

My plaining verfe as lively as before;

For fure fo well inftructed are my tears,

That they would fitly fall in order'd characters.



Or fhould I thence hurried on viewless wing,
Take up a weeping on the mountains wild,
The gentle neighbourhood of grove and spring
Would foon unbofom all their echoes mild,
And I (for grief is eafily beguil'd)

Might think th' infection of my forrows loud 55 Had got a race of mourners on some pregnant cloud.

This fubject the Author finding to be above the

years he had, when he wrote it, and nothing fatisfied with what was begun, left it unfinish'd.




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LY envious Time, till thou run out thy race, Call on the lazy leaden-ftepping hours, Whofe fpeed is but the heavy plummet's pace; And glut thyself with what thy womb devours, Which is no more than what is falfe and vain, 5 And merely mortal drofs; So little is our lofs,

So little is thy gain.

For when as each thing bad thou haft intomb'd,
And last of all thy greedy felf confum'd,
Then long Eternity fhall greet our blifs
With an individual kiss ;

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And Joy fhall overtake us as a flood,
When every thing that is fincerely good
And perfectly divine,


With truth, and peace, and love, fhali ever thine About the fupreme throne


Of him, t' whofe happy-making fight alone
When once our heav'nly-guided foul fhall clime,
Then all this earthy grofnefs quit,
Attir'd with stars, we fhall for ever fit,
Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee, O






E flaming Pow'rs, and winged Warriors bright
That erft with mufic, and triumphant fong,
First heard by happy watchful fhepherds ear,
So fweetly fung your joy the clouds along
Through the foft filence of the lift'ning night;
Now mourn, and if fad fhare with us to bear
Your fiery effence can diftil no tear,
Burn in your fighs, and borrow
Seas wept from our deep forrow :
He who with all Heav'n's heraldry whilere
Enter'd the world, now bleeds to give us ease
Alas, how foon our fin

Sore doth begin
His infancy to feife!

O more exceeding love or law more juft?
Juft law indeed, but more exceeding love!
For we by rightful doom remedilefs
Were loft in death, till he that dwelt above
High thron'd in fecret blifs, for us frail dust
Emptied his glory, ev'n to nakedness ;
And that great covenant which we still transgress
Entirely fatisfied,





And the full wrath befide

Of vengeful justice bore for our excess,
And feals obedience first with wounding fmart 25

This day, but O ere long
Huge pangs and strong

Will pierce more near his heart.



LEST pair of Sirens, pledges of Heav'n's joy,

Wed your divine founds, and mix'd pow'r employ
Dead things with inbreath'd fense able to pierce,
And to our high-rais'd phantafy present
That undisturbed fong of pure concent,
Ay fang before the faphir-color'd throne
To him that fits thereon


With faintly fhout, and folemn jubilee,
Where the bright Seraphim in burning row
Their loud up-lifted angel-trumpets blow,
And the cherubic hoft in thousand quires
Touch their immortal harps of golden wires,
With thofe juft Spirits that wear victorious palms,
Hymns devout and holy pfalms

Singing everlastingly;

That we on earth with undifcording voice
May rightly answer that melodious noise;
As once we did, till difproportion'd fin
Jarr'd against nature's chime, and with harsh din 20
Broke the fair mufic that all creatures made

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To their great Lord, whofe love their motion sway'd In perfect diapafon, whilft they stood

In firft obedience, and their state of good.


O may we foon again renew that forg,
And keep in tune with Heav'n, till God ere long


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To his celeftial confort us unite,

To live with him, and fing in endless morn of light.


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HIS rich marble doth enter
The honor'd Wife of Winchester,
A Vicount's daughter, an Earl's heir,
Befides what her virtues fair
Added to her noble birth,

More than fhe could own from earth.
Summers three times eight save one
She had told; alas too foon,
After fo fhort time of breath,
To house with darkness, and with death.
Yet had the number of her days
Been as complete as was her praife,
Nature and fate had had no ftrife
In giving limit to her life.
Her high birth, and her graces fweet
Quickly found a lover meet;
The virgin quire for her request
The God that fits at marriage feaft;
He at their invoking came
But with a scarce well-lighted flame;
And in his garland as he stood,
Ye might difcern a cyprefs bud.
Once had the early matrons run
To greet her of a lovely fon,
And now with fecond hope fhe goes,
And calls Lucina to her throws;







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