So unto them whose zenith is the pole,

So after tempest to sea-tossed wights,

Fair Helen's brothers show their clearing lights:
So comes Arabia's wonder from her woods,
And far, far off is seen by Memphis' floods;
The feather'd sylvans, cloud-like, by her fly,
And with triumphing plaudits beat the sky;
Nile marvels, Serap's priests entranced rave,
And in Mygdonian stone her shape engrave;
In lasting cedars they do mark the time
In which Apollo's bird came to their clime.

Let mother Earth now deck'd with flowers be seen;

And sweet-breath'd zephyrs curl the meadows

green:

Let heaven weep rubies in a crimson shower,
Such as on India's shores they use to pour;
Or with that golden storm the fields adorn
Which Jove rain'd when his blue-eyed maid was

born.

May never hours the web of day outweave;
May never night rise from her sable cave!
Swell proud my billows, faint not to declare
Your joys as ample as their causes are:
For murmurs hoarse sound like Arion's harp,
Now delicately flat, now sweetly sharp;

And you, my nymphs, rise from your moist repair,

Strew all your springs and grots with lilies fair. Some swiftest footed, get them hence, and

pray

Our floods and lakes may keep this holiday;
Whate'er beneath Albania's hills do run,
Which see the rising or the setting sun,
Which drink stern Grampus' mists, or Ochil's

snows:

Stone-rolling Tay, Tyne, tortoise-like that flows, The pearly Don, the Dees, the fertile Spey, Wild Severn, which doth see our longest day; Ness, smoking sulphur, Leve, with mountains crown'd,

Strange Lomond, for his floating isles renown'd; The Irish Rian, Ken, the silver Ayr,

The snaky Doon, the Orr with rushy hair, The crystal-streaming Nith, loud-bellowing Clyde,

Tweed which no more our kingdoms shall divide, Rank-swelling Annan, Lid with curl'd streams, The Esks, the Solway, where they lose their

names;

To every one proclaim our joys and feasts,
Our triumphs; bid all come and be our guests.
And as they meet in Neptune's azure hall,
Bid them bid sea-gods keep this festival;
This day shall by our currents be renown'd;
Our hills about shall still this day resound:
Nay, that our love more to this day appear,
Let us with it henceforth begin our year.

Cool shades to pilgrims, which hot glances burn,
Are not so pleasing as thy blest return,
That day, dear prince.

Phoebus, arise,

SONG.

And paint the sable skies
With azure, white, and red;

Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tython's bed,

That she thy career may with roses spread, The nightingales thy coming each where sing, Make an eternal spring.

Give life to this dark world which lieth dead;
Spread forth thy golden hair

In larger locks than thou wast wont before,
And, emperor-like, decore

With diadem of pearl thy temples fair:

Chase hence the ugly night,

Which serves but to make dear thy glorious

light.

This is that happy morn,

That day, long-wished day,

Of all my life so dark,

(If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn, And fates my hopes betray,)

Which, purely white, deserves

An everlasting diamond should it mark.
This is the morn should bring unto this grove
My love, to hear, and recompense my love.
Fair king, who all preserves,

But show thy blushing beams,
And thou two sweeter eyes

Shalt see than those which by Peneus' streams
Did once thy heart surprise:

Nay, suns, which shine as clear

As thou when two thou didst to Rome appear.
Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise.
If that ye winds would hear

A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre,
Your furious chiding stay;
Let Zephyr only breathe,
And with her tresses play,

Kissing sometimes those purple ports of death.
The winds all silent are,
And Phoebus in his chair
Ensaffroning sea and air,
Makes vanish every star:
Night like a drunkard reels

Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels.
The fields with flowers are decked in every

hue,

The clouds with orient gold spangle their blue: Here is the pleasant place,

And nothing wanting is, save she, alas!

DEDICATION OF A CHURCH.

Jerusalem, that place divine,

The vision of sweet peace is named;
In heaven her glorious turrets shine—
Her walls of living stones are framed;
While angels guard her on each side,
Fit company for such a bride.

She, decked in new attire from heaven,

Her wedding chamber now descends,
Prepared in marriage to be given
To Christ, on whom her joy depends.
Her walls, wherewith she is inclosed,
And streets, are of pure gold composed.

The gates, adorned with pearls most bright,
The way to hidden glory show;
And thither, by the blessed might
Of faith in Jesus' merits, go

All those who are on earth distressed
Because they have Christ's name professed.

These stones the workmen dress and beat
Before they throughly polished are;
Then each is in his proper seat
Established by the Builder's care-

In this fair frame to stand for ever,
So joined that them no force can sever.

To God, who sits in highest seat,
Glory and power given be;
To Father, Son, and Paraclete,
Who reign in equal dignity-

Whose boundless power we still adore,
And sing their praise for evermore!

SONNETS.

Dear chorister, who from those shadows sends-
Ere that the blushing morn dare show her light
Such sad lamenting strains, that night attends,
Become all ear, stars stay to hear thy plight;
If one whose grief even reach of thought tran-
scends,

Who ne'er (not in a dream) did taste delight,
May thee importune who like case pretends,
And seems to joy in woe, in woe's despite;
Tell me (so may thou fortune milder try,
And long, long sing!) for what thou thus com-
plains,

Since Winter's gone, and sun in dappled sky
Enamor'd smiles on woods and flow'ry plains?
The bird, as if my questions did her move,
With trembling wings sighed forth, "I love, I
love."

In Mind's pure glass when I myself behold,
And lively see how my best days are spent ;
What clouds of care above my head are rolled,
What coming ill, which I can not prevent:
My course begun, I, wearied, do repent,
And would embrace what reason oft hath told;
But scarce thus think I, when love hath controlled
All the best reasons reason could invent.
Though sure I know my labour's end is grief,
The more I strive that I the more shall pine,
That only death shall be my last relief:
Yet when I think upon that face divine,
Like one with arrow shot, in laughter's place,
Maugre my heart, I joy in my disgrace.

Triumphing chariots, statues, crowns of bays,
Sky-threatening arches, the rewards of worth;
Books heavenly-wise in sweet harmonious lays,
Which men divine unto the world set forth;
States which ambitious minds, in blood, do raise
From frozen Tanais unto sun-burnt Gange;
Gigantic frames, held wonders rarely strange,
Like spiders' webs, are made the sport of days.
Nothing is constant but in constant change,
What's done still is undone, and when undone
Into some other fashion doth it range;
Thus goes the floating world beneath the moon :
Wherefore, my mind, above time, motion, place,
Rise up, and steps unknown to nature trace.

A good that never satisfies the mind,
A beauty fading like the April showers,

A sweet with floods of gall that runs combined,

A pleasure passing e'er in thought made ours,
A honour that more fickle is than wind,

A glory at opinion's frown that lowers,
A treasury which bankrupt time devours,

A knowledge than grave ignorance more blind,
A vain delight our equals to command,

A style of greatness in effect a dream,
A swelling thought of holding sea and land,
A servile lot, decked with a pompous name:
Are the strange ends we toil for here below,
Till wisest death makes us our errors know.

Thrice happy he who by some shady grove,
Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own.
Thou solitary, who is not alone,

But doth converse with that eternal love.

O how more sweet is bird's harmonious moan,
Or the hoarse sobbings of the widowed dove,
Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's
throne,

Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve!
O how more sweet is Zephyr's wholesome breath,
And sighs embalmed which new-born flowers
unfold,

Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath! How sweet are streams to poison drank in gold!

The world is full of horror, troubles, slights: Woods' harmless shades have only true delights.

My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow
With thy green mother in some shady grove,
When immelodious winds but made thee move,
And birds their romage did on thee bestow.
Since that dear voice which did thy sounds ap-
prove,

Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,
Is reft from earth to tune the spheres above,
What art thou but a harbinger of woe?
Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,
But orphan wailings to the fainting ear,
Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear;
For which be silent as in woods before:
Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,
Like widowed turtle still her loss complain.

To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,
And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare,
A stain to human sense in sin that lowers.
What soul can be so sick which by thy songs
(Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and
wrongs,

And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven!
Sweet, artless songster! thou my mind dost raise
To airs of spheres-yes, and to angels' lays.

Stay, passenger, see where enclosed lies
The paragon of princes, fairest frame
Time, nature, place, could show to mortal eyes,
In worth, wit, virtue, miracle of fame:

At least that part the earth of him could claim
This marble holds-hard like the Destinies-

For as to his brave spirit and glorious name,
The one the world, the other fills the skies.
Th' immortal amaranthus, princely rose;
Sad violet, and that sweet flower that bears
In sanguine spots the tenor of our woes,
Spread on this stone, and wash it with your tears;
Then go and tell from Gades unto Ind
You saw where earth's perfections were confined.

Of mortal glory O soon darkened ray!

O winged joys of man, more swift than wind!
O fond desires, which in our fancies stray!
O trait'rous hopes, which do our judgments blind!
Lo, in a flash that light is gone away
Which dazzle did each eye, delight each mind,
And, with that sun from whence it came com-
bined,

Now makes more radiant heaven's eternal day.
Let Beauty now bedew her cheeks with tears;
Let widowed Music only roar and groan;
Poor Virtue, get thee wings and mount the
spheres,

For dwelling-place on earth for thee is none! Death hath thy temple razed, love's empire foiled,

The world of honour, worth, and sweetness spoiled.

I know that all beneath the moon decays;
And what by mortals in this world is brought,
In time's great periods shall return to nought;
That fairest states have fatal nights and days.
I know that all the Muses' heavenly lays,
With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought,
As idle sounds, of few or none are sought;
That there is nothing lighter than vain praise.
I know frail beauty's like the purple flower
To which one morn oft birth and death affords;
That love ajarring is of mind's accords,
Where sense and will bring under reason's power:
Know what I list, this all cannot me move,
But that, alas! I both must write and love.

With the purpose of studying medicine he resided for some time at Padua, Italy, where, in 1610, the degree of M.D. was conferred upon him. He subsequently travelled in Germany, Denmark, and Holland, and then set