Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud; In vain with timbrell'd anthems dark The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipp'd ark. He feels from Juda's land The dreaded Infant's hand, The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; Nor all the gods beside, Longer dare abide, Not Typhon huge, ending in snaky twine: Our Babe, to show his Godhead true, Can in his swaddling bands control the damned crew. So, when the sun in bed, Curtain'd with cloudy red, Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, The flocking shadows pale, Troop to the infernal jail, Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave; And the yellow-skirted fayes, Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moonlov'd maze. But see the Virgin blest Hath laid her Babe to rest; Time is our tedious song should here have ending; Heav'n's youngest teemed star Hath fix'd her polish'd car, Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending: And all about the courtly stable, Bright-harness'd angels sit in order serviceable. THE PASSION. [A FRAGMENT.] EREWHILE of music, and ethereal mirth, In wintry solstice like the shorten'd light For now to sorrow must I tune my song, And set my harp to notes of saddest woe, Which he for us did freely undergo: Most perfect Hero, tried in heaviest plight Of labours huge and hard, too hard for human wight. He, sov'reign Priest, stooping his regal head, His starry front low-roof'd beneath the skies; Yet more; the stroke of death he must abide, Then lies him meekly down fast by his brethren's side. These latter scenes confine my roving verse, Me softer airs befit, and softer strings Of lute, or viol still, more apt for mournful things. Befriend me night, best patroness of grief; That heav'n and earth are colour'd with my woe; The leaves should all be black whereon I write, And letters, where my tears have wash'd, a wannish white. See, see the chariot, and those rushing wheels, In pensive trance, and anguish, and ecstatic fit. Mine eye hath found that sad sepulchral rock For sure so well instructed are my tears, Or should I thence, hurried on viewless wing, Might think the infection of my sorrows loud, Had got a race of mourners on some pregnant cloud. UPON THE CIRCUMCISION. YE flaming powers, and winged warriors bright, Seas wept from our deep sorrow; He who with all heav'n's heraldry whilere Alas, how soon our sin Sore doth begin His infancy to seize! O more exceeding love, or law more just! And that great cov'nant which we still transgress And the full wrath beside Of vengeful justice bore for our excess; And seals obedience first, with wounding smart, This day, but, O! ere long, Huge pangs and strong Will pierce more near his heart. SONNET I. ON HIS BEING ARRIVED TO HIS TWENTY-THIRD YEAR. How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, And inward ripeness doth much less appear, That some more timely-happy spirits endu❜th. Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow, It shall be still in strictest measure even All is, if I have grace to use it so, SONNET II. TO A VIRTUOUS YOUNG LADY. LADY, that in the prime of earliest youth, Wisely hast shun'd the broad and the green, way And with those few art eminently seen, That labour up the hill of heav'nly truth, The better part with Mary and with Ruth Chosen thou hast; and they that overween, And at thy growing virtues fret their spleen, No anger find in thee, but pity and ruth. Thy care is fix'd and zealously attends |