Abused mortals! did you know
Where Joy, Heart's ease, and Comforts grow;
You'd scorn proud towers,

And seek them in these bowers!

Where winds, sometimes, our woods, perhaps, may shake;

But blust'ring care could never tempest make!
Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us,

Saving of fountains, that glide by us.

Here, 's no fantastic Masque; nor dance,
But of our kids, that frisk and prance:
Nor wars are seen,

Unless, upon the green,

Two harmless lambs are butting one the other; Which done, both bleating run, each to his mother: And wounds are never found;

Save what the ploughshare gives the ground.

Here, are no false entrapping baits,
To hasten too too hasty fates:

Unless it be

The fond credulity

Of silly fish; which, worldling-like, still look
Upon the bait, but never on the hook!

Nor envy, unless among

The birds; for prize of their sweet song.

Go! let the diving Negro seek
For gems, hid in some forlorn creek!
We all pearls scorn,

Save what the dewy Morn

Congeals upon each little spire of grass;
Which careless Shepherds beat down as they pass:
And gold ne'er here appears

Save what the yellow CERES bears.

Blest silent groves! O, may ye be
For ever, Mirth's best nursery!
May pure Contents

For ever pitch their tents

Upon these downs! these meads! these rocks! these mountains!

And Peace still slumber, by these purling fountains! Which we may, every year,

Find, when we come a fishing here.

SONG ON MAY MORNING.

Now, the bright Morning Star, Day's Harbinger, Comes dancing from the East; and leads with her, The flow'ry 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!

ON SHAKESPEARE, 1630.

WHAT needs my SHAKESPEARE, for his honoured bones, The labour of an Age in pilèd stones;

Or that his hallowed relics should be hid

Under a star-ypointing pyramid!

Dear Son of Memory! Great Heir of Fame!
What need'st thou, such weak witness of thy name?
Thou, in our wonder and astonishment,

Hast built thyself a lifelong Monument!

For whilst, to th' shame of slow-endeavouring Art,
Thy easy numbers flow; and that each heart
Hath, from the leaves of thy unvalued Book,
Those Delphic lines, with deep impression took:
Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving,
Dost make us marble, with too much conceiving;
And so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie,
That Kings, for such a tomb, would wish to die!

AT A SOLEMN MUSIC.

BLEST pair of Sirens! pledges of Heaven's joy!
Sphere-born harmonious sisters, Voice! and Verse!
Wed your divine sounds; and mixed power employ,
Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce!
And to our high-raised fantasy present
That undisturbèd Song, of pure consent,
Aye sung before the sapphire-coloured throne,
To Him that sits thereon;

With saintly shout, and solemn Jubilee.

Where the bright Seraphim, in burning row, Their loud uplifted angel-trumpets blow; And the Cherubic host, in thousand quires, Touch their immortal harps of golden wires; With those Just Spirits, that wear victorious palms, Hymns devout and holy Psalms

Singing everlastingly.

That we, on Earth, with undiscording voice, May rightly answer that melodious noise!

As once we did, till disproportioned sin

Jarred against Nature's chime; and, with harsh din, Broke the fair music that all creatures made

To their great LORD: whose love their motion swayed In perfect diapason, whilst they stood

In first obedience, and their state of good.

O, may we soon again renew that Song,

And keep in tune with Heaven! till GOD, ere long, To His celestial consort us unite,

To live with Him; and sing in endless morn of light.

ON THE MORNING OF

CHRIST'S NATIVITY.

THIS is the month; and this, the happy Morn,
Wherein the Son of Heaven's eternal King,
Of wedded Maid, and virgin Mother born,
Our great Redemption from above did bring.
For so, the holy Sages once did sing,

That he, our deadly forfeit should release,
And with his Father, work us a perpetual peace.

That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable,
And that far-beaming blaze of Majesty ;
Wherewith he wont, at Heaven's high Council Table,
To sit the midst of Trinal Unity,

He laid aside! and here with us to be,
Forsook the Courts of Everlasting Day;

And chose, with us, a darksome house of mortal clay!

Say, Heavenly Muse! shall not thy sacred vein.
Afford a present to the infant GOD!

Hast thou no Verse, no Hymn, or solemn strain,
To welcome him to this, his new abode ?

Now! while the heaven, by the Sun's team untrod, Hath took no print of the approaching light; And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons

bright.