Whom subjects' love doth guard, because that he
Guards them from all oppression, and makes free
His noble favours to desert and worth,
Spreading his valiant virtues frankly forth,
That both his own may find, and neighbours know
What glorious fruit doth from religion grow;
How sweet an odour justice sends to heaven,
How rare example is to princes given,
By virtuous deeds to stop the mouths of those,
Who, unreform'd, are reformation's foes.
Author of "Pictures of the Passions," and many other effusions, which are now very scarce. The following pieces are from Miscellaneous Poems published in 1645. The first is exceedingly striking. The Inscription on the pillar of salt, is a bold and happy idea, though rudely executed.
On Lot's Wife looking back to Sodom.
COULD not the Angel's charge, weak woman, turn
Thy longing eyes from seeing Sodom burn?
What consolations couldst thou think to see
In punishments that were as due to thee?
For 'tis, without dispute, thy only sin
Had made Thee one, had not thy husband been :
His righteousness preserved thee, who went on,
Without desire to see confusion
Rain on the wretched citizens; but joy'd
That God decreed thou shouldst not be destroy'd,
Nor thy two daughters, who did likewise flie
The flaming plague, without casting an eye
Toward the burning towers.-What urged thee, then,
Since they went on, so to look back again?
But God, whose mercy would not let his ire
Punish thy crime, as it did theirs, in fire,
With his divine compassion did consent
At once to give thee death and monument;
Where I perceive, engraven on thy stone,
Are lines that tend to exhortation;
Which, that by thy offence I may take heed,
I shall with sacred application read.
In this pillar I do lie
Buried where no mortal eye
Ever could my bones descry.
When I saw great Sodom burn,
To this pillar I did turn,
Where my body is my urn.
You to whom my corpse I show,
Take true warning from my woe,
-Look not back when God cries" Go."
They that toward virtue hie,
If but back they cast an eye,
Twice as far do from it flie.
Counsel then I give to those,
Who the path to bliss have chose,
Turn not back, ye cannot lose.
That way let your whole hearts lie;
If ye let them backward flie,
They'll quickly grow as hard as I.
You, that did love with filial fear
The soul that shines in yonder sphere,
Whose shadow is enshrined here,
-Put on your sackcloth and appear.
By the murmur of a spring,
Or the least bough's rustleing;
By a daisy, whose leaves, spread,
Shut when Titan goes to bed;
Or a shady bush, or tree,
She could more infuse in me,
Than all nature's beauties can
In some other wiser man.
By her help I also now
Make this churlish place allow
Some things that may sweeten gladness,
In the very gall of sadness.
The dull loneness, the black shade,
That these hanging vaults have made;
The strange music of the waves,
Beating on these hollow caves;
This dark den which rocks emboss,
Overgrown with eldest moss;
The rude portals, that give light
More to terror than delight;
This my chamber of neglect
Wall'd about with disrespect:
-From all these, and this dull air,
A fit object for despair,
She hath taught me, by her might,
To draw comfort and delight.
Therefore, Thou best earthly bliss!
I will cherish Thee for this:
POESY! thou sweet'st content,
That e'er heaven to mortals lent;
Though they as a trifle leave Thee,
Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive Thee,
Though Thou be to them a scorn,
Who to nought but earth are born,
Let my life no longer be
Than I am in love with Thee.
Though our wise ones call Thee madness,
Let me never taste of gladness,
If I love not thy madd'st fits
More than all their greatest wits.
And though some, too-seeming holy,
Do account thy raptures folly,
Thou dost teach me to condemn
What makes knaves and fools of them.
WHEN with a serious musing I behold
The grateful and obsequious marygold,
How duly, every morning, she displays
Her open breast, when Titan spreads his rays;
How she observes him in his daily walk,
Still bending tow'rds him her small slender stalk;
How, when he down declines, she droops and mourns,
Bedew'd, as 'twere with tears, till he returns;
And how she vails her flowers when he is gone,
As if she scorned to be looked on
By an inferior eye; or did contemn
To wait upon a meaner light than him:
-When this I meditate, methinks the flowers
Have spirits far more generous than ours,
And give us fair examples, to despise
The servile fawnings and idolatries,
Wherewith we court these earthly things below,
Which merit not the service we bestow.
But, O my God! though grovelling I appear
Upon the ground, and have a rooting here,
Which hales me downward, yet in my desire
To that which is above me I aspire;
And all my best affections I profess
To Him that is the Sun of Righteousness.
Oh! keep the morning of his incarnation,
The burning noontide of his bitter passion,
The night of his descending, and the height
Of his ascension,-ever in my sight;
That, imitating Him in what I may,
I never follow an inferior way.
[The Emblem represents a scull, out of which wheat ears are springing at the apertures.]
I WILL not blame those grieved hearts, that shed
Becoming tears for their departed friends;
Nor those who sigh out passions for the dead;
Since on good nature this disease attends:
When sorrow is conceived it must have vent,
In sighs or moisture, or the heart will break;
And much they aggravate our discontent,
Who, out of season, reason seem to speak
Yet since our folly may require we should
Remembrances admit to keep us from
Excess in grief, this emblem, understood,
Will yield such hope as may our tears o'ercome.
The Wheat, although it lies a while in earth,
And seemeth lost, consumes not quite away;
But from that womb receives another birth,
And with additions riseth from the clay.
Much more shall Man revive, whose worth is more;
For Death, who from our dross will us refine,
Unto that other life becomes the door,
Where we in immortality shall shine.
When once our glass is run, we presently
Give up our souls to Death;-so Death must give
Our bodies back again, that we, thereby,
The light of life eternal may receive;
The venom'd sting of Death is took away;
And now the grave, that was a place of fear,
Is made a bed of rest, wherein we may
Lie down in hope, and bide in safety there.
When we are born, to death-ward straight we run; And by our death our life is new begun.
WHEN in the sweet and pleasant month of May,
We see both leaves and blossoms on the tree,
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