Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring, The roughest storm a calm may soon allay. Thus, with succeeding turns, God tempereth all, That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall. A chance may win that by mischance was lost, That net that holds no great, takes little fish: In some things all, in all things none are cross'd: Few all they need, but none have all they wish. Unmingled joys here to no man befall; Who least, hath some: who most, hath never all. A VALE OF TEARS. A VALE there is, enwrapt with dreadful shades, Which thick of mournful pines shrowds from the sun, Where hanging cliffs yield short and dumpish glades, And snowy floods with broken streams do run. Where eye-room is from rock to cloudy sky, From thence to dales which stormy ruins shrowd, Then, to the crushed water's frothy fry, Which tumbleth from the tops where snow is thow'd. Where ears of other sound can have no choice, Where waters wrestle with encountering stones, That break their stream, and turn them into foam, The hollow clouds, full-fraught, with thundering groans, With hideous thumps discharge their pregnant womb. And, in the horror of this fearful quire, All pleasant birds their tunes from thence retire, Resort there is of none but pilgrim wights, That pass with trembling foot and panting heart, With terror cast in cold and shuddering frights, And all the place to terror framed by art. Yet nature's work it is, of art untouch'd; That who it views, must needs remain aghast Much at the work; more at the maker's might; And muse how nature such a plot could cast, Where nothing seemed wrong, yet nothing right. A place for mated minds, an only bower, Where every thing doth sooth a dumpish mood: Earth is forlorn: the cloudy sky doth lower : The wind here weeps, here sighs, here cries aloud. The struggling flood between the marble groans; With bubbling streams a purling noise it glides. The pines, thick set, high grown, and ever green, Still clothe the place with shade and mourning veil ; Here, gaping cliffs, there moss-grown plain is seen : Here hope doth spring, and there again doth quail. Huge, massive stones, that hang by tickle stay, Beset with green, and forced gray coats to wear. Here, chrystal springs, crept out of secret vein, Straight find some envious hole that hides their grain; Here scared tufts lament the wants of grace, All pangs and heavy passions here may find To plaining thoughts the vale a rest may be, To which from worldly toys they may retire, Where sorrow springs from water, stone, and tree, Where every thing with mourners doth conspire. Sit here my soul! mourn streams of tears afloat, Here all thy sinful foils alone recount; Of solemn tunes make thou the dolefulst note, When echo doth repeat thy painful cries, Let former faults be fuel of the fire, For Grief in limbeck of thy soul to still, Thy pensive thoughts and dumps of thy desire, And vapour tears up to thy eyes at will. Let tears be tunes and pains to plaints be prest, And let this be the burthen to thy song, Come deep remorse! possess my sinful breast, Delights adieu! I harbour'd you too long! |