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 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.] III. UPON THE CIRCUMCISION. YE flaming powers, and winged warriors bright. That erst with music, and triumphant song, First heard by happy watchful shepherds' ear, So sweetly sung your joy the clouds along Through the soft silence of the listening night; Now mourn; and, if sad share with us to bear Your fiery essence can distil no tear, Burn in your sighs, and borrow 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, Entirely satisfied, 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. IV. 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, If likewise he some fair one wedded not, So, mounting up in icy-pearled car, But, all un'wares, with his cold, kind embrace, Unhoused thy virgin soul from her fair biding-place. Yet thou art not inglorious in thy fate; But then transform'd him to a purple flower: Alack, that so to change thee Winter had no power! Yet can I not persuade me thou art dead, Resolve me, then, O soul most surely blest, Whether above that high first-moving sphere, O, say me true, if thou wert mortal wight, And why from us so quickly thou didst take thy flight? Wert thou some star which from the ruin'd roof Of shaked Olympus by mischance didst fall; Which careful Jove in nature's true behoof Took up, and in fit place did reinstal? Or did of late Earth's sons besiege the wall Of sheeny heaven, and thou, some goddess, fled Amongst us here below to hide thy nectar'd head? Or wert thou that just maid, who once before [good? Let down in cloudy throne to do the world some Or wert thou of the golden-winged host, To scorn the sordid world, and unto heaven aspire? But, oh! why didst thou not stay here below To turn swift-rushing black perdition hence? To stand 'twixt us and our deserved smart? But thou canst best perform that office where thou art. Then thou, the mother of so sweet a child, V. 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 entomb'd, And, last of all, thy greedy self consumed, Then long eternity shall greet our bliss With an individual kiss; And joy shall overtake us as a flood, When every thing that is sincerely good |