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Tis, I believe, this archery to shew,
that so much cost in colours thou,
and skill in painting dost bestow
upon thy ancient arms, the gaudy heav'nly bow.
Swift as light thoughts their empty career run,
thy race is finish'd when begun;

let a post-angel start with thee,

and thou the goal of earth shalt reach as soon as he. Thou in the moon's bright chariot, proud and gay, dost thy bright wood of stars survey,

and all the year dost with thee bring,

of thousand flow'ry lights, thine own nocturnal spring. Thou Scythian-like, dost round thy lands above the Sun's gilt tent for ever move,

and still as thou in pomp dost go, the shining pageants of the world attend thy show. Nor amidst all these triumphs dost thou scorn the humble glow-worms to adorn, and with those living spangles gild,

(O greatness without pride!) the bushes of the field. Night, and her ugly subjects thou dost fright, and Sleep, the lazy owl of Night,

asham'd and fearful to appear,


they screen their horrid shapes with the black hemis

With them there hastes, and wildly takes th' alarm, of painted dreams a busy swarm;

at the first op'ning of thine eye

the various clusters break, the antic atoms fly, The guilty serpents, and obscener beasts,

creep conscious to their secret rests:

No. 77.

nature to thee does rev'rence pay,

ill omens and ill sights removes out of thy way.
At thy appearance, Grief itself is said

to shake his wings, and rouse his head ;
and cloudy Care has often took

a gentle beamy smile reflected from thy look.
At thy appearance, Fear itself grows bold;
thy sunshine melts away his cold:
encourag'd at the sight of thee,

to the cheek colour comes, and firmness to the knee. Ev'n Lust, the master of a harden'd face, blushes if thou be'st in the place;

to Darkness' curtains be retires, in sympathizing night he rolls his smoky fires. When, Goddess! thou lift'st up thy waken'd head out of the morning's purple bed,

thy choir of birds about thee play,

and all the joyful world salutes the rising day. : The ghosts, and monster sp'rits, that did presume a body's priv❜lege to assume,

vanish again invisibly,

and bodies gain again their visibility.

All the world's brav'ry, that delights our eyes, is but thy sev'ral liveries;

thou the rich dye on them bestow'st,

thy nimble pencil paints this landscape as thou go'st. A crimson garment in the rose thou wear'st; a crown of studded gold thou bear'st;

the virgin lilies, in their white,

are clad but with the lawn of almost naked light.
The violet, Spring's little infant, stands
girt in thy purple swaddling bands.

on the fair tulip thou dost dote;

thou cloth'st it in a gay and party-colour'd coat. With flame condens'd thou dost the jewels fix, and solid colours in it mix:

Flora herself envies to see

flow'rs fairer than her own, and durable as she.

Ah! Goddess! would thou couldst thy hand withhold, and be less liberal to gold;

didst thou less value to it give,


of how much care, alas! migh'st thou poor man re

Το me the sun is more delightful far,

and all fair days much fairer are;

but few, ah! wondrous few there be

who do not gold prefer, O Goddess! ev'n to thee. Through the soft ways of heav'n, and air, and sea, which open all their pores to thee, like a clear river thou dost glide,

[nels slide.

and with thy living stream through the close chanBut where firm bodies thy free course oppose, gently thy source the land o'erflows;

takes there possession, and does make, of colours mingled light, a thick and standing lake. But the vast ocean of unbounded day

in th' empyrean heav'n does stay;
thy rivers, lakes, and springs below,


from thence took first their rise, thither at last must

ON THE DEATH OF MR. WILLIAM HARVEY. "Immodicis brevis est ætas, et rara senectus." Mart.

It was a dismal, and a fearful night,

scarce could the morn drive on th' unwilling light,

when sleep, death's image, left my troubled breast, by something, liker death, possess'd:

my eyes with tears did uncommanded flow, and on my soul hung the dull weight

of some intolerable fate.

What bell was that? Ah me! too much I know. My sweet companion, and my gentle peer, why hast thou left me thus unkindly here, thy end for ever, and my life to moan? O thou hast left me all alone! Thy soul and body, when death's agony besieg'd, around thy noble heart,

did not with more reluctance part, than I, my dearest friend, do part from thee. My dearest friend, would I had dy'd for thee!' life and this world, henceforth, will tedious be. Nor shall I know hereafter what to do,

if once my griefs prove tedious too. Silent and sad I walk about all day,

as sullen ghosts stalk speechless by,
where their hid treasures lie:

alas! my treasure's gone; why do I stay?
He was my friend, the truest friend on earth;
a strong and mighty influence join'd our birth:
nor did we envy the most sounding name,

by friendship giv'n of old to fame. None but his brethren he, and sisters, knew, whom the kind youth preferr'd to me; and ev'n in that we did agree;

for much above myself I lov'd them, too. Say, for you saw us, ye immortal lights! how oft unwearied have we spent the nights, till the Ledæan stars, so fam'd for love,

wonder'd at us from above!

We spent them not in toys, in lusts, or wine; but search of deep philosophy,

wit, eloquence, and poetry;

arts which I lov'd, for they, my friend, were thine. Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge! say, have you not seen us walking every day? Was there a tree about, which did not know the love betwixt us two?

Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade, or your sad branches thicker join, and into darksome shades combine, dark, as the grave, wherein my friend is laid. Henceforth, no learned youths beneath you sing, till all the tuneful birds t' your boughs they bring; no tuneful birds play with their wonted chear,

and call the learned youths to hear;

no whistling winds through the glad branches fly, but all with sad solemnity,

mute and unmoved be,

mute as the grave, wherein my friend does lie. To him my Muse made haste with every strain, whilst it was new, and warm yet from the brain, be lov'd my worthless rhymes, and like a friend

would find out something to commend. Hence now, my Muse, thou canst not me delight; be this my latest verse

with which I now adorn his hearse;

and this my grief, without thy help, shall write.
Had I a wreath of bays about my brow,
I should contemn that flourishing honour now,
condemn it to the fire, and joy to hear
it rage and crackle there.

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