He cast (of which we rather boast)
The Gospel's pearl upon our coast,
And in these rocks for us did frame
A temple, where to sound his name.
Oh! let our voice his praise exalt,
'Till it arrive at heaven's vault;
Which thence, perhaps, rebounding, may
Echo beyond the Mexique bay."

Thus sung they in the English boat,
An holy and a cheerful note;

And all the way, to guide their chime,
With falling oars they kept the time.

EYES AND TEARS.

How wisely Nature did decree

With the same eyes to weep and see!
That, having view'd the object vain,
They might be ready to complain.
And, since the self-deluding sight,
In a false angle takes each height,
These tears which better measure all,
Like wat❜ry lines and plummets fall.
Two tears, which sorrow long did weigh,
Within the scales of either eye,
And then paid out in equal poise,
Are the true price of all my joys.
What in the world most fair appears,
Yea, even laughter, turns to tears:
And all the jewels which we prize,
Melt in these pendants of the eyes.
I have through every garden been,
Amongst the red, the white, the green;
And yet from all those flow'rs I saw,
No honey, but these tears could draw.
So the all-seeing sun each day,
Distils the world with chymic ray;
But finds the essence only showers,
Which straight in pity back he pours.
Yet happy they whom grief doth bless,
That weep the more, and see the less;
And, to preserve their sight more true,
Bathe still their eyes in their own dew.
So Magdalen, in tears more wise
Dissolv'd those captivating eyes,
Whose liquid chains could flowing meet,
To fetter her Redeemer's feet.

Not full sails hasting loaden home,

Nor the chaste lady's pregnant womb,

Nor Cynthia teeming shews so fair,
As two eyes, swoln with weeping, are.
The sparkling glance that shoots desire,
Drench'd in these waves, does lose its fire.
Yea, oft the Thund'rer pity takes,
And here the hissing lightning slakes.
The incense was to heaven dear,
Not as a perfume, but a tear!
And stars show lovely in the night,

But as they seem the tears of light.

Ope, then, mine eyes, your double sluice,
And practice so your noblest use;
For others too can see, or sleep,

But only human eyes can weep.
Now, like two clouds dissolving, drop,
And at each tear in distance stop:
Now, like two fountains, trickle down :
Now like two floods o'er-run and drown:
Thus let your streams o'erflow your springs,
Till eyes and tears be the same things;
And each the other's difference bears;
Those weeping eyes, those seeing tears.

THE CORONET.

WHEN with the thorns with which I long, too long, With many a piercing wound,

My Saviour's head have crown'd,

I seek with garlands to redress that wrong;
Through every garden, every mead,

I gather flow'rs (my fruits are only flow'rs)
Dismantling all the fragrant towers

That once adorn'd my shepherdess's head.
And now, when I have summ'd up all my store,
Thinking (so I myself deceive)

So rich a chaplet thence to weave

As never yet the King of Glory wore;
Alas! I find the Serpent old,

Twining in his speckled breast,

About the flow'rs disguis'd does fold,

With wreaths of fame and interest.

Ah foolish man, that would'st debase with them,

And mortal glory, Heav'ns diadem!

But thou who only could'st the Serpent tame,

Either his slipp'ry knots at once untie,
And disintangle all his winding snare;
Or shatter too with him my curious frame;

And let these wither so that he may die,
Though set with skill, and chosen out with care.
That they, while thou on both their spoils dost tread,
May crown thy feet, that could not crown thy head.

A DROP OF DEW.

SEE, how the orient dew,

Shed from the bosom of the morn,

Into the blowing roses,

Yet careless of its mansion new,
For the clear region where 'twas born,
Round in itself incloses :

And in its little globe's extent,
Frames, as it can, its native element.
How it the purple flow'r does slight,
Scarce touching where it lys;
But gazing back upon the skys,
Shines with a mournful light,
Like its own tear,

Because so long divided from the sphere
Restless it rolls, and unsecure,

Trembling, lest it grows impure;
Till the warm sun pitys its pain,
And to the skys exhales it back again.
So the soul, that drop, that ray,

Of the clear fountain of eternal day,
Could it within the human flow'r be seen,

Remem'bring still its former height,

Shuns the sweet leaves, and blossoms green;
And, recollecting its own light,

Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express
The greater heaven in an heaven less.

In how coy a figure wound,
Every way it turns away;
So the world excluding round,
Yet receiving in the day.
Dark beneath, but bright above;
Here disdaining, there in love.
How loose and easy hence to go;
How girt and ready to ascend;
Moving but on a point below,

It all about does upwards bend.

Such did the manna's sacred dew distil,

White and entire, although congeal'd and chill;
Congeal'd on earth; but does, dissolving, run

Into the glorys of th' almighty sun.

THE MOWER'S SONG.

My mind was once the true survey
Of all these meadows fresh and gay;
And in the greenness of the grass
Did see its hopes as in a glass;

When Juliana came, and she,

What I do to the grass, does to my thoughts and me.

H

But these, while I with sorrow pine, Grew more luxuriant still and fine :

That not one blade of grass you spy'd,

But had a flower on either side;

When Juliana came, and she,

What I do to the grass, does to my thoughts and me.

Unthankful meadows, could you so

A fellowship so true forego,

And in your gaudy May-games meet, While I lay trodden under feet?

When Juliana came, and she,

What I do to the grass, does to my thoughts and me.

But what you in compassion ought, Shall now by my revenge be wrought:

And flow'rs, and grass, and I, and all, Will in one common ruin fall;

For Juliana comes, and she,

What I do to the grass, does to my thoughts and me.

And thus, ye meadows, which have been
Companions of my thoughts more green,
Shall now the heraldry become
With which I shall adorn my tomb;

For Juliana comes, and she,

What I do to the grass, does to my thoughts and me.

TO HIS COY MISTRESS.

HAD we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down, and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love's day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Should'st rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain: I wou'd
Love you ten years before the flood:
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires and more slow.
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast;

But thirty thousand to the rest.

An age at least to every part,

And the last age should shew your heart.

For, lady, you deserve this state;

Nor would I love at lower rate.

1

But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Desarts of vast eternity.

Thy beauty shall no more be found;
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long-preserv'd virginity :
And your quaint honour turn to dust;
And into ashes all my lust.

The grave's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.

Now, therefore, while the youthful hue

Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires

At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow chap'd power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all

Our sweetness up into one ball:

And tear our pleasures with rough strife,
Through the iron gates of life.

Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

ON MILTON'S PARADISE LOST.
When I beheld the poet blind, yet bold,
In slender book his vast design unfold,
Messiah crown'd, God's reconcil'd decree,
Rebelling angels, the forbidden tree,
Heav'n, hell, earth, chaos, all; the argument

Held me a while misdoubting his intent,
That he would ruin (for I saw him strong)
The sacred truths to fable and old song;

So Sampson groap'd the temple's posts in spite,
The world o'erwhelming to revenge his sight.

Yet, as I read, soon growing less severe, I lik'd his project, the success did fear; Thro' that wide field how he his way should find, O'er which lame faith leads understanding blind; Lest he'd perplex the things he would explain, And what was easy he should render vain.

Or, if a work so infinite he span'd, Jealous I was that some less skilful hand