He wakes, and with him (ne'er to sleep) new fears: His sweat-bedewed bed had now betray'd him, To a vast field of thorns; ten thousand spears

All pointed in his heart seem'd to invade him : So mighty were th' amazing characters

With which his feeling dream had thus dismay'd him,

He his own fancy-framed foes defies;

In rage, "My arms! give me my arms!" he cries.

As when a pile of food-preparing fire,

The breath of artificial lungs embraves, The cauldron-prison'd waters strait conspire, And beat the hot brass with rebellious waves: He murmurs and rebukes their bold desire;

Th' impatient liquor frets, and foams, and raves; Till his o'erflowing pride suppress the flame, Whence all his high spirits and hot courage came;—

So boils the fired Herod's blood-swoll'n breast,
Not to be slak'd but by a sea of blood:
His faithless crown he feels loose on his crest,
Which on false tyrant's head ne'er firmly stood;
The worm of jealous envy and unrest,

To which his gnawed heart is the growing food,
Makes him impatient of the ling'ring light,
Hate the sweet peace of all-composing night.

A thousand prophecies, that talk strange things, Had sown of old these doubts in his deep breast; And now of late came tributary kings,

Bringing him nothing but new fears from th' East,

More deep suspicions, and more deadly stings;

With which his fev'rous cares their cold increas'd:

And now his dream (hell's firebrand) still more bright,

Show'd him his fears, and kill'd him with the sight.

No sooner therefore shall the morning see,

(Night hangs yet heavy on the lids of day,)
But all his counsellors must summon'd be,
To meet their troubled lord without delay:
Heralds and messengers immediately

Are sent about; who, posting every way
To the heads and officers of every band,
Declare who sends, and what is his command.

Why art thou troubled, Herod? what vain fear

Thy blood-revolving breast to rage doth move; Heaven's King, who doffs himself weak flesh to

wear,

Comes not to rule in wrath, but serve in love; Nor would he this thy fear'd crown from thee tear, But give thee a better with himself above. Poor jealousy! why should he wish to prey Upon thy crown, who gives his own away.

Make to thy reason, man, and mock thy doubts;
Look how below thy fears their causes are:
Thou art a soldier, Herod, send thy scouts;
See how he's furnish'd for so fear'd a war.
What armour does he wear? a few thin clouts.
His trumpets? tender cries: his men to dare
So much? rude shepherds: what his steeds? alas,
Poor beasts! a slow ox, and a simple ass.

ON A PRAYER BOOK SENT TO MRS. M. R.

Lo here a little volume, but great book, (Fear it not, sweet,

It is no hypocrite,)

Much larger in itself than in its look.
It is, in one rich handful, heaven and all
Heaven's royal hosts encamp'd, thus small;
To prove that true schools used to tell,
A thousand angels in one point can dwell.

It is love's great artillery,

Which here contracts itself and comes to lie Close couch'd in your white bosom, and from thence,

As from a snowy fortress of defence,
Against the ghostly foe to take your part,
And fortify the hold of your chaste heart.
It is the armoury of light;

Let constant use but keep it bright,

You'll find it yields

To holy hands and humble hearts,

More swords and shields

Than sin hath snares, or hell hath darts.

Only be sure,

The hands be pure

That hold these weapons, and the eyes
Those of turtles, chaste and true,

Wakeful and wise:

Here is a friend shall fight for you;
Hold but this book before your heart,
Let prayer alone to play his part.

But, oh, the heart

That studies this high art,
Must be a sure housekeeper,
And yet no sleeper.

Dear soul, be strong,

Mercy will come ere long,

And bring her bosom full of blessings,-
Flowers of never-fading graces,-

To make immortal dressings

For worthy souls whose wise embraces
Store
up themselves for him, who is alone
The Spouse of virgins, and the Virgin's Son.

But if the noble Bridegroom, when he comes,
Shall find the wand'ring heart from home,
Leaving her chaste abode,
To gad abroad,—

Amongst the gay mates of the god of flies
To take her pleasures, and to play
And keep the devil's holiday,-

To dance in the sunshine of some smiling
But beguiling

Sphere of sweet and sugar'd lies,
Some slippery pair,

Of false, perhaps as fair,
Flattering but forswearing eyes,-
Doubtless some other heart
Will get the start,

And stepping in before,

Will take possession of the sacred store
Of hidden sweets, and holy joys,
Words which are not heard with ears,

(These tumultuous shops of noise,)
Effectual whispers whose still voice,

The soul itself more feels than hears ;-
Amorous languishments, luminous trances,
Sights which are not seen with eyes,

Spiritual and soul-piercing glances,

Whose pure and subtle lightning flies Home to the heart, and sets the house on fire, And melts it down in sweet desire,

Yet doth not stay

To ask the window's leave to pass that way;
Delicious deaths, soft exhalations

Of soul, dear and divine annihilations,
A thousand unknown rites

Of joys and rarified delights;

An hundred thousand loves and graces,
And many a mystic thing,

Which the divine embraces

Of the dear Spouse of spirits with them will bring, For which it is no shame,

That dull mortality must not know a name :

Of all this hidden store

Of blessings, and ten thousand more,

If when he come

He find the heart from home,

Doubtless he will unload

Himself some otherwhere;

And pour abroad

His precious sweets,

On the fair soul whom first he meets.

O, fair! O, fortunate! O, rich! O, dear!
O! happy and thrice happy she,
Dear silver-breasted dove,

Whoe'er she be,

Whose early love,

R