He who with all Heaven's heraldry whilere

Entered the world, now bleeds to give us ease;
Alas, how soon our sin

Sore doth begin

His infancy to seize!

O more exceeding love, or law more just?
Just law indeed, but more exceeding love!
For we, by rightful doom remediless,

Were lost in death, till he that dwelt above
High throned in secret bliss, for us frail dust
Emptied his glory, even to nakedness;

And that great covenant which we still transgress
Entirely satisfied;

And the full wrath beside

Of vengeful Justice bore for our excess;

And seals obedience first, with wounding smart,
This day; but, oh! ere long

Huge pangs and strong

Will pierce more near his heart.

AT A SOLEMN MUSIC.

BLEST pair of Sirens! pledges of Heaven's joy,
Sphere-born harmonious sisters, Voice and Verse!
Wed your divine sounds, and mixed power employ
Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce;
And to our high raised phantasy present
That undisturbed song of pure concent,
Aye sung before the sapphire-coloured throne
To him that sits thereon,

With saintly shout, and solemn jubilee;
Where the bright seraphim, 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 devout and holy psalms

Singing everlastingly;

ΤΟ

That we on earth, with undiscording voice,
May rightly answer that melodious noise;
As once we did, till disproportioned Sin

Jarred against Nature's chime, and with harsh din
Broke the fair music that all creatures made

To their great Lord, whose love their motion swayed
In perfect diapason, whilst they stood,

In first obedience, and their state of good.

O may we soon again renew that song,

And keep in tune with Heaven, till God ere long
To his celestial concert us unite,

To live with him, and sing in endless morn of light.

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AN EPITAPH ON THE MARCHIONESS OF
WINCHESTER.

THIS rich marble doth inter

The honoured wife of Winchester,

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

Added to her noble birth,

More than she could own from earth.
Summers three times eight save 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 complete as was her praise,

Nature and Fate had had no strife

In giving limit to her life.

Her high birth, and her graces sweet,

Quickly found a lover meet;

The virgin quire for her request

The god that sits at marriage feast:

He at their invoking came,

But with a scarce well-lighted flame;
And in his garland, as he stood,
Ye might discern a cypress bud.

Once had the early matrons run
To greet her of a lovely son;
And now with second hopes she goes,
And calls Lucina to her throes;
But, whether by mischance or blame,
Atropos for Lucina came ;

And with remorseless cruelty
Spoiled at once both fruit and tree:
The hapless babe before his birth
Had burial, yet not laid in earth;
And the languished mother's womb
Was not long a living tomb.

So have I seen some tender slip,
Saved with care from Winter's nip,
The pride of her carnation train,
Plucked up by some unheedy swain,
Who only thought to crop the flower
New shot up from vernal shower;
But the fair blossom hangs the head
Sidewise, as on a dying bed;
And those pearls of dew she wears,
Prove to be presaging tears,
Which the sad Morn had let fall
On her hastening funeral.

Gentle Lady! may thy grave

Peace and quiet ever have;

After this thy travail sore

Sweet rest seize thee evermore,

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That, to give the world increase,

Shortened hast thy own life's lease.

Here, beside the sorrowing

That thy noble house doth bring,

Here be tears of perfect moan
Wept for thee in Helicon,

And some flowers, and some bays,

For thy hearse, to strew the ways,

Sent thee from the banks of Came,

Devoted to thy virtuous name;

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Whilst thou, bright Saint! high sitst in glory,
Next her, much like to thee in story,-

That fair Syrian shepherdess,
Who, after years of barrenness,
The highly-favoured Joseph bore
To him that served for her before;
And at her next birth, much like thee,
Through pangs fled to felicity,
Far within the bosom bright
Of blazing Majesty and Light :
There with thee, new welcome Saint,
Like fortunes may her soul acquaint,—
With thee there clad in radiant sheen,
No Marchioness, but now a Queen.

SONG ON MAY MORNING.

Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger,
Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her
The flowery May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose.

Hail, bounteous May! that dost inspire
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire;
Woods and groves are of thy dressing;
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

ON SHAKSPEARE. 1630.

WHAT needs my Shakspeare for his honoured bones
The labour of an age in pilèd stones?

Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid

Under a starry-pointing pyramid?

Dear son of Memory! great heir of Fame!

What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name?

Thou, in our wonder and astonishment,

Hast built thyself a live-long monument.

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For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavouring Art,
Thy easy numbers flow; and that each heart
Hath, from the leaves of thy unvalued book,
Those Delphic lines with deep impression took,
Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,
Dost make us marble with too much conceiving;
And, so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie,
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.

ON THE UNIVERSITY CARRIER,

Who sickened in the time of his vacancy, being forbid to go to London, by reason of the plague.

HERE lies old Hobson; Death hath broke his girt,
And here, alas! hath laid him in the dirt;
Or else, the ways being foul, twenty to one,
He's here stuck in a slough, and overthrown.
'Twas such a shifter, that, if truth were known,
Death was half glad when he had got him down;
For he had, any time this ten years full,
Dodged with him betwixt Cambridge and the Bull:
And surely Death could never have prevailed
Had not his weekly course of carriage failed;

But lately finding him so long at home,

And thinking now his journey's end was come,
And that he had ta'en up his latest inn,

In the kind office of a chamberlain

Showed him his room where he must lodge that night,
Pulled off his boots, and took away the light:

If any ask for him, it shall be said,

Hobson has supped, and's newly gone to bed.

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ANOTHER ON THE SAME.

HERE lieth one, who did most truly prove
That he could never die while he could move;
So hung his destiny, never to rot

While he might still jog on and keep his trot,