To place this ponderous globe of earth so even,
That it should all, and nought should it uphold;
With motions strange t' indue the planets seven,
And Jove to make so mild, and Mars so bold;
To temper what is moist, dry, hot, and cold,
Of all their jars that sweet accords are given;—
Lord, to thy wisdom's nought, nought to thy might:
But that thou shouldst, thy glory laid aside,
Come basely in mortality to bide,
And die for those deserv'd an endless night;
A wonder is so far above our wit,
That angels stand amaz'd to think on it.
DOTH then the world go thus, doth all thus move? Is this the justice which on earth we find?
Is this that firm decree which all doth bind ?
Are these your influences, Pow'rs above?
Those souls which Vice's moody mists most blind,
Blind Fortune, blindly, most their friend doth
And they who thee, poor idol, Virtue! love,
Ply like a feather toss'd by storm and wind.
Ah! if a providence doth sway this all,
Why should best minds groan under most distress ?
Or why should Pride humility make thrall,
And injuries the innocent oppress ?
Heav'ns! hinder, stop this fate; or grant a time
When good may have, as well as bad, their prime.
A GOOD that never satisfies the mind,
A beauty fading like the April flow'rs,
A sweet with floods of gall that runs combin'd,
A pleasure passing ere in thought made ours,
A honour that more fickle is than wind,
A glory at opinion's frown that low'rs,
A treasury which bankrupt time devours,
A knowledge than grave ignorance more blind,
A vain delight our equals to command,
A style of greatness, in effect a dream,
A swelling thought of holding sea and land,
A servile lot deck'd with a pompous name,—
Are the strange ends we toil for here below,
Till wisest death make us our errors know.
Look how the flow'r, which ling'ringly doth fade,
The morning's darling late, the summer's queen,
Spoil'd of that juice which kept it fresh and green,
As high as it did raise, bows low the head:
Just so the pleasures of my life being dead,
Or in their contraries but only seen,
With swifter speed declines than erst it spread,
And, blasted, scarce now shows what it hath been.
Therefore, as doth the pilgrim, whom the night
Hastes darkly to imprison on his way,
Think on thy home, my soul, and think aright
Of what's yet left thee of life's wasting day:
Thy sun posts westward, passed is thy morn,
And twice it is not given thee to be born.
I CHANGED Countries new delights to find,
But, ah! for pleasure I did find new pain;
Enchanting pleasure so did reason blind,
That father's love and words I scorn'd as vain.
For tables rich, for bed, for following train
Of careful servants to observe my mind;
These herds I keep my fellows are assign'd,
My bed's a rock, and herbs my life sustain.
Now while I famine feel, fear worser harms,
Father and Lord, I turn; thy love, yet great,
My faults will pardon, pity mine estate.
This, where an aged oak had spread its arms, Thought the lost child, while as the herds he led,
And pined with hunger on wild acorns fed.
IF that the world doth in amaze remain,
To hear in what a sad, deploring mood,
The pelican pours from her breast her blood,
To bring to life her younglings back again;
How should we wonder at that sovereign good,
Who from that serpent's sting that had us slain,
To save our lives, shed his life's purple flood,
And turn'd to endless joy our endless pain!
Ungrateful soul, that charm'd with false delight,
Hast long, long wander'd in sin's flow'ry path,
And didst not think at all, or thought'st not right On this thy Pelican's great love and death.
Here pause, and let (though earth it scorn) hea
Thee pour forth tears to him pour'd blood for thee.
TO THE ANGELS, FOR THE PASSION.
COME forth, come forth, ye blest triumphing bands,
Fair citizens of the immortal town;
Come, see that King which all this all commands,
Now overcharg'd with love, die for his own:
Look on those nails which pierce his feet and
hands;
What a sharp diadem his brows doth crown!
Behold his pallid face, his heavy frown,
And what a throng of thieves him mocking stands !
Come forth, ye empyrean troops, come forth,
Preserve this sacred blood that earth adorns,
Gather those liquid roses off his thorns;
O! to be lost they be of too much worth:
For streams, juice, balm, they are, which quench, kills, charms,
Of God, death, hell, the wrath, the life, the harms.
THE PRAISE OF A SOLITARY LIFE.
THRICE happy he who by some shady grove,
Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own,
Though solitary, who is not alone,
But doth converse with that eternal love.
O how more sweet is bird's harmonious moan,
Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove,
Than those smooth whisp'rings near a prince's
throne,
Which good make doubtful, do the evil prove!
O how more sweet is zephyrs' wholesome breath,
And sighs embalm'd, which new-born flow'rs un-
fold,
Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath!
How sweet are streams to poison drank in gold!
The world is full of horrors, troubles, slights:
Woods' harmless shades have only true delights.
SWEET bird, that sing'st away the early hours
Of winters past, or coming, void of care,
Well pleased with delights which present are,
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bow'rs:
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,
And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare,
A stain to human sense in sin that low'rs.
What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs
(Attir'd in sweetness) sweetly is not driven.
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs,
And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven?
Sweet, artless songster, thou my mind dost raise
To airs of spheres, yes, and to angels' lays.
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