And sable stole of Cipres Lawn,
Over thy decent shoulders drawn.
Com, but keep thy wonted state,
With eev'n step, and musing gate,
And looks commercing with the skies,
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:
There held in holy passion still,
Forget thy self to Marble, till
With a sad Leaden downward cast,
Thou fix them on the earth as fast.

And joyn with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,
Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,
And hears the Muses in a ring,

Ay round about Joves Altar sing.
And adde to these retired Leasure,

That in trim Gardens takes his pleasure;
But first, and chiefest, with thee bring,
Him that yon soars on golden wing,
Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,
The Cherub Contemplation,

And the mute Silence hist along,
'Less Philomel will daign a Song,

In her sweetest, saddest plight,

Smoothing the rugged brow of night,

While Cynthia checks her Dragon yoke,

Gently o're th'accustom'd Oke;

Sweet Bird that shunn'st the noise of folly,
Most musicall, most melancholy!

Thee Chauntress oft the Woods among,

I woo to hear thy eeven-Song ;

And missing thee, I walk unseen
On the dry smooth-shaven Green,
To behold the wandring Moon,
Riding neer her highest noon,
Like one that had bin led astray

Through the Heav'ns wide pathles way;
And oft, as if her head she bow'd,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft on a Plat of rising ground,
I hear the far-off Curfeu sound,
Over som wide-water'd shoar,
Swinging slow with sullen roar;
Or if the Ayr will not permit,
Som still removed place will fit,

Where glowing Embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,
Far from all resort of mirth,

Save the Cricket on the hearth,
Or the Belmans drousie charm,

To bless the dores from nightly harm:

Or let my Lamp at midnight hour,
Be seen in som high lonely Towr,
Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,
With thrice great Hermes, or unsphear
The spirit of Plato to unfold

What Worlds, or what vast Regions hold
The immortal mind that hath forsook
Her mansion in this fleshly nook:
And of those Daemons that are found
In fire, air, flood, or under ground,
Whose power hath a true consent
With Planet, or with Element.
Som time let Gorgeous Tragedy
In Scepter'd Pall com sweeping by,
Presenting Thebs, or Pelops line,
Or the tale of Troy divine,

Or what (though rare) of later age,
Ennobled hath the Buskind stage.
But, O sad Virgin, that thy power
Might raise Musaeus from his bower,
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
Such notes as warbled to the string,
Drew Iron tears down Pluto's cheek,

And made Hell grant what Love did seek.
Or call up him that left half told
The story of Cambuscan bold,
Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
And who had Canace to wife,

That own'd the vertuous Ring and Glass,
And of the wondrous Hors of Brass,
On which the Tartar King did ride;
And if ought els, great Bards beside,
In sage and solemn tunes have sung,
Of Turneys and of Trophies hung;
Of Forests, and inchantments drear,
Where more is meant then meets the ear.
Thus night oft see me in thy pale career,
Till civil-suited Morn appeer,

Not trickt and frounc't as she was wont,
With the Attick Boy to hunt,

But Kerchef't in a comly Cloud,

While rocking Winds are Piping loud,

Or usher'd with a shower still,

When the gust hath blown his fill,
Ending on the russling Leaves,

With minute drops from off the Eaves:
And when the Sun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me Goddes bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And shadows brown that Sylvan loves

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Of Pine, or monumental Oake,
Where the rude Ax with heaved stroke,
Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
There in close covert by som Brook,
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from Day's garish eie,
While the Bee with Honied thie,
That at her flowry work doth sing,
And the Waters murmuring

With such consort as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep;

And let som strange mysterious dream,

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Wave at his Wings in Airy stream,
Of lively portrature display'd,

Softly on my eye-lids laid.

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And as I wake, sweet musick breath

Above, about, or underneath,

Sent by som spirit to mortals good,
Or th'unseen Genius of the Wood.
But let my due feet never fail,
To walk the studious Cloysters pale,
And love the high embowed Roof,
With antick Pillars massy proof,
And storied Windows richly dight,
Casting a dimm religious light.
There let the pealing Organ blow,
To the full voic'd Quire below,
In Service high, and Anthems cleer,

As may with sweetnes, through mine ear,
Dissolve me into extasies,

And bring all Heav'n before mine eyes.
And may at last my weary age
Find out the peacefull hermitage,
The Hairy Gown and Mossy Cell,
Where I may sit and rightly spell
Of every Star that Heav'n doth shew,
And every Herb that sips the dew;
Till old experience do attain
To somthing like Prophetic strain.
These pleasures Melancholy give,
And I with thee will choose to live.

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AN EPITAPH ON THE ADMIRABLE DRAMATIC
POET, W. SHAKESPEARE

WHAT needs my Shakespear for his honour'd Bones,
The labour of an age in piled Stones,

Or that his hallow'd reliques should be hid

Under a Star-ypointing Pyramid ?

Dear son of memory, great heir of Fame,

What need'st thou such weak witnes of thy name?
Thou in our wonder and astonishment

Hast built thy self a live-long Monument.

For whilst to th'shame of slow-endeavouring art,
Thy easie numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalu'd Book,
Those Delphick lines with deep impression took,
Then thou our fancy of it self bereaving,

Dost make us Marble with too much conceaving;
And so Sepulcher'd in such pomp dost lie,
That Kings for such a Tomb would wish to die.

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ANDREW MARVELL

AN HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S
RETURN FROM IRELAND

THE forward youth that would appeare,
Must now forsake his muses deare,
Nor in the shadows sing
His numbers languishing:

'Tis time to leave the books in dust,
And oyle th'unused armour's rust;
Removing from the wall

The corselett of the hall.

So restlesse Cromwell could not cease
In the inglorious arts of peace,

But through adventurous warre
Urged his active starre;

And like the three-forked lightning first,
Breaking the clouds where it was nurst,
Did thorough his own side

His fiery way divide.

(For 'tis all one to courage high,
The emulous, or enemy;

And with such to enclose,

Is more than to oppose.)

Then burning through the aire he went,
And palaces and temples rent;
And Caesar's head at last

Did through his laurels blast.
'Tis madness to resist or blame
The face of angry heaven's flame;
And if we would speak true,
Much to the man is due:

Who from his private gardens, where
He lived reserved, and austere,
As if his highest plott

To plant the bergamott:

Could by industrious valour clime
To ruine the great work of time,
And cast the kingdoms old,
Into another mold,

Though justice against fate complaine,

And plead the antient rights in vaine;
But those do hold or breake,

As men are strong or weake.

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