He who of those delights can judge, and spare
To interpose them oft, is not unwise.

XVI.

To Cyriack Skinner.

CYRIACK, whose grandsire, on the royal bench
Of British Themis, with no mean applause,
Pronounc'd, and in his volumes taught, our laws,
Which others at their bar so often wrench;
To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench
In mirth that, after, no repenting draws;
Let Euclid rest, and Archimedes pause,

And what the Swede intends, and what the French.
To measure life learn thou betimes, and know
Towards solid good what leads the nearest way;
For other things mild Heav'n a time ordains,
And disapproves that care, though wise in show,
That with superfluous burden loads the day,
And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains,
XVII.

To the same.

CYRIACK, this three years' day these eyes, though clear,
To outward view, of blemish or of spot,
Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot;
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear
Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year,
Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not

Against Heav'n's hand or will, nor bate a jot
Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer
Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask?
The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied
In liberty's defence, my noble task,

Of which all Europe rings from side to side.
This thought might lead me through the world's
vain mask,

Content though blind, had I no better guide,

XVIII.

On his deceased Wife.

METHOUGHT I saw my late espoused saint
Brought to me, like Alcestis, from the grave,
Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave,
Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint,
Mine, as whom wash'd from spot of child-bed taint
Purification in the old law did save,

And such, as yet once more I trust to have
Full sight of her in heav'n without restraint,
Came vested all in white, pure as her mind:
Her face was veil'd; yet to my fancied Light
Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shin'd
So clear, as in no face with more delight.

But, O! as to embrace me she inclin'd,

I wak'd; she fled; and day brought back my night.

ODES.

ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY.

(1629)

THIS is the month, and this the happy morn
Wherein the Son of Heav'n'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.

5

That glorious form, that light unsufferable,
And that far-beaming blaze of majesty,

Wherewith he wont at heav'n's high council-table
To sit the midst of Trinal Unity,

10

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, heav'nly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein
Afford a present to the Infant God?

15

Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain,

To welcome him to this his new abode,

Now while the heav'n, by the sun's team untrod,
Hath took no print of the approaching light,

20

And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?

See, how from far, upon the eastern road,

The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet:

O run, prevent them with thy humble ode,
And lay it lowly at his blessed feet;

25

Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet,
And join thy voice unto the Angel quire,

From out his secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire.

THE HYMN.

IT was the winter wild,

While the heav'n-born child

All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies;]

Nature in awe to him

Had' doff'd her gaudy trim,

With her great Master so to sympathize:

It was no season then for her

To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour.

1

Only with speeches fair

She woos the gentle air

To hide her guilty front with innocent snow; And on her naked shame,

40

Pollute with sinful blame,

The saintly veil of maiden white to throw;

Confounded, that her Maker's eyes

Should look so near upon her foul deformities.

But he, her fears to cease,

Sent down the meek-ey'd Peace;

She, crown'd with olive green, came softly sliding

Down through the turning sphere,

His ready harbinger,

With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing;

And, waving wide her myrtle wand,

She strikes an universal peace through sea and land.

No war, or battle's sound,

Was heard the world around:

The idle spear and shield were high up hung; The hooked chariot stood

Unstain'd with hostile blood;

The trumpet spake not to the armed throng;

And kings sat still with awful eye,

As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.

But peaceful was the night,

Wherein the Prince of Light

His reign of peace upon the earth began:

Whisp'ring new joys to the mild ocean,

Who now hath quite forgot to rave,

45

50

555

60

65

While birds' of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.

The stars, with deep amaze,

Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze,

70

Bending one way their precious influence;

And will not take their flight,

For all the morning light,

Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence;

But in their glimmering orbs did glow,

75

Until then Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.

And, though the shady gloom

Had given day her room,

The sun himself withheld his wonted speed,

And hid his head for shame,

80

The new-enlighten'd world no more should need;

As his inferior flame

He saw a greater Sun appear

Than his bright throne, or burning axletree, could bear.

The shepherds on the lawn,

Or e'er the point of dawn,

Sat simply chatting in a rustic row;

Full little thought they then,

85

That the mighty Pan

Was kindly come to live with them below;

Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep,

Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.

When such music sweet

Their hearts and ears did greet,

As never was by mortal finger strook;

Divinely-warbled voice

Answering the stringed noise,

As all their souls in blissful rapture took

The air, such pleasure loth to lose,

90

95

With thousand echoes still prolongs each heav'nly close. 100

Nature that heard such sound,

Beneath the hollow round

Of Cynthia's seat, the aery region thrilling, Now was almost won

To think her part was done,

105

And that her reign had here its last fulfilling;

She knew such harmony alone

Could hold all heav'n and earth in happier union.

110

At last surrounds their sight

A globe of circular light,

That with long beams the shamefac'd night array'd ;

The helmed Cherubim,

And sworded Seraphim,

Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd, Harping in loud and solemn quire,

With unexpressive notes, to Heav'n's new-born Heir.

Such music (as 'tis said)

Before was never made,

But when of old the sons of morning sung, While the Creator great

His constellations set,

And the well-balanc'd world on hinges hung;

And cast the dark foundations deep,

115

120

And bid the welt'ring waves their oozy channel keep.

Ring out, ye crystal spheres,

125

Once bless our human ears,

If ye have pow'r to touch our senses so;

And let the base of heav'n's deep organ blow;

130

And, with your ninefold harmony,

Make up full concert to th' angelic symphony.

For, if such holy song

Enwrap our fancy long,'

Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold; 135

And speckled vanity

Will sicken soon and die,

And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould;

And hell itself will pass away,

And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day. 140

Yea, Truth and Justice then

Will down return to men,

Orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing,

Mercy will sit between,

Thron'd in celestial sheen,

145

With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering;

And heav'n, as at some festival,

Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall.

The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep;

While the red fire and smouldring clouds out brake:

The aged Earth aghast ·

160

With terrour of that blast,

Shall from the surface to the center shake;

When, at the world's last session,

The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne.

And then at last our bliss

165

Full and perfect is,

But now begins; for, from this happy day,

170

The old Dragon, under ground

In straiter limits bound,

Not half so far casts his usurped sway;

And, wroth to see his kingdom fail,

Swindges the scaly horrour of his folded tail.

The oracles are dumb,

No voice or hideous hum

Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. 175 Apollo from his shrine

Can no more divine,

With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathed spell,

Inspires the pale-ey'd priest from the prophetic cell.

The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.

In consecrated earth,

And on the holy hearth,

190

The Lars, and Lemures, moan with midnight plaint;