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TIT. Poor world, said I, what wilt thou And chase the trembling shades away. 75 do

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We saw Thee, and we blest the sight, We saw Thee by Thine own sweet Light.

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Till burnt at last in fire of Thy fair eyes, Ourselves become our own best sacrifice!

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Happy those early days, when I
Shined in my angel-infancy;
Before I understood this place
Appointed for my second race,
Or taught my soul to fancy ought
But a white, celestial thought;
When yet I had not walked above
A mile or two from my first love,
And looking back-at that short space-
Could see a glimpse of His bright face; 10
When on some gilded cloud or flower
My gazing soul would dwell an hour,
And in those weaker glories spy
Some shadows of eternity;

Before I taught my tongue to wound
My conscience with a sinful sound,
Or had the black art to dispense,
A several sin to every sense,
But felt through all this fleshly dress
Bright shoots of everlastingness.

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If thou canst get but thither,
There grows the flower of peace,
The rose that can not wither,
Thy fortress and thy ease.
Leave then thy foolish ranges,

For none can thee secure
But one who never changes,

Thy God, thy life, thy cure.

THE WORLD

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And all her train were hurled.

The doting lover in his quaintest strain
Did there complain;

Near him, his lute, his fancy, and his flights,

Wit's four delights,

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With gloves and knots, the silly snares of pleasure;

Yet his dear treasure,

All scattered lay, while he his eyes did

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The darksome statesman, hung with weights and woe,

Like a thick midnight-fog, moved there so

slow,

He did not stay nor go;

Condemning thoughts, like sad eclipses,

scowl

Upon his soul,

And clouds of crying witnesses without Pursued him with one shout;

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Yet digged the mole, and lest his ways be

found,

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The weaker sort, slight, trivial wares enslave,

Who think them brave;

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And poor, despised Truth sat counting by Tell her that's young,

Their victory.

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And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung

In deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth

Bid her come forth,
Of beauty from the light retired;

Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.

Then die! that she

The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee;

How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

ANDREW MARVELL (1621-1678)

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AN HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S RETURN FROM IRELAND

The forward youth that would appear Must now forsake his muses dear,

Nor in the shadows sing

His numbers languishing:

'Tis time to leave the books in dust, 5 And oil the unused armor's rust, Removing from the wall

The corselet of the hall.

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And a few friends, and many books, both true,

Both wise, and both delightful too!

And since love ne'er will from me flee, A mistress moderately fair, And good as guardian angels are, Only beloved, and loving me.

O fountains! when in you shall I

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Within, Love's foes, his greatest foes, Myself, eased of unpeaceful thoughts,

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