Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas 155 160 165 For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor. And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new spangled ore 170 So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves, Where, other groves and other streams along, With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, 175 And hears the unexpressive nuptial song, In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. 180 185 Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills, (While the still morn went out with sandals grey: He touched the tender stops of various quills, And now the sun had stretched out all the hills, 190 ON SHAKESPEARE. 1630. WHAT needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid Under a star-ypointing pyramid? Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, 5 What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name? Hast built thyself a livelong monument. For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavouring art, IO Dost make us marble with too much conceiving, 15 SONNETS. ON HIS HAVING ARRIVED AT THE AGE OF TWENTY THREE. How soon hath Time, the subtle chief of youth Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year! But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th. a That I to manhood am arrived so near; It shall be still in strictest measure even As ever in my great Task-Master's eye. с 2 TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL, MAY, 1652, ΙΟ ON THE PROPOSALS OF CERTAIN MINISTERS AT THE COMMITTEE CROMWELL, our chief of men, who through a cloud To peace and truth thy glorious way has ploughed, a And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud 15 ん a с لا Hast reared God's trophies, and his work pursued, Help us to save free conscience from the paw d 10 d с e e ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT. AVENGE, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow ON HIS BLINDNESS. WHEN I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He returning chide, 66 ! Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?" I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, 66 God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state Is kingly thousands at his bidding speed, : And post o'er land and ocean without rest; IO 5 TO CYRIACK SKINNER. CYRIACK, this three years' day these eyes, though clear, Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied Of which all Europe rings from side to side. ΙΟ This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask 5 |