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And perfectly divine,
With Truth, and Peace, and Love, shall ever shine
About the supreme Throne
Of Him, to whose happy-making sight alone
When once our heavenly-guided soul shall climb,
Then, all this earthly grossness quit,
Attired with stars we shall forever sit,
Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee,

O Time!

Of Himhe supred Peace,


(1633-34) 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 imbreathed sense able to pierce; And to our high-raised phantasy present That undisturbed Song of pure consent, Aye sung before the sapphire-coloured Throne To Him that sits thereon, With saintly shout and solemn jubily; Where the bright Seraphim in burning row Their loud uplifted 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: 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 motions 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 consort us unite,
To live with Him, and sing in endless morn of light!

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(1634) Ye flaming Powers, and winged Warriors bright, That erst with music, and triumphant song, First heard by happy watchful Shepherds' ear, So sweetly sung your joy the clouds along, Through the soft silence of the listening night,Now mourn; and if sad share with us to bear Your fiery essence can distil no tear, Burn in your sighs, and borrow Seas wept from our deep sorrow, 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 Intirely 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.


(1633) Part of an Entertainment presented to the Countess Dowager of

Derby at Harefield by some Noble Persons of her Family; who appear on the Scene in pastoral habit, moving toward the seat of state, with this song:

Look, Nymphs and Shepherds, look!
What sudden blaze of majesty
Is that which we from hence descry,
Too divine to be mistook ?

This, this is she
To whom our vows and wishes bend:
Here our solemn search hath end.
Fame, that her high worth to raise
Seemed erst so lavish and profuse,
We may justly now accuse
Of detraction from her praise:

Less than half we find expressed;
Envy bid conceal the rest.

Mark what radiant state she spreads,
In circle round her shining throne
Shooting her beams like silver threads:

This, this is she alone,
Sitting like a Goddess bright
In the centre of her light.

Might she the wise Latona be,
Or the towered Cybele,
Mother of a hundred gods?
Juno dares not give her odds:

Who had thought this clime had held

A deity so unparalleled ?
As they come forward, the GENIUS OF THE WOOD appears, and,

turning toward them, speaks.
Gen. Stay, gentle Swains, for, though in this


I see bright honour sparkle through your eyes;
Of famous Arcady ye are, and sprung
Of that renowned flood so often sung,
Divine Alpheus, who, by secret sluice,
Stole under seas to meet his Arethuse;
And ye, the breathing roses of the wood,
Fair silver-buskined Nymphs, as great and good.
I know this quest of yours and free intent
Was all in honour and devotion meant
To the great Mistress of yon princely shrine,
Whom with low reverence I adore as mine,
And with all helpful service will comply
To further this night's glad solemnity,
And lead ye where ye may more near behold
What shallow-searching Fame hath left untold;
Which I full oft, amidst these shades alone,
Have sat to wonder at, and gaze upon.
For know, by lot from Jove, I am the Power
Of this fair wood, and live in oaken bower,
To nurse the saplings tall, and curl the grove
With ringlets quaint and wanton windings wave;
And all my plants I save from nightly ill
Of noisome winds and blasting vapours chill;
And from the boughs brush off the evil dew,
And heal the harms of thwarting thunder blue,
Or what the cross dire-looking planet smites,
Or hurtful worm with cankered venom bites.
When Evening grey doth rise, I fetch my round
Over the mount, and all this hallowed ground;
And early, ere the odorous breath of morn
Awakes the slumbering leaves, or tasselled horn
Shakes the high thicket, haste I all about,
Number my ranks, and visit every sprout
With puissant words and murmurs made to bless.
But else, in deep of night, when drowsiness
Hath locked up mortal sense, then listen I
To the celestial Sirens' harmony,
That sit upon the nine enfolded spheres,
And sing to those that hold the vital shears,
And turn the adamantine spindle round

On which the fate of gods and men is wound.
Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie,
To lull the daughters of Necessity,
And keep unsteady Nature to her law,
And the low world in measured motion draw
After the heavenly tune, which none can hear
Of human mould with gross unpurgèd ear.
And yet such music worthiest were to blaze
The peerless height of her immortal praise
Whose lustre leads us, and for her most fit,
If my inferior hand or voice could hit
Inimitable sounds. Yet, as we go,
Whate'er the skill of lesser gods can show
I will assay, her worth to celebrate,
And so attend ye toward her glittering state;
Where ye may all, that are of noble stem,
Approach, and kiss her sacred vesture's hem.

11. SONG
O'er the smooth enamelled green,
Where no print of step hath been,

Follow me, as I sing

And touch the warbled string :
Under the shady roof
Of branching elm star-proof

Follow me.
I will bring you where she sits,
Clad in splendour as befits

Her deity.
Such a rural Queen
All Arcadia hath not seen.

Nymphs and Shepherds, dance no more

By sandy Ladon's lilied banks;
On old Lycæus, or Cyllene hoar,

Trip no more in twilight ranks ;
Though Erymanth your loss deplore,

A better soil shall give ye thanks.
From the stony Mänalus

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