Poor fleshly tabernacle entered,

His ftarry 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.
JV.

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 rest Cremona's trump doth found;
Me fofter airs befit, and fofter strings

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

V.

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 washt a wannish white.

VI.

See, see the chariot, and thofe rufhing wheels,
That whirl'd the prophet up at Chebar flood,
My fpirit 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.

vii.

Mine eye hath found that fad fepulchral rock
That Was the cafket of heav'n's richef ftore,
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 viewless 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 eafily beguil'd)

Might think th' infection of my forrows loud,
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 satisfy'd with what was begun, left it unfinisht.

On TIME.

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,

For when as each thing bad thou haft entomb'd,

And laft of all thy greedy felf confum'd, not

Then long eternity fhall greet our blifs

With an individual kifs;

And joy thall overtake us as a flood,

When every thing that is fincerely good,, vilapy ni

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,

Triumphing over death, and chance, and thee, 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 VT
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 whileare ow Enter'd the world, now bleeds to give us cafe val Alas, how foon our fine but Alb by sono sé. Sore doth begin Lus (saklo amonu Piers D'any

His infancy to feize!

O more exceeding love or law more juftodos Just law indeed, but more exceeding love!

For we by rightful doom remedilefs.

Were loft in death, till he that dwelt above vivrin High thron'd in fecret blifs, for us frail duftex LaA Emptied his glory, ev'n to nakedness; slow ald 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 firft with wounding smart

This day; but O ere long

Huge pangs and ftrongr

Will pierce more near his heart.

At a folemn mufic.

BLEST 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 prefent
That undisturbed fong of pure content,
Ay fung before the faphire-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 everlastingly;

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 mufic 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,

T

AN

EPITAPH

ON THE

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,
More than she could own from earth.

Summers three times eight fave 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 compleat as her praise,
Nature and fate had had no ftrife
In giving limit to her life.

Her high birth, and her graces fweet,
Quickly found a lover meet;
The virgin quire for her requeft
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 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 languish'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 blossom hangs the head nab subd
Side-ways, as on a dying bed,