And the full wrath beside
Of vengeful justice bore for our excess,
And seals obedience first with wounding smart
This day, but o ere long
Huge pangs and strong
Will pierce more near his heart.
LEST pair of Sirens, pledges of Heav'n's joy,
Sphere-born harmonious fifters, Voice and Verse,
Wed your divine sounds, and mix'd pow'r employ
Dead things with inbreath'd sense able to pierce,
And to our high-raised phantasy present
5
That undisturbed song of pure concent,
Ay sung before the faphir-color'd throne
To him, that fits thereon,
With saintly shout and folemn jubilee,
Where the bright Seraphim in burning row
10
Their loud up-lifted angel-trumpets blow,
And the cherubic host in thousand quires
Touch their immortal harps of golden wires,
With those juft Spirits that wear victorious palms,
Hymns devout and holy psalms
15
Singing everlastingly;
That we on earth with undifcording voice
May rightly answer that melodious noise;
As once we did, till disproportion'd fin
Jarr'd against nature's chime, and with harsh din
Broke the fair music that all creatures made
To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway'd
In perfect diapason, whilft they stood
In first obedience and their state of good.
O may we foon again renew that song,
And keep in tune with Heav'n, till God ere long 25
To his celestial consort us unite.
To live with him and fing in endless morn of light.
An EPITAPH on the MARCHIONESS of
WINCHESTER *.
HIS rich marble doth enter
The honor'd Wife of Winchester,
A Vicount's daughter, an Earls heir,
Besides what her virtues fair
Added to her noble birth,
5
More than she could own from earth,
Summers three times eight save one
She had told ; alas too soon,
After so short time of breath,
To house with darkness, and with death.
Yet had the number of her days
Been as complete, as was her praise,
Nature and fate had had no ftrife
In giving limit to her life.
Her high birth, and her graces sweet
15 Quickly found a lover meet;
The virgin quire for her request
The God, that fits at marriage feast;
He at their invoking came
But with a scarce well-lighted flame ;
And in his garland,as he food,
Ye might discern a cypress bud.
Once had the early matrons run
To greet her of a lovely fon,
And now with second hope she goes,
And calls Lucina to her throws;
But whether by mischance or blame
Atropos for Lucina came;
And with remorseless cruelty
Spoild at once both fruit and tree:
The hapless babe before his birth
Had burial yet not laid in earth,
And the languish'd mother's womb
Was not long a living tomb.
So have I seen fome tender flip,
Sav'd with care from winter's nip,
The pride of her carnation train,
Pluck'd up by some unheedy swain,
Who only thought to crop the flow'r
New shot up from vernal show'r;
But the fair blossom hangs the head
Side-ways, as on a dying bed,
And those pearls of dew, she wears,
Prove to be presaging tears,
Which the fad morn had let fall
On her haftning funeral.
Gentle Lady, may thy grave
Peace and quiet ever have;
After this thy travel fore
Sweet reft feise thee evermore,
That to give the world increase,
Shortned haft thy own life's lease.
Here, besides the forrowing,
That thy noble house doth bring,
Here be tears of perfect moan
55
Wept for thee in Helicon,
And some flowers, and fome bays,
For thy herse, to strow. the ways,
Sent thee from the banks of Came,
Devoted to thy virtuous name;
60 Whilst thou, bright Saint, high fitst in glory, Next her much like to thee in story, That fair Syrian shepherdess, Who after years of barrenness. The highly-favor'd Joseph bore To him, that serv'd for her before, And at her next birth much like thee Through pangs fled to felicity, Far within the bosom bright Of blazing Majesty and Light: There with thee, new-welcome Saint, Like fortunes may her soul acquaint, With thee there clad in radiant sheen, No Marchioness, but now a Queen.
TOW the bright morning-star, day's harbinger,
Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flow'ry May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowflip, and the pale primrose.
Hail bounteous May, that doft inspire
Mirth and youth and warm defire ;
Woods and groves are of thy dressing,
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we falute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and with thee long.
HAT needs my Shakespear for his honor'd bones
The labor of an age in piled stones,
Or that his hallow'd reliques should be hid
Under a star-ypointing pyramid?
Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,
5
What need'it thou such weak witness of thy name?
Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Haft built thyself a live-long monument.
For, whilft to th' fhame of flow-endevoring art
Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart
10 Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book Those Delphic lines with deep impression took, Then thou our fancy of itself bereaving Doft make us marble with too much conceiving ; And so fepulcher'd in such pomp doft lie,
15 That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.
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