And makes the hollow seas that roar
Proclaim the ambergrease 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.

YOUNG LOVE.

Come, little infant, love me now,
While thine unsuspected years

Clear thine aged father's brow
From cold jealousy and fears.

Pretty surely 'twere to see

By young Love old Time beguil'd,
While our sportings are as free
As the nurse's with the child.

Common beauties stay fifteen ;

Such as yours should swifter move, Whose fair blossoms are too green Yet for lust, but not for love.

Love as much the snowy lamb,

Or the wanton kid, does prize

As the lusty bull or ram

For his morning sacrifice.

Now then love me: Time may take
Thee before thy time away;

Of this need we'll virtue make,

And learn love before we may.

So we win of doubtful fate,
And, if good to us she meant,
We that good shall antedate,
Or, if ill, that ill prevent.
Thus do kingdoms, frustrating
Other titles to their crown,
In the cradle crown their king,
So all foreign claims to drown.

So to make all rivals vain,

Now I crown thee with my love :
Crown me with thy love again.

And we both shall monarchs prove.

A HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S RETURN FROM IRELAND.

The forward youth that would appear
Must now forsake his muses dear,

Nor in the shadows sing

His numbers languishing:

'Tis time to leave the books in dust, And oil the unused armour's rust, Removing from the wall

The corselet of the hall.

So restless Cromwell could not cease
In the inglorious arts of peace,
But through adventurous war
Urged his active star;

And, like the three-forked lightning, first
Breaking the clouds where it was nurst,
Did thorough his own side

His fiery way divide;

(For 'tis all one to courage high, The emulous, or enemy,

And with such to inclose,

Is more than to oppose ;)

Then burning through the air he went, And palaces and temples rent;

And Cæsar's head at last

Did through his laurels blast.
'Tis madness to resist or blame
The force of angry heaven's flame;
And if we would speak true,
Much to the man is due,

Who from his private gardens, where
He lived reserved and austere,
As if his highest plot

To plant the bergamot,

Could by industrious valour climb
To ruin the great work of Time,
And cast the kingdoms old,

Into another mould.

Though Justice against Fate complain, And plead the ancient rights in vain, (But those do hold or break,

As men are strong or weak,) Nature, that hateth emptiness,

Allows of penetration less,

And therefore must make room
Where greater spirits come.

What field of all the civil war,
Where his were not the deepest scar?
And Hampton shows what part
He had of wiser art;

Where, twining subtile fears with hope,
He wove a net of such a scope

That Charles himself might chase To Carisbrook's narrow case, That thence the royal actor borne The tragic scaffold might adorn,

While round the armed bands, Did clap their bloody hands: He nothing common did, or mean, Upon that memorable scene,

But with his keener eye
The axe's edge did try;

Nor called the gods with vulgar spite
To vindicate his helpless right,

But bowed his comely head
Down, as upon a bed.

This was that memorable hour,
Which first assured the forced power;
So, when they did design

The capitol's first line,

A bleeding head, where they begun,
Did fright the architects to run;
And yet in that the State
Foresaw its happy fate.

And now the Irish are ashamed
To see themselves in one year tamed.
So much one man can do,

That does both act and know.
They can affirm his praises best,
And have, though overcome, confessed
How good he is, how just,
And fit for highest trust;

Nor yet grown stiffer with command,
But still in the republic's hand,
(How fit he is to sway,

That can so well obey!)

He to the Commons' feet presents
A kingdom for his first year's rents;
And, what he may, forbears

His fame, to make it theirs ;
And has his sword and spoils ungirt,
To lay them at the public's skirt:
So when the falcon high

Falls heavy from, the sky,

She, having killed, no more doth search, But on the next green bough to perch ; Where, when he first does lure,

The falconer has her sure.

What may not then our isle presume,
While victory his crest does plume?
What may not others fear,

If thus he crowns each year?

As Cæsar, he, ere long, to Gaul,
To Italy a Hannibal,

And to all states not free

Shall climacteric be.

The Pict no shelter now shall find
Within his party-coloured mind,
But, from this valour sad,
Shrink underneath the plaid;

Happy, if in the tufted brake
The English hunter him mistake,
Nor lay his hounds in near

The Caledonian deer.

But thou, the war's and fortune's son,
March indefatigably on,

And for the last effect,

Still keep the sword erect;
Beside the force it has to fright
The spirits of the shady night,

The same arts that did gain
A power, must it maintain.

ON MILTON'S PARADISE LOST.

When I beheld the poet blind yet bold
In slender book his vast design unfold,
Messiah crown'd, God's reconcil'd decree,
Rebelling angels, the forbidden tree,

Heaven, hell, earth, chaos, all; the argument
Held me awhile misdoubting his intent,
That he would ruin (for I saw him strong)
The sacred truths to fable and old song;
So Sampson groped the temple's posts in spite,
The world o'erwhelming to revenge his sight.