[Addl. MSS. Brit. Mus. No. 10,422.]

HE pounded spice both taste and scent doth please,

In fading smoke the force doth incense

show;

The perish'd kernel springeth with increase,.
The lopped tree doth best and soonest grow.

God's spice I was, and pounding was my due,
In fading breath my incense favour'd best;
Death was my mean my kernel to renew,
By lopping shot I up to heavenly rest.

Some things more perfect are in their decay,
Like spark that going out gives clearest light;
Such was my hap whose doleful dying day
Began my joy, and termèd Fortune's spite.

Alive a Queen, now dead I am a Saint;

Once Mary call'd, my name now Martyr is;

* On the Death of the martyred Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots.

From earthly reign debarrèd by restraint,
In lieu whereof I reign in heavenly bliss.

My life my grief, my death hath wrought my joy, My friends my foil, my foes my weal procured; My speedy death hath scornèd long annoy,

And loss of life and endless life assured.

My scaffold was the bed where ease I found,
The block a pillow of eternal rest;

My headman cast me in a blissful swound,
His axe cut off my cares from cumber'd breast.

Rue not my death, rejoice at my repose;
It was no death to me, but to my woe;
The bud was open'd to let out the rose,
The chains unloosed to let the captive go.

A prince by birth, a prisoner by mishap,

From crown to cross, from throne to thrall I fell; My right my ruth, my titles wrought my trap, My weal my woe, my worldly heaven my hell.

By death from prisoner to a prince enhanced,
From cross to crown, from thrall to throne again;
My ruth my right, my trap my style advanced

From woe to weal, from hell to heavenly reign.

I DIE WITHOUT DESERT.*

[Addl. MSS. Brit. Mus. No. 10,422.]

F orphan child, enwrapt in swathing bands,

Doth move to mercy when forlorn

it lies;

If none without remorse of love withstands
The piteous noise of infant's silly cries;
Then hope, my helpless heart, some tender cares
Will rue thy orphan state and feeble tears.

Relinquish'd lamb, in solitary wood,

With dying bleat doth move the toughest mind; The gasping pangs of new engender'd brood, Base though they be, compassion use to find: Why should I then of pity doubt to speed, Whose hap would force the hardest heart to bleed?

Left orphan-like in helpless state I rue,

With only sighs and tears I plead my case;

My dying plaints I daily do renew,

And fill with heavy noise a desert place:

* Presumed to be on the same subject.

Some tender heart will weep to hear my moan;
Men pity may, but help me God alone!

Rain down, ye heavens, your tears this case requires;
Man's eyes unable are enough to shed;
If sorrows could have place in heavenly quires,

A juster ground the world hath seldom bred: For right is wrong, and virtue waged with blood; The bad are bless'd, God murder'd in the good.

A gracious plant for fruit, for leaf and flower,
A peerless gem for virtue, proof, and price,
A noble peer for prowess, will, and power,

A friend to truth, a foe I was to vice;
And lo! alas! now innocent I die,

A case that might make even the stones to cry.

Thus fortune's favours still are bent to flight,
Thus worldly bliss in final bale doth end;
Thus virtue still pursuèd is with spite,

But let my fate though rueful none offend:
God doth sometimes crop first the sweetest flower,
And leave the weed till time do it devour.

OF THE BLESSED SACRAMENT OF THE

ALTAR.

[Addl. MSS. Brit. Mus. No. 10,422.]

N paschal feast, the end of ancient rite,
An entrance to never-ending grace,
Types to the truth, dim gleams to the
light,

Performing deed presaging signs did chase:
Christ's final meal was fountain of our good,
For mortal meat He gave immortal food.

That which He gave He was, oh, peerless gift! Both God and man He was, and both He gave. He in His hands Himself did truly lift,

Far off they see whom in themselves they have; Twelve did He feed, twelve did their feeder eat, He made, He dress'd, He gave, He was their meat.

They saw, they heard, they felt Him sitting near,
Unseen, unfelt, unheard, they Him received;
No diverse thing, though diverse it appear,
Though senses fail, yet faith is not deceived;
And if the wonder of their work be new,
Believe the worker 'cause His word is true.