How well the skilful gardener drew How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckon'd but with herbs and flowers? CIV A. MARVELL. PHOSPHORE REDDE DIEM WILL'T ne'er be morning? Will that promis'd light Ne'er break, and clear those clouds of night? Sweet Phosphor, bring the day, Whose conqu'ring ray May chase these fogs; sweet Phosphor, bring the day. How long! How long shall these benighted eyes Expecting spring? How long shall darkness soil The souls of sprightful action? When, when will day May gild the weather-cocks of our devotion, These horrid mists; sweet Phosphor, bring the day. Alas! my light in vain expecting eyes Can find no objects, but what rise From this poore mortal blaze, a dying spark As melancholy as the night: Here's all the sunnes that glister in the sphere Haste, haste away, Heav'n's loit'ring lamp; sweet Phosphor, bring the day. CV F. QUARLES. PRESENT AND FUTURE How we dally out our days! Never was there morning yet, Which man's follie did not soon As though such an haste did tend Nay, the young ones in the nest Sooner shall the wandering star Leave his motion and stand still. Be it joy, or be it sorrow, We refer all to the morrow; That, we think, will ease our paine; That, we do suppose again, Will increase our joy; and soe Events, the which we cannot know, We magnify, and are (in sum) Well, the next day comes, and then Of solid joy; and yet haste on Till the forehead often have R. GOMERSALL. CVI DEPARTED FRIENDS THEY are all gone into the world of light! Their very memory is faire and bright, It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest I see them walking in an air of glorie, My days, which are at best but dull and hoarie, O holy Hope! and high Humility! High as the Heavens above; These are your walks, and you have shew'd them me To kindle my cold love. Dear, beauteous death; the Jewel of the Just! What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, Could man outlook that mark! He that hath found some fledg'd bird's nest may know At first sight if the bird be flown; But what fair dell or grove he sings in now, That is to him unknown. And yet, as Angels in some brighter dreams So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, If a star were confin'd into a tombe, Her captive flames must needs burn there; But when the hand that lockt her up gives roome She'll shine through all the spheare. O Father of eternal life, and all Created glories under thee! Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall Into true libertie ! |