LIX THE SAME. The glories of our blood and state Death lays his icy hand on kings: Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crookèd scythe and spade. And plant fresh laurels where they kill: They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath The garlands wither on your brow; Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon Death's purple altar now See where the victor-victim bleeds: Your heads must come To the cold tomb; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. LX James Shirley. 5 ΤΟ 15 20 LINES WRITTEN BY ONE IN THE TOWER, BEING My prime of youth is but a frost of cares; My crop of corn is but a field of tares; And all my good is but vain hope of gain : The day is [fled], and yet I saw no sun; The spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung; 15 I sought my death, and found it in my womb; LXI SONNET. TO PRINCE HENRY. God gives not kings the style of gods in vain, King James the First. 5 IO LXII LINES WRITTEN THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS E'en such is time; which takes on trust Our youth, our joys, our all we have, But from this earth, this grave, this dust, LXIII Sir Walter Raleigh. EASTER MORNING. Most glorious Lord of life, that on this day This joyous day, dear Lord, with joy begin, 5 5 And grant that we, for whom Thou diddest die, Being with thy dear blood clean washed from sin, And that thy love we weighing worthily, May likewise love Thee for the same again: LXIV THE HEAVENLY JERUSALEM. Jerusalem, my happy home, When shall I come to thee? When shall my sorrows have an end, Thy joys when shall I see? 10 O happy harbour of the saints! In thee no sorrow may be found, In thee no sickness may be seen, There lust and lucre cannot dwell, There is no hunger, heat, nor cold, Thy walls are made of precious stones, Thy gates are of right orient pearl, Exceeding rich and rare. Thy turrets and thy pinnacles With carbuncles do shine; Thy very streets are paved with gold, Thy houses are of ivory, 30 We that are here in banishment Continually do moan, We sigh, and sob, we weep and wail, Our sweet is mixed with bitter gall, Our pleasure is but pain, Our joys scarce last the looking on, 40 But there they live in such delight, 45 As that to them a thousand years Doth seem as yesterday. Thy gardens and thy gallant walks There grow such sweet and pleasant flowers Quite through the streets, with silver sound, Upon whose banks on every side The wood of Life doth grow. There trees for evermore bear fruit, And evermore do spring; There evermore the angels sit, And evermore do sing. Jerusalem, my happy home, Would God I were in thee! Would God my woes were at an end, Thy joys that I might see! Anon. 60 |