No longer shall our churches frighted stones,
Lie fcatter'd like the burn'd and martyr'd bones
Of dead devotion; nor faint marbles weep,
a their fad ruins, nor religion keep,
A melancholy manfion in thofe cold
Jrns. Like God's fanctuaries they look'd of old :
Now feem they temples confecrate to none,
Or to a new god Defolation.

No more the hypocrite fhall th' upright be,
Jecause he's stiff, and will confefs no knee:
While others bend their knee, no more shalt thou
Difdainful duft and afhes), bend thy brow;
Nor on God's altar caft two fcorching eyes,
Bak'd in hot fcorn, for a burn'd facrifice:
Jut (for a lamb) thy tame and tender heart,
New ftruck by love, ftill trembling on his dart;
Or (for two turtle doves) it fhall fuffice,
To bring a pair of meek and humble eyes.
This fhall from henceforth be the mafculine theme,
Pulpits and pens fhall fweat in; to redeem,
Virtue to action, that life-feeding flame,
That keeps religion warm; not fwell a name
of faith, a mountain word, made up of air,
With thofe dear, fpoils that wont to dress the fair,
And fruitful charities full breafts (of old)
Turning her out to tremble in the cold.
What can the poor hope from us, when we be,
Juncharitable ev'n to Charity?

On the Glorious Affumption of the Blessed Virgin. JARK! fhe is call'd, the parting hour is come: Take thy farewell, poor world! heav'n must go home,

A piece of heav'nly earth, purer and brighter, Than the chafte stars, whofe choice lamps come

to light her,

While through the crystal orbs, clearer than they, ihe climbs; and makes a far more milky way. she's call'd. Hark! how the dear immortál dove, ighs to his filver mate. Rife up my love,

Rife up my fair, my spotlefs one,

The winter's past, the rain is gone:

The fpring is come, the flowers appear,
No fweets but thou are wanting here.

Come away my love,

Come away my dove,
Caft off delay:

The court of heav'n is come,
To wait upon thee home;

Come, come away.

-The flowers appear,

Or quickly would, were thou once here.
The spring is come; or if it stay,
'Tis to keep time with thy delay.

The rain is gone, except as much as we
Detain in needful tears, to weep the want of thee.

The winter's past,

Or if he make less haste, His answer is, why, she doth so; If fummer come not, how can winter go? Come away, come away,

The fhrill winds chide, the waters weep thy ftay,
The fountains murmur; and each loftieft tree,
Bows lowest his leavy top, to look for thee.

Come away my love,
Come away my dove, &c.

She's call'd again; and will fhe go?
When Heav'n bids come, who can fay no?
Heav'n calls her, and the muft away,
Heav'n will not, and the cannot stay.
Go then, go (glorious) on the golden wings
Of the bright youth of heav'n that fings
Under fo great a burden, go,
Since thy dread Son will have it fo.
And while thou goeft, our fong and we,
Will as we may reach after thee.

Hail, holy Queen, of humble hearts! We in thy praife will have our parts. And though thy dearest looks must ow be light To none but the bleft heavens, whose bright Beholders loft in fweet delight,

Feed for ever their fair fight

With thofe divineft eyes, which we,
And our dark world no more fhall fee;
Though our poor joys are parted fo,
Yet thall our lips never let go
Thy gracious name, but to the last
Our loving fong shall hold it faft.
Thy precious name shall be
Thyfelf to us, and we,

With holy care, will keep it by us.
We to the last

Will hold it fast;

And no affumption shall deny us.
All the sweetest showers
Of our fairest flowers,
Will we ftrew upon it;,

Though our [weets cannot make
It fweeter, they can take
Themfelves new fweetness from it.
Matia, men and angels fing,
Maria, mother of our King.
Live, rofy princefs, live, and may the bright
Crown of a moft incomparable light,
Embrace thy radiant brows: O may the best
Of everlasting joys bathe thy white breast.

Live our chafte love; the holy mirth Of heav'n, the humble pride of earth. Live, crown of women, Queen of men; Live mistress of our fong; and when Our weak defires have done their best, Sweet angels come, and fing the rest. A Hymn on the Circumcifion of our Lord. RISE thou beft and brightest morning, Rofy with a double red,

With thine own blush thy cheeks adorning, And the dear drops this day were fhed.

All the purple pride that laces

The crimson curtains of thy bed, Gilds thee not with fo fweet graces, Nor fets thee in fo rich a red.

Of all the fair cheek'd flowers that fill thee None fo fair thy bosom shows,

As this modest maiden lily,

Our fins have sham'd into a rose.

Bid thy golden god the fun,

Burnish'd in his best beams rise,
Put all his red-ey'd rubies on;
Those rubies shall put out their eyes.

Let him make poor the purple east,

Search what the world's close cabinets keep, Rob the rich births of each bright neft,

That flaming in their fair beds fleep. Let him embrace his own bright treffes, With a new morning made of gems; And wear in thofe his wealthy dreffes, Another day of diadems.

When he hath done all he may,

To make himself rich in his rife,
All will be darknefs, to the day

That breaks from one of those bright eyes.
And foon the fweet truth fhall appear,
Dear Babe e'er many days be done :
The moon fhall come and meet thee here,
And leave her long-neglected fun.
Here are beauties fhall bercave him,

Of all his eastern paramours:

His Perfian Lovers all fhail leave him,

And fwear faith to thy fweeter powers.

Nor while they leave him fhall they lofe the fan, But in thy fairest eyes find two for one.

ON HOPE. By way of Question and Anfever, be-
tween A. Cowley and R. Crafbaw.
Corley.

Hope, whofe weak being ruin'd is
Alike, if it fucceed, and if it mifs.
Whom ill and good deth equally confound,
And both the horns of fates dilemma wound.
Vain fhadow! that doth vanquish quite
Both at fuil noon, and perfect night.
The fates of not a poffibility

Of hurting thee.

From thee their thin dilemma with blunt hern
Shrinks, like the. fick moon at the wholefome morn.
Loruley

Hope thou bolt tafter of delight,
Who, instead of doing fo, devour'ft it quite.
Thou bring us an eftate, yet leav'ft us poor,
By clegging it with legacies before.

The j ys, which we entire fhould wed,
Come deflour'd virgins to our bed.
Good fortunes without gain imported be,
So mighty cafton's paid to thee.

For joy, like wine kept clofe, doth better tafte:
If it take air before, its fpirits wafte.

Crafbatv.

Thou art love's legacy under lock

Of faith: the steward of our growing stock.

Cur crown-lands he above, yet each meal brings

A feemly portion for the fons of kings.

Nor will the virgin joys we wed

Come lefs unbroken to our bed,

Because that from the bridal cheek of Wifs,

Thou thus fteal'it down a dilant kifs, Hope'schafte kifs wrongs no more joys maidenhead, Than fpoufal rites prejudge the marriage bed. Coreley.

Hope! Fortune's cheating lottery,

Where, for one prize, an hundred blanks there be.
Fond archer, Hope, who tak’st thine aim fo far,
Ihat ftill, or thort, or wide thine arrows are;
Thine empty cloud the eye, itfelf deceives
With fhapes that our own fancy gives;
A cloud which gilt and painted now appears,
But muft drop prefently in tears,
When thy falfe beams o'er Reason's light prevail,
By ignes fatui, not north ftars we fail.

Crafbaru.

Coroley.

Brother of Fear! more gaily clad,
The merrier fool o' th' two, yet quite as nd.
Sire of Repentance! fhield of fond Defire !
That blows the chemics and the lover's fire,
Still leading them infenfibly on

With the ftrange witchcraft of anon.

By thee the one doth changing nature through Her endless labyrinths purfue;

And th' other chafts woman, while he goes
More ways and turns than hundred Nature knows.
Crafbar.

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

And forage 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 be: thus art thou
Our abfent prefence, and our future now.
Crafbar.

Faith's fifter! nurfe of lair Defire:
Fear's antidote a wife and well-ffay'd fire
Temper'd 'twixt cold defpair, and torrid joy :
Queen regent in young Love's minority.
Though the vest chemic vainly chafes
His fugitive gold through all her faces,
And loves more fierce, more fruitlefs fires affay,
One face more fugitive than all they.
True, Hope's a glorious huntress, and her chafe
The God of nature in the field of grace.
A Song of Divine Love.
LORD! when the fenfe of thy fweet grace,
Sends up my foul to feck thy face,
Thy bleffed eyes breed fuch defire,

I die in love's delicious fire.

O love! I am thy facrifice;

Be fall triumphant blefed eyes,

Now is the noon of Sorrow's night,

High in his patience as their fpight,
For the faint Lamb, with weary limb,
Bears that huge tree which must bear him ;
That fatal plant, fo great of fame,
The fruit of forrow and of shame,
Shall fwell with both for him, and mix
All woes into one crucifix,

I tortur'd thirst itself too fweet a cup?
Gall, and more bitter mocks, fhall make it up.
Are nails blunt pens of superficial fmart :
Contempt and fcorn can find fure wounds to fearch
the inmo heart,

V.

The ninth, with awful horror hearkened to thofe

groans

Which taught attention even to rocks and stones.
Hear, Father, hear! thy Lamb at lift complaing
Of fome more painful thing than all his pains,
Then bows his all-obedient head and dies,
His own love's and our great fins facrifice.
The fun faw that, and would have feen no more;
The centre fhook; her useless vail th' inglorious
temple tore.

VI.

But there were rocks could not relent at this,
Lo, for their own hearts they rend his;
Their deadly hate lives ftill, and hath
A wild referve of wanton wrath.
Superfluous fpear! But there's a heart ftands by
Will look no wounds be loft, no death's fhall die;
Gather now thy grief's ripe fruit, great mother-
maid,
[fad tree's fhade.
Then fit thee down, and fing thine even fong in the

VII.

The nightening hour comes laft to call
Us to our own lives funeral,

A heartlefs talk! Yet Hope takes head,
And lives in him that here lies dead:
Run, Mary, run! Bring hither all the blest
Arabia, for thy royal Pl.genix neft,
Power on thy noblet fweets, which, when they
touch

This fweeter body, fhall indeed be fuch.
But must thy bed, Lord, be a borrow'd grave,
Who lend it to all things a'l the life they have?
O rather ufe this heart, thus far a fitter stone,
'Cause though a hard, and cold one, yet it is thine

Own.

Chrif's Vidory.
CHRIST, when he dy'd
Deceiv'd the cross,

And on death's fide

Threw all the lofs:

The captive world awak'd and found
The prifoners leofe, the jailor bound.
O dear and fweet difpute

'Twixt death's and love's far different fruit, Different as far

As antidotes and poifons are:
By the fit fatal tree
Both life and liberty

Were fold and flain;

By this they both look up and live again.

O frange myfterious strife,
Of open death and hidden life!
When on the crefs my King did bleed,
Life feem'd to die, death dy'd indeed.

Mafic's Duel

Now weftward Sol had spent the richest beams
Of noon's high glory, when hard by the freams
Of Tiber, on the fcene of a green plat,
Puder protection of an oak, there fat

A fweet lutes-mafter: in whofe gentle airs
He lost the day's heat and his own hot cares.
Clofe in the covert of the leaves there stood
A rightingale, come from the neighbouring
wood:

:

(The fweet inhabitants of each glad tree,
The mufe their fyren, harmless fyren the)
There flood the lift'ning, and did enterrain
The mufic's foft report and mould the fame
In her own murmurs, that whatever mood
His curi us fingers lent, her voice made good:
The man perceiv'd his rival and her art,
Dispos'd to give the light-foot lady sport
Aakes his lute, and 'gain ft the fight to come
Informs it, in a fweet præludium

Of clofer rains; and ere the war begin,
He lightly fkirmifnes on 'every firing,
Charg'd with a flying touch: and straightway fhe
Carves out her dainty voice as readily,
Into a thousand fweet diftinguish'd tones,
And reckons up in foft divifions,

Quick volumes of wild notes; to let him know
By that fhrill tafte. fhe could do fomething too.
His nimble hands inftinet them taught each
ftring

A capring cheerfulness, and made them fing
To their own dance; now negligently rafh
He throws his arm, and with a long drawn dafh
Blends all together; then diftinctly trips
From this to that: then quick returning skips
And fnatches this again, and pauses there.
She measures every measure, every where
Meets art with art; fometimes, as if in doubt,
Not perfect yet, and fearing to be out,
Trails her plain ditty in one long-fpun note,
Through the fleek paffage of her open throat,
A clear unwrinkled fong; then doth fhe point it
With tender accents, and feverely joint it
By fhort diminutives, that being rear'd
In controverting warbles evenly fhar'd,
With her fweet felf the wrangles. He amaz'd
That from so small a channel fhould be rais'd
The torrent of a voice, whofe melody
Could melt into fuch fweet variety,
Strains higher yet; that tickled with rare art
The tattling frings (each breathing in his part)
Moft kindly do fall out; the grumbling base
In forly groans difdains the trebles grace;
The high-perch'd treble chirps at this, and chides,
Until his finger (moderator) hides

And clofes the fweet quarrel, roufing all
Hoarfe, fhrill, at once; as when the trumpets call
Hot Mars to th' harveft of death's field, and woo
Mens hearts into their hands this leffon too
She gives him back; her fupple breast thrills out
Sharp airs, and flaggers in a warbling doubt
Of dallying fweetness, hovers o'er her skill,
And folds in wav'd notes with a trembling bill
The pliant feries of her flippery fong;
Then starts the fuddenly into a throng

f

Of fhort thick fobs, whofe thundering volleys float,
And roll themfelves over her lubric throat
In panting murmurs, ftill'd out of her breast,
That ever-bubbling (pring, the fugar'd neft
Of her delicious foul, that there does lie
Bathing in ftreams of liquid melody;
Mufic's beft feed-plot, where, in ripen'd airs,
A golden-headed harvest fairly rears
His honey-dropping tops, plow'd by her breath
Which there reciprocally laboureth

In that fweet foil, it feems a holy choir
Founded to th' name of great Apollo's lyre,
Whose filver roof rings with the sprightly notes
Of fweet-lipp'd angel-imps, that fwell their throats
In cream of morning Helicon, and then
Prefer foft anthems to the ears of men,
To woo them from their beds, still murmuring
That men can fleep while they their mattens fing:
(Moft divine fervice) whofe fo early lay
Prevents the eye-lids of the blushing day!
There you might hear her kindle her foft voice
In the clofe murmur of her sparkling noise,
And lay the ground-work of her hopeful fong,
Still keeping in the forward stream, so long
Till a fweet whirlwind (@riving to get out)
Heaves her foft bofom, wanders round about,
And makes a pretty earthquake in her breaft,
Till the fledg'd notes at length forfake their neft,
Fluttering in wanton fhoals, and to the sky,
Wing'd with their own wild echoes, prattling fly.
She opes the floodgate, and lets lonfe a tide
Of ftreaming sweetness, which in state doth ride
On the way'd back of every fwelling ftrain,
Kifing and falling in a pompous train.
And while the thus difcharges a fhrill peal
Of flashing airs; she qualifies their zeal
With the cool cpod of a graver note,
Thus high, thus low, as if her filver throat
Would reach the brazen voice of war's hoarse bird;
Her little foul is ravifh'd: and fo pour'd
Into loofe ecftafies, that she is plac'd
Above herself, mufic's enthusiast.

Shame now and anger mix'd a double stain
In the musician's face; yet once again
(Mistress) I come; now reach a itrain my lute
Above her mock, or be for ever niute.
But tune a fong of victory to me,
As to thyself, fing thine own obfequy;
So faid, his hands fprightly as fire he flings,
And with a quivering coyness tastes the strings.
The fweet lip'd fifters mufically frighted,
Singing their fears, are fearfully delighted.
Trembling as when Apollo's golden hairs
Are fann'd and frizzled in the wanton airs
Of his own breath: which married to his lyre"
Doth tune the spheres, and make heaven's felf look
higher.

From this to that, from that to this he flies,
Feels mufic's pulfe in all her arteries,
Caught in a net which there Apolla spreads,
His fingers ftruggle with the vocal threads,
Following thofe little rills, he finks into
A fea of Helicon; his hand does go
Thofe parts of fweetness which with nectar drop,
Softer than that which pants in Hebe's cup.
The humourous ftrings expound his learned touch
By various gloffes; now they feem to grutch,
And murmur in a buzzing din, then gingle
In fhrill tongu'd accents, ftriving to be lingle.
Every fmooth turn, every delicious ftroke
Gives life to fome new grace; thus doth h'invoke
Sweetnefs by all her names; thus, bravely thus
(Fraught with a fury so harmonious)
The lute's light genius now does proudly rife,
Heav'd on the furges of fwoln rhapsodies,

Whose flourish (meteor-like) doth curl the di
With flash of high-born fancies: here and there
Dancing in lofty micafures, and anon
Creeps on the foft touch of a tender tone:
Whose trembling murmurs melting in wild airs
Runs to and fro, complaining his sweet cares
Because thofe precious mysteries that dwell,
In mufic's ravish'd foul he dares not tell,

But whisper to the world: thus do they vary,
Each string his note, as if they meant to carry
Their master's bleft foul (fnatch'd out at his ears
By a ftrong ecftacy) through all the fpheres
Of mufic's heaven; and feat it there on high
In th' empyreum of pure harmony.
At length, (after fo lung, fo loud a ftrife
Of all the ftrings, ftill breathing the best life
O bleft variety attending on
His fingers fairest revolution

In many a sweet rife; many as fweet a fall)
A full mouth diapafon fwallows all.

This done, he lifts what she would fay to this,
And the, although her breath's late exercife
Had dealt too roughly with her tender throat,
Ye fummons all her fweet powers for a note.
Alas. in vain for while (fweet foul) she tries
To measure all those wild diverfities

Of chatt'ring rings, by the small size of one
Poor fimple 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; Q fit to have
(That liv'd so sweetly) dead, so sweet a grave !
Upon the Death of a Gentleman.

FAITHLESS and fond mortality!
Woo will ever credit thee?
Fend and faithiefs thing! that thus,
In our best hopes beguileft us.
What a reckoning haft thou made,
Of the hopes in him we laid?
For life by volume lengthened,
A line or two, to speak him dead.
For the laurel in his verfe,
The fullen cypress o'er his herse.
For a filver-crowned head,
A dirty pillow in death's bed.
For fo dear, fo deep a trust,
Sad requiral, thus much duft!

Now though the blow that fnatch him hence,
Stopt the mouth of eloquence,

.

Though the be dumb e'er fince his death,
No: us'd to speak but in his breath,

Yet if at least she not denies,
The fad language of our eyes,
We are contented: for than this
Language none more fluent is.
Nothing fpeaks our grief fo well
As to fpeak nothing; come then tell
Thy mind in tears who-e'er thou be,
That ow'it a name to mifery.
Eyes are vocal, tears have tongues,
And there be words not made with lungs;
Sententious showers, O let them fall,
Their cadence is retorical.

Here's a theme will drink th' expence,
Of all thy watery eloquence.

en, only be expreft

This much, he's dead, and weep the reft. Upon the Death of Mr Herrys.

[pride,

A PLANT of noble ftem, forward and fair,
As ever whisper to the morning air,
Thriv'd in these happy grounds, the earth's juft
Whofe rifing glories made fuch hafte to hide
Hi- head in clouds, as if in him alone
Impatient nature had taught motion
To start from time, and cheerfully to fly
Before, and feize upon maturity.

Thus grew this gracious plant, in whofe fweet fhade,
The fun himself oft wifh'd to fit, and made
The morning mufes perch like birds, and fing
Among his branches: yea, and vow'd to bring
His own delicious phoenix from the bleft
Arabia, there to build her virgin neft,

To hatch her felf in; 'mongst his leaves the day
Fresh from the rofy eaft rejoic'd to play."
To them fhe gave the first and fairest beam
That waited on her birth: the gave to them
The pureft pearls, that wept her evening death.
The balmy zephyrs got fo fweet a breath
By often kiffing them, and now begun
Glad time to ripen expectation

The timorous maiden-bloffoms on each bough,
Peep'd forth their fift blushes: fo that now
A thousand ruddy hopes fmil'd in each bud,
And flatter'd every greedy eye that stood
Fix'd in delight, as if already there
Thofe rare fruits dangled, whence the golden year
His crown expected, when (O Fate! O Time!
That feldom lett ft a blufhing youthful prime
Hide his hot beams in fhade of filver age;
So rare is hoary virtue) the dire rage
of a mad ftorm thefe bloomy joys all tore,

Ravifh'd the maiden bloffoms, and down bore
The trunk. Yet in this ground his precious root
Still lives, which when weak time fhall be pour'd

out

Into eternity, and circular joys

Dance in an endless round, again shall rife
The fair fon of an ever-youthful fpring,
To be a fhade for angels while they fing:
Mean while who e'er thou art that paffeft here,
O do thou water it with one kind tear.

Upon the Death of the defired Mr. Herrys.
DEATH, what doft? O hold thy blow;
What thou doft, thou doft not know;
Death thou must not here be cruel,
This is nature's choicest jewel.

This is he in whofe rare frame,

Nature labour'd for a name,

And meant to leave his precious feature,
The patern of a perfect creature.

Joy of goodnefs, love of art,

Virtue wears him next her heart.
Him the mufes love to follow,
Him they call their Vice-Apollo.
Apollo golden though thou be,
Th'art not fairer than is he.
Nor more lovely lift'ft thy head,
Blushing from thine eastern bed.
The glories of thy youth ne'er knew,
Brighter hopes than he can fhew.
Z z iiij