It grieves me when I see what fate Can arm, against death's smallest dart, But when their life, in its decline, All the world's mortal to them then, And wine is aconite to men; Nay, in death's hand, the grape-stone proves As strong as thunder is in Jove's. CHRIST'S PASSION, TAKEN OUT OF A GREEK ODE, WRITTEN BY MR. MASTERS, OF NEW-COLLEGE, IN OXFORD. ENOUGH, my Muse! of earthly things, Take up thy lute, and to it bind Loud and everlasting strings ; And on them play, and to them sing, The happy mournful stories, The lamentable glories, Of the great crucified King. Mountainous heap of wonders! which dost rise How shall I grasp this boundless thing? With all their comments can explain; How all the whole world's life to die did not disdain! I'll sing the searchless depths of the compassion Divine, By reason's plummet, and the line of wit; |