SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA
WHERE the remote Bermudas ride In the ocean's bosom unespied, From a small boat that row'd along The listening winds received this song. 'What should we do but sing His praise That led us through the watery maze Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks, That lift the deep upon their backs, Unto an isle so long unknown, And yet far kinder than our own? He lands us on a grassy stage,
Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage: He gave us this eternal spring Which here enamels everything, And sends the fowls to us in care On daily visits through the air. He hangs in shades the orange bright Like golden lamps in a green night, And does in the pomegranates close Jewels more rich than Ormus shows: He makes the figs our mouths to meet And throws the melons at our feet; But apples plants of such a price, No tree could ever bear them twice. With cedars chosen by his hand From Lebanon he stores the land; And makes the hollow seas that roar Proclaim the ambergris on shore. He cast (of which we rather boast) The Gospel's pearl upon our coast; And in these rocks for us did frame A temple where to sound His name. Oh! let our voice His praise exalt Till it arrive at Heaven's vault, Which then perhaps rebounding may Echo beyond the Mexique bay!' -Thus sung they in the English boat A holy and a cheerful note:
And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept the time.
THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN
How vainly men themselves amaze To win the palm, the oak, or bays, And their incessant labours see Crown'd from some single herb or tree, Whose short and narrow-vergéd shade Does prudently their toils upbraid; While all the flowers and trees do close To weave the garlands of Repose.
Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, And Innocence thy sister dear? Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men: Your sacred plants, if here below, Only among the plants will grow: Society is all but rude
To this delicious solitude.
No white nor red was ever seen So amorous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress' name: Little, alas, they know or heed How far these beauties her exceed! Fair trees! where'er your barks I wound, No name shall but your own be found.
When we have run our passions' heat Love hither makes his best retreat: The gods, who mortal beauty chase, Still in a tree did end their race; Apollo hunted Daphne so Only that she might laurel grow; And Pan did after Syrinx speed Not as a nymph, but for a reed.
What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine; The nectarine and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on melons, as I pass, Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.
Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less Withdraws into its happiness;
The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find; Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds, and other seas; Annihilating all that's made
To a green thought in a green shade.
Here at the fountain's sliding foot Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, Casting the body's vest aside My soul into the boughs does glide; There, like a bird, it sits and sings, Then whets and claps its silver wings, And, till prepared for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light.
Such was that happy Garden-state While man there walk'd without a mate: After a place so pure and sweet, What other help could yet be meet!
But 'twas beyond a mortal's share
To wander solitary there: Two paradises 'twere in one, To live in Paradise alone.
How well the skilful gardener drew Of flowers and herbs this dial new! Where, from above, the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run:
And, as it works, th' industrious bee Computes its time as well as we.
How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckon'd, but with herbs and flowers!
LOVE WILL FIND OUT THE WAY
OVER the mountains
And over the waves,
Under the fountains
And under the graves;
Under floods that are deepest,
Which Neptune obey;
Over rocks that are steepest Love will find out the way.
Where there is no place For the glow-worm to lie; Where there is no space For receipt of a fly;
Where the midge dares not venture Lest herself fast she lay;
If love come, he will enter And soon find out his way.
You may esteem him A child for his might; Or you may deem him
A coward from his flight;
But if she whom love doth honour
Be conceal'd from the day,
Set a thousand guards upon her,
Love will find out the way.
Some think to lose him By having him confined; And some do suppose him, Poor thing, to be blind;
But if ne'er so close ye wall him, Do the best that you may, Blind love, if so ye call him, Will find out his way.
You may train the eagle To stoop to your fist; Or you may inveigle The phoenix of the east; The lioness, ye may move her To give o'er her prey; But you'll ne'er stop a lover: He will find out his way.
PHILLADA FLOUTS ME
O WHAT a plague is love! How shall I bear it? She will inconstant prove, I greatly fear it.
She so torments my mind That my strength faileth, And wavers with the wind As a ship saileth.
Please her the best I may, She loves still to gainsay; Alack and well-a-day! Phillada flouts me.
At the fair yesterday She did pass by me; She look'd another way And would not spy me: I woo'd her for to dine,
But could not get her; Will had her to the wine-
He might entreat her.
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