« EelmineJätka »
To turn swift-rushing black perdition hence?
To stand 'twixt us and our deserved smart? But thou canst best perform that office where thou
Then thou, the mother of so sweet a child,
FLY, envious Time, till thou run out thy race;
So little is our loss,
So little is thy gain!
For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb'd, And, last of all, thy greedy self consumed,
Then long eternity shall-greet our bliss
With an individual kiss;
And joy shall overtake us as a flood,
When every thing that is sincerely good
And perfectly divine,
With truth, and peace, and love, shall ever shine About the supreme throne
Of Him, to whose happy-making sight alone
When once our heavenly-guided soul shall climb, Then, all this earthly grossness quit,
Attired with stars we shall for ever sit,
[Time. Triumphing over death, and chance, and thee, O
AT A SOLEMN MUSIC.
BLEST pair of syrens, pledges of heaven's joy,
With saintly shout, and solemn jubilee;
Singing everlastingly :
That we on earth, with undiscording voice,
May rightly answer that melodious noise;
As once we did, till disproportion'd sin
Jarr'd against nature's chime, and with harsh din
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!
AN EPITAPH ON THE MARCHIONESS OF WINCHESTER.
THIS rich marble doth inter
Added to her noble birth,
More than she could own from earth.
After so short time of breath,
To house with darkness, and with death.
In giving limit to her life.
Her high birth, and her graces sweet,
Quickly found a lover meet;
The virgin quire, for her, request
But with a scarce well-lighted flame;
And in his garland, as he stood,
And with remorseless cruelty
So have I seen some tender slip,
Gentle lady, may thy grave
Peace and quiet ever have;
Sweet rest seize thee evermore,
That, to give the world increase,
And some flowers, and some bays,
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,
Far within the bosom bright
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.