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A HERMIT IN AN ARBOUR.

FAREWELL, ye gilded follies, pleasing troubles!
Farewell, ye honour'd rags, ye glorious bubbles!
Fame's but a hollow echo; Gold, pure clay;
Honour, the darling but of one short day;
Beauty (th' eyes' idol) but a damask'd skin;
State, but a golden prison, to live in

And torture free-born minds; imbroydered Trains,
Merely but pageants for proud-swelling veins;
And Blood, allied to greatness, is alone

Inherited, not purchas'd, nor our own;

Fame, Honour, Beauty, State, Train, Blood, and Birth,

Are but the fading Blossoms of the earth.

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I would be great, but that the sun doth still
Level his rays against the rising hill;

I would be high,-but see the proudest oak
Most subject to the rending thunder-stroke;
I would be rich, but see men, too unkind,
Dig in the bowels of the richest mind;
I would be wise,-but that I often see
The fox suspected, whilst the ass goes free;
I would be fair,-but see the fair and proud
(Like the bright sun) oft setting in a cloud;
I would be poor,-but know the humble grass
Still trampled on by each unworthy ass;

Rich, hated; wise, suspected; scorn'd, if poor;
Great, fear'd; fair, tempted; high, still envy'd more:
I have wish'd all, but now I wish for neither;
Great, high, rich, wise, nor fair; poor I'll be rather.

A HERMIT IN AN ARBOUR.

Would the world now adopt me for her heir;
Would Beauty's queen entitle me the Fair;
Fame speak me Fortune's Minion; could I vie
Angels with India; with a speaking eye

Command bare heads, bow'd knees, strike justice dumb,
As well as blind and lame; or give a tongue

To stones by epitaphs; be call'd great Master
In the loose rhymes of every poetaster;
Could I be more than any man that lives,
Great, fair, rich, wise, all in Superlatives;
Yet I more freely would these gifts resign,
Than ever Fortune would have made them mine;
And hold one minute of this holy leisure
Beyond the riches of this empty pleasure.

Welcome, pure thoughts! welcome, ye silent Groves!
These guests, these courts, my soul most dearly loves:
Now the wing'd people of the sky shall sing
My cheerful anthems to the gladsome Spring;
A Pray'r-Book now shall be my looking-glass,
In which I will adore sweet Virtue's face.
Here dwell no hateful looks, no Palace cares,
No broken vows dwell here, nor pale-fac'd fears:
Then here I'll sit, and sigh my hot love's folly,
And learnt affect an holy melancholy;

And if Contentment be a stranger then,
I'll ne'er look for it, but in heaven, again.

Sir Kenelm Digby.

DIVINE LOVE.

COULD we forbear dispute, and practise love,
We should agree as angels do above;

Love only enters as a native there,

For, born in heaven, it does but sojourn here.
He that alone would wise and mighty be,
Commands that others love as well as He.
Love as He loved! How can we soar so high?
He can add wings, when He commands to fly.
Nor should we be with His command dismay'd;
He that example gives, will give His aid;
For He took flesh, that where His precepts fail,
His practice as a pattern may prevail.

His love, at once, and dread, instruct our thought;
As man He suffered, and as God He taught.
Will for the deed He takes; we may with ease
Obedient be, for if we love we please.

Weak though we are, to love is no hard task,

And love for love is all that Heaven does ask.

Love, what Isaiah prophesied can do,

Exalt the valleys, lay the mountains low,

Humble the lofty, the dejected raise,

Smooth and make straight our rough and crooked ways.

Love as He loved a love so unconfin'd,

With arms extended, would embrace mankind.

Though the creation (so divinely taught!)
Prints such a lively image on our thought,
That the first spark of new-created light,
From Chaos struck, affects our present sight;

DIVINE LOVE.

Yet the first Christians did esteem more blest
The day of rising, than the day of rest,
That every week might new occasion give,
To make His triumph in their memory live.
Then let our Muse compose a sacred charm,
To keep His blood among us ever warm-
And singing as the blessèd do above,
With our last breath dilate this flame of love.
But on so vast a subject who can find
Words that may reach the idea of his mind?
Our language fails; or, if it could supply,
What mortal thought can raise itself so high?
Despairing here, we might abandon art,
And only hope to have it in our heart.

But though we find this sacred task too hard,
Yet the design, the endeavour, brings reward;
The contemplation does suspend our woe,

And makes a truce with all the ills we know.
On divine love to meditate is peace,
And makes all care of meaner things to cease.
Amazed at once, and comforted, to find
A boundless Power so infinitely kind,
The soul contending to that light to fly
From her dark cell, we practise how to die ;
Employing thus the poet's wingèd art

To reach this love, and grave it in our heart.
Joy so complete, so solid, and severe,
Would leave no place for meaner pleasures there;
Pale they would look, as stars that must be gone,
When from the East the rising sun comes on.

Edmund Waller.

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How cheerfully th' unpartial Sun
Gilds with his beams

The narrow streams

O' the brook, which silently doth run
Without a name!

And yet disdains to lend his flames To the wide channel of the Thames!

The largest mountains barren lie,
And lightning fear,

Though they appear

To bid defiance to the sky;

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