Broke the fair music that all creatures made

To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway'd In perfect diapason, whilst they stood

In first obedience, and their state of good.
Oh, may we soon again renew that song,
And keep in tune with heaven, till God, ere long,
To his celestial concert us unite,

To live with him, and sing in endless morn of light!

VII.

AN EPITAPH ON THE MARCHIONESS OF WINCHESTER.

THIS rich marble doth inter

The honour'd wife of Winchester,
A viscount's daughter, an earl's heir,
Besides what her virtues fair

Added to her noble birth,

More than she could own from earth.
Summers three times eight save one
She has told; alas! too soon,

After so short time of breath,

To house with darkness, and with death.
Yet had the number of her days
Been as complete as was her praise,
Nature and fate had had no strife
In giving limit to her life.

Her high birth, and her graces sweet,

Quickly found a lover meet;

The virgin quire, for her, request
The god that sits at marriage feast;
He at their invoking came,

But with a scarce well-lighted flame;

And in his garland, as he stood,
Ye might discern a cypress-bud.
Once had the early matrons run
To greet her of a lovely son,
And now with second hope she goes,
And calls Lucina to her throes;
But, whether by mischance or blame,
Atropos for Lucina came;

And with remorseless cruelty
Spoil'd at once both fruit and tree.
The hapless babe, before his birth,
Had burial, yet not laid in earth:
And the languish'd mother's womb
Was not long a living tomb.

So have I seen some tender slip,
Saved with care from winter's nip,
The pride of her carnation train,
Pluck'd up by some unheedy swain,
Who only thought to crop the flower,
New shot up from vernal shower;
But the fair blossom hangs the head
Sideways, as on a dying bed,
And those pearls of dew she wears
Prove to be presaging tears,
Which the sad morn had let fall
On her hastening funeral.

Gentle lady, may thy grave

Peace and quiet ever have;
After this thy travail sore,

Sweet rest seize thee evermore,

N

That, to give the world increase,
Shorten'd hast thy own life's lease.
Here, besides the sorrowing
That thy noble house doth bring,
Here be tears of perfect moan
Wept for thee in Helicon;

And some flowers, and some bays,
For thy hearse, to strew the ways,

Sent thee from the banks of Came

Devoted to thy virtuous name;

Whilst thou, bright saint, high sitt'st in glory,

Next her, much like to thee in story,

That fair Syrian shepherdess

Who, after years of barrenness,

The highly favour'd Joseph bore

To him that served for her before,
And, at her next birth, much like thee,
Through pangs fled to felicity,

Far within the bosom bright
Of blazing Majesty and Light:
There with thee new welcome saint,
Like fortunes may her soul acquaint
With thee there clad in radiant sheen,
No marchioness, but now a queen.

VIII.

SONG ON MAY MORNING.

Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flowery May, who, from her green lap, throws The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose.

Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire Mirth, and youth, and warm desire; Woods and groves are of thy dressing, Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long.