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النشر الإلكتروني

Poor fleshly tabernacle entered,

His starry front low-rooft beneath the skies;
O what a mask was there, what a disguise!

Yet more; the stroke of death he must abide,
Then lies him meekly down fast by his brethrens fide.

Thefe latter fcenes confine my roving verfe,
To this horizon is my Phoebus bound;
His Godlike acts, and his temptations fierce,
And former fufferings, otherwhere are found;
Loud o'er the reft Cremona's trump doth found;
Me fofter airs befit, and fofter ftrings

Of late, or viol ftill more apt for mournful things.


Befriend me, Night, beft patronefs of grief,
Over the pole thy thickest mantle throw,
And work my flatter'd fancy to belief,

That heav'n and earth are colour'd with my wo;
My forrows are too dark for day to know:

The leaves fhould all be black whereon I write, And letters where my tears have wafht a wannish white.


See, see the chariot, and those rushing wheels,
That whirl'd the prophet up at Chebar flood,
My spirit fome tranfporting Cherub feels,
To bear me where the towers of Salem stood,
Once glorious towers, now funk in guiltless blood;
There doth my foul in holy vision fit

In penfive trance, and anguifh, and ecstatic fit.

Mine eye hath found that fad fepulchral rock
That was the cafket of heav'n's richell store,
And here though grief my feeble hands up lock,
Yet on the foftned quarry would I fcore
My plaining verfe as lively as before;

For fure fo well inftructed are my tears,

That they would fitly fall in order'd characters.

Or fhould: I thence hurried on viewlefs wing,
Take up a weeping on the mountains wild,
The gentle neigbbourhood of grove and spring
Would foon unbofom all their echoes mild,
And I (for grief is easily beguil'd)

Might think th' infection of my forrows loud, I Had got a race of mourners on some pregnant cloud.

This Subject the Author finding to be above the years he had, when he wrote it, and nothing fatisfy'd with what was begun, left it unfinisht.

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FLY, envious Time, till thou run out thy race,
Call on the lazy leaden-ftepping hours,

Whofe fpeed is but the heavy plummets pace;
And glut thyself with what thy womb devours,
Which is no more than what is falfe and vain,
And merely mortal drofs;

So little is our lofs,

So little is thy gain, lod has oleda siit
For when as each thing bad thou haft entomb'd,
And laft of all thy greedy felf confum'd,

Then long eternity fhall greet our blifs

With an individual kifs;

And joy fhall overtake us as a flood, slick
When every thing that is fincerely good, vila

And perfectly divine,

With truth, and peace, and love fhall ever fhine

About the fupreme throne

Of him, t'whofe happy-making fight alone,
When once our heav'nly-guided foul fhall clime,
Then all this earthy groffnefs quit,

Attir'd with ftars, we shall for ever fit,

Triumphingover death, and chance, and thee,O Time.

Upon the Circumcifion.

YE flaming powers, and winged warriours bright,


That erft with mufic, and triumphant fong, First heard by happy watchful fhepherds ear, So fweetly fung your joy the clouds along Through the foft filence of the lift'ning night; bak Now mourn, and if fad share with us to bear des T Your fiery effence can distil no tear,

Burn in your fighs, and borrow

Seas wept from our deep forrow:

He who with all heav'n's heraldry whilear aw
Enter'd the world, now bleeds to give us eafe;
Alas, how foon our finib Hu Ab bw sono sk
Sore doth begin us (sai

His infancy to feize!

O more exceeding love or law more just 239 19d5, 04
Juft law indeed, but more exceeding love!
For we by rightful doom remedilefs

Were loft in death, till he that dwelt above vivim 0
High thron'd in fecret blifs, for us frail duftex LA
Emptied his glory, ev'n to nakedness;chistes aid or
And that great cov'nant which we fill tranfgrefs
Intirely fatisfy'd,

And the full wrath befide

Of vengeful juftice bore for our excefs,

And feals obedience first with wounding smart
This day; but O ere long

Huge pangs and ftrong r

Will pierce more near his heart.


more near his

At a folemn mufic.

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LEST pair of Sirens, pledges of heav'n's joy, Sphear-born harmonious fifters, Voice and Verfe, Wed your divine founds, and mixt power employ Dead things with inbreath'd sense able to pierce,

And to our high-rais'd phantafy present
That undisturbed fong of pure content,
Ay fung before the saphire-colour'd throne
To him that fits thereon

With faintly shout, and folemn jubilee,
Where the bright feraphim in burning row
Their loud up-lifted angel trumpets blow,
And the cherubic host in thousand quires,
Touch their immortal harps of golden wires,
With those just spirits that wear victorious palms,
Hymns devote and holy pfalms
Singing everlaftingly;

That we on earth with undifcording voice
May rightly answer that melodious noife;
As once we did, till difproportion'd fin
Jarr'd against nature's chime, and with harsh din
Broke the fair music that all creatures made

To their great Lord, whofe love their motion fway'd
In perfect diapafon, whilft they ftood

In first obedience, and their state of good.

O may we foon again renew that fong,

And keep in tune with heav'n, till God ere long
To his celestial confort us unite,

To live with him, and fing in endlefs morn of light,




Marchionefs of Winchefter.

'HIS rich marble doth enterr


The honour'd wife of Winchefter,

A Viscount's daughter, an Earl's heir,
Befides what her virtues fair

Added to her noble birth,

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More than she could own from earth. xp 16 on

Summers three times eight fave one

She had told, alas too soon,

After fo fhort time of breath,

To house with darkness, and with death.

Yet had the number of her days.
Been as compleat as her praise,
Nature and fate had had no ftrife
In giving limit to her life.

Her high birth, and her graces sweet,
Quickly found a lover meet;
The virgin quire for her requeft
The God that fits at marriage-feaft;
He at their invoking came,

But with a scarce-well-lighted flame;
And in his garland as he stood,
Ye might difcern a cypress bud.
Once had the early matrons run
To greet her of a lovely fon,
And now with fecond hope fhe goes,
And calls Lucina to her throws;
But whether by mischance or blame
Atropos or Lucina came;
And with remorseless cruelty
Spoil'd at once both fruit and tree:
The hapless babe before his birth
Had burial, yet not laid in earth,
And the languifh'd mother's womb
Was not long a living tomb.
So have I feen fome tender flip
Sav'd with care from winter's nip,
The pride of her carnation train,
Pluck'd up by fome unheedy fwain,
Who only thought to crop the flow'r
New shot up from vernal show'r;
But the fair bloffom hangs the head
Side-ways, as on a dying bed,

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