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Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
My true account, lest he, returning, chide;
“Doth God exact day-labour, light denied ?" I fondly ask: but Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, “ 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;
They also serve who only stand and wait."
TO MR. LAWRENCE.
LAWRENCE, of virtuous father virtuous son,
Now that the fields are dank, and ways are mire,
On smoother, till Favonius reinspire
The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire The lily and rose, that neither sow'd nor spun.
What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,
To hear the lute well touch'd, or artful voice
He who of those delights can judge, and spare
CYRIAC, whose grandsire, on the royal bench
Of British Themis, with no mean applause,
Pronounced, and in his volumes taught, our laws, Which others at their bar so often wrench; To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench
In mirth that, after, no repenting draws; Let Euclid rest, and Archimedes pause, And what the Swede intends, and what the
French. To measure life learn thou betimes, and know Towards solid good what leads the nearest way;
For other things mild Heaven a time ordains, And disapproves that care, though wise in show, That with superfluous burden loads the day,
And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.
TO THE SAME.
CYRIAC, this three years' day, these eyes, though
Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot;
Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not
Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope ; but still bear up and steer
Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask? The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied
In liberty's defence, my noble task, Of which all Europe rings from side to side. This thought might lead me through the world's
vain mask, Content, thought blind, had I no better guide.
ON HIS DECEASED WIFE.
METHOUGHT I saw my late espoused saint
Brought to me, like Alcestis, from the grave, Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband
gave, Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint. Mine, as whom, wash'd from spot of child-bed taint,
Purification in the old law did save,
And such, as yet once more I trust to have Full sight of her in heaven without restraint,
Come vested all in white, pure as her mind : Her face was veil'd, yet, to my fancied sight,
Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shined So clear, as in no face with more delight.
But, oh! as to embrace me she inclined, I waked-she fled—and day brought back my