Let him embrace his own bright tresses
With a new morning made of gems;
And wear in them his wealthy dresses,
Another day of diadems.

When he hath done all he may,

To make himself rich in his rise, All will be darkness, to the day

That breaks from one of these fair eyes. And soon the sweet truth shall appear,

Dear babe, ere many days be done : The Moon shall come to meet thee here, And leave the long adored Sun.

Thy nobler beauty shall bereave him,

Of all his eastern paramours:
His Persian lovers all shall leave him,

And swear faith to thy sweeter powers.

Nor while they leave him shall they lose the Sun, But in thy fairest eyes find two for one.

Because that from the bridal cheek of bliss,

Thou thus steal'st down a distant kiss; [head, Hope's chaste kiss wrongs no more joy's maidenThan spousal rites prejudge the marriage-bed.

COWLEY.

Hope, Fortune's cheating lottery,

Where for one prize an hundred blanks there be.
Fond archer, Hope, who tak'st thine aim so far,
That still, or short, or wide, thine arrows are.
Thine empty cloud the eye it self deceives
With shapes that our own fancy gives:
A cloud, which gilt and painted now appears,
But must drop presently in tears.
When thy false beams o'er reason's light prevail,
By ignes fatui, not north stars, we sail.

CRASHAW.

Fair Hope! our earlier Heaven, by thee
Young Time is taster to Eternity.
[sower;
The generous wine with age grows strong, not
Nor need we kill thy fruit to smell thy flower.
Thy golden head never hangs down,
Till in the lap of Love's full noon

It falls and dies: Oh no, it melts away
As doth the dawn into the day:

As lumps of sugar lose themselves, and twine
Their subtle essence with the soul of wine.

COWLEY.

Brother of Fear! more gayly clad,
The merrier fool o'th' two, yet quite as mad,
Sire of Repentance! shield of fond Desire,
That blows the chymic's, and the lover's fire,
Still leading them insensibly on,

With the strange witchcraft of anon:

By thee the one doth changing Nature through
Her endless labyrinths pursue,

And th' other chases woman, while she goes
More ways, and turns, than hunted Nature knows.

CRASHAW.

Fortune, alas! above the world's law wars: Hope kicks the curl'd heads of conspiring stars. Her keel cuts not the waves, where our winds stir, And Fate's whole lottery is one blank to her. Her shafts and she fly far above,

And forrage in the fields of light, and love. Sweet Hope! kind cheat! fair fallacy! by thee We are not where, or what we be, But what, and where we would: thus art tho Our absent presence, and our future now.

CRASHAW.

Faith's sister! nurse of fair Desire!
Fear's antidote! a wise, and well stay'd fire,
Temper'd 'twixt cold despair and torrid joy :
Queen regent in young Love's minority.

Though the vext chymic vainly chases
His fugitive gold through all her faces,
And love's more fierce, more fruitless fires assay
One face more fugitive than all they,
True Hope's a glorious huntress, and her chase
The God of Nature in the field of grace.

Now westward Sol had spent the richest beams
Of noon's high glory, when hard by the streams
Of Tiber, on the scene of a green plat,
Under protection of an oak; there sat
A sweet lute's master: in whose gentle airs
He lost the day's heat, and his own hot cares.
Close in the covert of the leaves there stood

A nightingale, come from the neighbouring wood:
(The sweet inhabitant of each glad tree,
Their Muse, their Syren, harmless Syren she)
There stood she listning and did entertain
The music's soft report; and mould the same
In her own murmurs, that what ever mood
His curious fingers lent, her voice made good.
The man perceiv'd his rival, and her art,
Dispos'd to give the light-foot lady sport,
Awakes his lute, and 'gainst the fight to come
Informs it, in a sweet preludium

Of closer strains, and ere the war begin,
He lightly skirmishes on every string
Charg'd with a flying touch; and straightway she
Carves out her dainty voice as readily,
Into a thousand sweet distinguish'd tones,
And reckons up in soft divisions

Quick volumes of wild notes; to let him know
By that shrill taste, she could do something too.
His nimble hands' instinct then taught each string
A cap'ring cheerfulness; and made them sing
To their own dance; now negligently rash
He throws his arm and with a long drawn dash
Bleuds all together, then distinctly trips
From this to that, then quick returning skips
And snatches this again, and pauses there.
She measures every measure, every where
Meets art with art; sometimes, as if in doubt,
Not perfect yet, and fearing to be out,

Trails her plain ditty in one long spun note,
Through the sleek passage of her open throat:
A clear unwrinkled song; then doth she point it
With tender accents, and severely joint it
By short diminutives, that being rear'd
In controverting warbles evenly shar'd,
With her sweet self she wrangles; he amaz'd
That from so small a channel should be rais'd
The torrent of a voice, whose melody
Could melt into such sweet variety,
Strains higher yet, that tickled with rare arf
The tatling strings (each breathing in his part)
Most kindly do fall out, the grumbling base
In surly groans disdains the treble's grace;
The high-perch'd treble chirps at this, and chides,
Until his finger (moderator) hides

Ard closes the sweet quarrel, rousing all
Hoarse, shrill at once; as when the trumpets call

! From Strada. See also Phillips' Pastorals, R.

Following those little rills, he sinks into
A sea of Helicon; his hand does go
Those parts of sweetness which with nectar drop,
Softer than that which pants in Hebe's cup:
The humourous strings expound his learned touch
By various glosses; now they seem to grutch,
And murmur in a buzzing din, then gingle
In shrill-tongu'd accents, striving to be single;
Every smooth turn, every delicious stroke,
Gives life to some new grace: thus doth h' invoke
Sweetness by all her names; thus, bravely thus,
(Fraught with a fury so harmonious)

The lute's light genius now does proudly rise,
Heav'd on the surges of swoln rapsodies,
Whose flourish (meteor-like) doth curl the air
With flash of high-born fancies, here and there
Dancing in lofty measures, and anon
Creeps on the soft touch of a tender tone,
Whose trembling murmurs melting in wilde airs,
Runs to and fro, complaining his sweet cares;
Because those precious mysteries that dwell
In music's ravish'd soul he dare not tell,

But whisper to the world: thus do they vary,
Each string his note, as if they meant to carry
Their master's blest soul (snatcht out at his ears
By a strong ecstacy) through all the spheres
Of music's heaven; and seat it there on high
In th' empyreum of pure harmony.
At length, (after so long, so loud a strife
Of all the strings, still breathing the best life
Of blest variety attending on

His fingers' fairest revolution,

In many a sweet rise, many as sweet a fall)
A full-mouth'd diapason swallows all.

This done, he lists what she would say to this,
And she, although her breath's late exercise
Had dealt too roughly with her tender throat,
Yet summons all her sweet powers for a note;
Alas! in vain! for while (sweet soul) she tries
To measure all those wild diversities,

Of chatt'ring strings, by the small size of one
Poor simple voice, rais'd in a natural tone;
She fails, and failing grieves, and grieving dies;
She dies, and leaves her life the victor's prize,
Falling upon his lute; O fit to have,

(That liv'd so sweetly) dead, so sweet a grave!

UPON THE DEATH OF A GENTLEMAN.
FAITHLESS and fond mortality,
Who will ever credit thee?

Foud and faithless thing! that thus,
In our best hopes, beguilest us.
What a reckoning hast thou made
Of the hopes in him we laid?
For life by volumes lengthened,
A line or two, to speak him dead.
For the laurel in his verse,
The sullen cypress o'er his herse.
For a silver-crowned head,
A dirty pillow in death's bed.

For so dear, so deep a trust,
Sad requital, thus much dust!

Now though the blow that snatch'd him hence,

Stopp d the mouth of Eloquence,

Though she be dumb e'er since his death,

Not us'd to speak but in his breath;

Yet if at least she not denies

The sad language of our eyes,

[prile,

A PLANT of noble stem, forward and fair,
As ever whisper'd to the morning air,
Thriv'd in these happy grounds, the Earth's just
Whose rising glories made such haste to hide
His head in clouds, as if in him alone
Impatient Nature had taught motion
To start from time, and cheerfully to fly
Before, and seize upon maturity:

Thus grew this gracious plant, in whose sweet shade
The Sun himself oft wish'd to sit, and made
The morning Muses perch like birds, and sing
Among his branches, yea, and vow'd to bring
His own delicious Phenix from the blest
Arabia, there to build her virgin nest,
To hatch her self in 'mongst his leaves: the day
Fresh from the rosy East rejoyc'd to play.
To them she gave the first and fairest beam
That waited on her birth, she gave to them
The purest pearls, that wept her evening death,
The balmy Zephirus got so sweet a breath
By often kissing them, and now begun
Glad time to ripen expectation:

The timerous maiden-blossoms on each bough,
Peep'd forth from their first blushes: so that now
A thousand ruddy hopes smil'd in each bud,
And flatter'd every greedy eye that stood
Fix'd in delight, as if already there
Those rare fruits dangled, whence the golden year,
His crown expected, when (O Fate! O Time!
That seldom lett'st a blushing youthful prime
Hide his hot beams in shade of silver age;
So rare is hoary vertue) the dire rage

Of a mad storm these bloomy joys all tore,
Ravish'dthe maiden blossoms, and down bore
The trunk; yet in this ground his precious root
Still lives, which when weak time shall be pour'd
Into cternity, and circular joys

Dance in an endless round, again shall rise
The fair son of an ever-youthful spring,
To be a shade for angels while they sing.

[out

Mean while, who e'er thou art that passest here, O do thou water it with one kind tear!

UPON THE DEATH OF THE MOST DESIRED
MR. HERRYS.

DEATH, what dost? O hold thy blow!
What thou dost, thou dost not know.
Death, thou must not here be cruel,
This is Nature's choicest jewel.

This is he, in whose rare frame Nature labour'd for a name,

And meant to leave his precious feature,
The pattern of a perfect creature.
Joy of goodness, love of art,
Vertue wears him next her heart :
Him the Muses love to follow,
Him they call their Vice-Apollo.
Apollo, golden though thou be,
Th' art not fairer than is be.
Nor more lovely lift'st thy head,
Blushing from thine eastern bed,
The glories of thy youth ne'er knew
Brighter hopes than he can shew;
Why then should it e'er be seen,

That his should fade while thine is green?
And wilt thou (O cruel boast!)
Put poor Nature to such cost?
O'twill undo our common mother,
To be at charge of such another.
What! think we to no other end,
Gracious Heavens do use to send
Earth her best perfection,
But to vanish and be gone?
Therefore only give to day,
To morrow to be snatch'd away?
I've seen indeed the hopeful bud
Of a ruddy rose, that stood
Blushing to behold the ray
Of the new saluted day,

(His tender top not fully spread)

The sweet dash of a shower now shed,
Invited him no more to hide
Within himself the purple pride
Of his forward flower, when, lo!
While he sweetly 'gan to show

His swelling glories, Auster spied him,
Cruel Auster thither hy'd him,
And with the rush of one rude blast,
Sham'd not spitefully to waste
All his leaves, so fresh, so sweet,
And lay them trembling at his feet.
I've seen the morning's lovely ray
Hover o'er the new-born day,
With rosy wings so richly bright,
As if he scorn'd to think of night,
When a ruddy storm, whose scoul
Made Heaven's radiant face look foul;
Call'd for an untimely night,
To blot the newly blossom'd light.
But were the rose's blush so rare,
Were the morning's smile so fair,
As is he, nor cloud nor wind

But would be courteous, would be kind.
Spare him, Death! O spare him then,
Spare the sweetest among men !
Let not Pity, with her tears,
Keep such distance from thine ears;
But O! thou wilt not, can'st not spare,
Haste hath never time to hear;
Therefore if he needs must go,
And the Fates will have it so,
Softly may he be possest
Of his monumental rest.

Safe, thou dark home of the dead,
Safe, O! hide his loved head.
For pity's sake, O hide him quite
From his mother Nature's sight!
Lest, for the grief his loss may move,
All her births abortive prove.

ANOTHER.

Ir ever Pity were acquainted
With stern Death, if e'er he fainted,
Or forgot the cruell vigour

Of an adamantine rigour,

Here, O here we should have known it,
Here, or no where, he'd have shown it.
For he whose precious memory
Bathes in tears of every eye:
He to whom our sorrow brings
All the streams of all her springs,
Was so rich in grace and nature,
In all the gifts that bless a creature,
The fresh hopes of his lovely youth
Flourish'd in so fair a growth.

So sweet the temple was, that shrin'd
The sacred sweetness of his mind.
That could the Fates know to relent,
Could they know what mercy meant ;
Or had ever learn'd to bear

The soft tincture of a tear:
Tears would now have flow'd so deep,
As might have taught Grief how to weep:
Now all their steely operation

Would quite have lost the cruel fashion :
Sickness would have gladly been
Sick himself to have sav'd him:
And his fever wish'd to prove
Burning only in his love;
Him when Wrath it self had seen,
Wrath its self had lost his spleen;
Grim Destruction, here amaz'd,
Instead of striking, would have gaz'd;
Even the iron-pointed pen,

That notes the tragic dooms of men,
Wet with tears still'd from the eyes
Of the flinty Destinies,

Would have learn'd a softer style,
And have been asham'd to spoile
His live's sweet story, by the haste
Of a cruel stop ill plac'd

In the dark volume of our fate,
Whence each leaf of life hath date,
Where, in sad particulars,

The total sum of man appears;
And the short clause of mortal breath
Bound in the period of death:

In all the book, if any where

Such a term as this, 66

Spare here,"

Could have been found, 'twould have been read,
Writ in white letters o'er his head :

Or close unto his name annex'd,
The fair gloss of a fairer text.
In brief, if any one were free,
He was that one, and only he.

But be, alas! even he is dead
And our hopes' fair harvest spread
In the dust! Pity, now spend
All the tears that grief can lend :
Sad Mortality may hide,

In his ashes, all her pride,

With this inscription o'er his head :
"All hope of never dying here lies dead.”

HIS EPITAPH.

PASSENGER, who e'er thou art, Stay a while, and let thy heart Take acquaintance of this stone, Before thou passest further on:

This stone will tell thee, that beneath
Is entomb'd the crime of Death;
The ripe endowments of whose mind
Left his years so much behind,
That numbring of his virtues' praise,
Death lost the reckoning of his days;
And believing what they told,
Imagin'd him exceeding old:
In him perfection did set forth
The strength of her united worth;
Him, his wisdom's pregnant growth
Made so reverend, even in youth,
That in the centre of his breast
(Sweet as is the phoenix' nest)
Every reconciled grace

Had their general meeting place;
In him goodness joy'd to see
Learning learn humility:

The splendour of his birth and blood
Was but the gloss of his own good;
The flourish of his sober youth
Was the pride of naked truth:
In composure of his face
Liv'd a fair, but manly grace;
His mouth was rhetoric's best mold,

His tongue the touchstone of her gold;
What word so e'r his breath kept warm,
Was no word now, but a charm:
For all persuasive graces thence
Suck'd their sweetest influence;
His virtue that within had root,
Could not choose but shine without;
And th' heart-bred lustre of his worth,
At each corner peeping forth,
Pointed him out in all his ways,
Circled round in his own rays:
That to his sweetness all men's eyes
Were vow'd love's flaming sacrifice.

Him while fresh and fragrant Tine
Cherish'd in his golden prime;
Ere Hebe's hand had overlaid

His smooth cheeks with a downy shade;
The rush of Death's unruly wave
Swept him off into his grave.

Enough now, (if thou can'st) pass on, For now (alas!) not in this stone (Passenger, who e'er thou art)

Is he entomb'd, but in thy heart.

AN EPITAPH UPON DOCTOR BROOK.
A BROOK whose stream so great, so good,
Was lov'd, was honour'd, as a flood,
Whose banks the Muses dwelt upon,
More than their own Helicon,
Here at length hath gladly found

A quiet passage under ground:
Mean while his loved banks, now dry,
The Muses with their tears supply.

UPON MR. STANINOUGH'S DEATH.
DEAR relics of a dislodg'd soul, whose lack
Makes many a mourning paper put on black;
O stay a while, ere thou draw in thy head,
And wind thy self up close in thy cold bed!
Stay but a little while, until I call

A summons, worthy of thy funeral.

[powers, Come then, youth, beauty, and blood, all ye soft Whose silken flatteries swell a few fond hours Into a false eternity; come, man,

(Hyperbolized nothing!) know thy span;

Take thine own measure here, down, down, and bow
Before thy self in thy idea, thou

Huge emptiness, contract thy bulk, and shrink
All thy wild circle to a point! O sink
Lower, and lower yet; till thy small size

Call Heaven to look on thee with narrow eyes:
Lesser and lesser yet, till thou begin

To show a face fit to confess thy kin,

Thy neighbour-hood to nothing! here put on
Thy self in this unfeign'd reflection;
Here, gallant ladies, this impartial glass

(Thro' all your painting) shows you your own face.
These death-seal'd lips are they dare give the lie
To the proud hopes of poor mortality.
These curtain'd windows, this self-prison'd eye,
Out-stares the lids of large-look'd tyranny:
This posture is the brave one; this that lies
Thus low, stands up (me thinks) thus, and defies
The world-All daring dust and ashes, only you
Of all interpreters read Nature true.

UPON THE DUKE OF YORK'S BIRTH. A PANEGYRICK.

BRITAIN, the mighty Ocean's lovely bride,

WHO DIED AND WERE BURIED TOGETHER.

To these, whom Death again did wed,
This grave's the second marriage-bed.
For though the hand of Fate could force
'Twixt soul and body a divorce:
It could not sever man and wife,
Because they both liv'd but one life.
Peace, good reader, do not weep;
Peace, the lovers are asleep!
They (sweet turtles) folded lie,
In the last knot that love could tie.
Let them sleep, let them sleep on,
Till this stormy night be gone,
And the eternal morrow dawn;
Then the curtains will be drawn,
And they wake into a light,
Whose day shall never die in night.

Thy bosom, and make room; thou art opprest
With thine own glories: and art strangely blest
Beyond thy self: for, lo! the gods, the gods
Come fast upon thee, and those glorious odds
Swell thy full glories to a pitch so high,
As sits above thy best capacity.

Are they not odds? and glorious? that to thee
Those mighty genii throng, which well might be
Each one an age's labour, that thy days
Are guilded with the union of those rays,
Whose each divided beam would be a sun,
To glad the sphere of any nation.

O! if for these thou mean'st to find a seat,
Th' hast need, O Britain! to be truly great.
And so thou art, their presence makes thee so,
They are thy greatness: gods, where e'er they go,
Bring their Heaven with them, their great foot-
An everlasting smile upon the face [steps place