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But see the rude swain, the untutor'd slave,
Without respect or rev'rence to their kind,
Away their fair flocks from the water drave,
Such is the nature of the barb'rous hind.
The maids, perceiving where a stranger sat,
Of whom those clowns so basely did esteem,
Were in his presence discontent thereat,
Whom he perhaps improvident might deem;
Which he perceiving kindly doth entreat,
Reproves the rustics for that offer'd wrong,
Averring it an injury too great,

To such, of right, all kindness did belong.
But finding well his oratory fail,

His fists about him frankly he bestows,
That where persuasion could not late prevail,
He yet compelleth quickly by his blows.
Entreats the damsels their abode to make,
With courtly semblance and a manly grace,
At their fair pleasures quietly to take,
What might be had by freedom of the place.
Whose beauty, shape, and courage they admire,
Exceeding these, the honour of his mind,
For what in mortal could their hearts desire,
That in this man they did not richly find?
Returning sooner than their usual hour,
All that had happen'd to their father told,
That such a man reliev'd them by his power,
As one all civil courtesy that could:
Who full of bounty, hospitably meek,
Of his behaviour greatly pleas'd to hear,
Forthwith commands his servants him to seek,
To honour him by whom his honour'd were:
Gently receives him to his goodly seat,
Feasts him his friends and families among,
And him with all those offices entreat,

That to his place and virtues might belong :
Whilst in the beauty of those goodly dames,
Wherein wise nature her own skill admires,
He feeds those secret and impiercing flames,
Nurs'd in fresh youth, and gotten in desires :
Won with this man this princely priest to dwell,
For greater hire than bounty could devise,
For her whose praise makes praise itself excel,
Fairer than fairness, and as wisdom wise.
In her, her sisters severally were seen,
Of every one she was the rarest part,
Who in her presence any time had been,
Her angel-eye transpierced not his heart.
For Zipora a shepherd's life he leads,
And in her sight deceives the subtil hours,
And for her sake oft robs the flow'ry meads,
With those sweet spoils t' enrich her rural bowers,
Up to mount Horeb with his flock he took,
The flock wise Jethro willed him to keep,
Which well he guarded with his shepherd's crook.
Goodly the shepherd, goodly were the sheep :
To feed and fold full warily he knew,

From fox and wolf his wandering flocks to free,
The goodliest flowers that in the meadows grew
Were not more fresh and beautiful than he.
Gently his fair flocks lessow'd he along
Through the trim pastures freely at his leisure,
Now on the hills, the valleys then among,
Which seem themselves to offer to his pleasure.
Whilst feather'd silvans from each blooming spray,
With murm'ring waters wistly as they creep,
Make him such music, to abridge the way,
As fits a shepherd company to keep.

When lo! that great and fearful God of might
To that fair Hebrew strangely doth appear,

In a bush burning visible and bright,
Yet unconsuming as no fire there were :
With hair erected and upturned eyes,
Whilst he with great astonishment admires,
Lo! that eternal Rector of the skies,

Thus breathes to Moses from those quick'ning fires:
Shake off thy sandals, saith the thund'ring God,
With humbled feet my wond'rous power to see,
For that the soil where thou hast boldly trod,
Is most select and hallow'd unto me:

The righteous Abraham for his God me knew,
Isaac and Jacob trusted in my name,

And did believe my covenant was true,
Which to their seed shall propagate the same:
My folk that long in Egypt had been barr'd,
Whose cries have enter'd heaven's eternal gate,
Our zealous mercy openly hath heard,
Kneeling in tears at our eternal state;

And am come down them in the land to see, Where streams of milk through fruitful valleys flow,

And luscious honey dropping from the tree
Load the full flowers that in their shadows grow:

By thee my power am purposed to try,

That from rough bondage shalt the Hebrews bring,
Bearing that great and fearful embassy
To that monarchal and imperious king.
And on this mountain, standing in thy sight,
When thou returnest from that conquer'd land,
Thou hallow'd altars unto me shalt light,
This for a token certainly shall stand.

JOHN DONNE.

BORN 1573-DIED 1631.

JOHN DONNE was born in London, entered Hertford College at eleven, and became a youthful prodigy of learning. After returning from his travels, he was made secretary to the Lord Chancellor Ellesmere. Donne fell in love with the niece of his patron, whom, without much consideration, he privately married. This rash step not only lost him the favour of the Lord Chancellor, but so enraged the father of the lady, Sir George More, that he caused the young offender to be imprisoned for a time. Donne afterwards, with his wife, found an asylum in the house of Sir Francis Wooley, who was a kinsman of the lady. On the death of Sir Francis, the young couple were again left without protection till Donne attended Sir Robert Drury in an embassy to France. His wife, whom marriage, it appears, had not cured of her romantic attachment, wished to accompany him in the disguise of a page, a proof of affection which he prudently declined. It is related by Isaac Walton, that as Donne sat alone in his chamber one night when abroad, the image of this beloved wife appeared to him with a dead infant in her arms. Donne, who had been bred a Catholic early in life, on sincere conviction renounced that faith. After the union of the crowns, he obtained the favour of King James, and died Dean of St Paul's. Without being a sacred poet, he is one of those writers who have in numerous instances shown their reverence for religion with the warmth and sincerity of genuine feeling.

LA CORONA.

DEIGN at my hands this crown of prayer and praise, Weav'd in my lone devout melancholy,

Thou which of good haste, yea, art treasury,
All changing unchang'd, Ancient of days;
But do not with a vile crown of frail bays
Reward my muse's white sincerity,

But what thy thorny crown gain'd that give me,
A crown of glory, which doth flower always:
The ends crown our works, but thou crown'st our
ends,

For at our ends begins our endless rest;
The first last end now zealously possest,
With a strong sober thirst my soul attends.
'Tis time that heart and voice be lifted high,
Salvation to all that will is nigh.

HYMN TO GOD, MY GOD.

SINCE I am coming to that holy room
Where with the choir of saints for evermore
I shall be made thy music, as I come
I tune the instrument here at the door,
And what I must do then think here before.

Whilst my physicians, by their love, are grown
Cosmographers and I their map, who lie
Flat on this bed, that by them may be shewn
That this is my south-west discovery
Per fretum febris, by these straits to die.

I joy that in these straights I see my west;
For though those currents yield return to none,
What shall my west hurt me? as west and east
In all flat maps (and I am one) are one,

So death doth touch the resurrection.

L

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