Volume 2 — PIOUS THOUGHTS AND EJACULATIONS.

Bright books! the perspectives to our weak sights, The clear projections of discerning lights, Burning and shining thoughts, man's posthume day, The track of fled souls, and their Milky Way, The dead alive and busy, the still voice Of enlarg'd spirits, kind Heav'n's white decoys! Who lives with you, lives like those knowing flow'rs, Which in commerce with light spend all their hours: Which shut to clouds, and shadows nicely shun, But with glad haste unveil to kiss the sun. Beneath you, all is dark, and a dead night, Which whoso lives in, wants both health and sight. By sucking you, the wise—like bees—do grow Healing and rich, though this they do most slow, Because most choicely; for as great a store Have we of books, as bees of herbs, or more: And the great task, to try, then know, the good. To discern weeds, and judge of wholesome food, Is a rare, scant performance: for man dies Oft ere 'tis done, while the bee feeds and flies. But you were all choice flow'rs, all set and drest By old sage florists, who well knew the best: And I amidst you all am turned a weed! Not wanting knowledge, but for want of heed. Then thank thyself, wild fool, that wouldst not be Content to know—what was too much for thee!

Fair shining mountains of my pilgrimage And flowery vales, whose flow'rs were stars, The days and nights of my first happy age; An age without distaste and wars! When I by thoughts ascend your sunny heads, And mind those sacred midnight lights By which I walk'd, when curtain'd rooms and beds Confin'd or seal'd up others' sights: O then, how bright, And quick a light Doth brush my heart and scatter night; Chasing that shade, Which my sins made, While I so spring, as if I could not fade! How brave a prospect is a bright back-side! Where flow'rs and palms refresh the eye! And days well spent like the glad East abide, Whose morning-glories cannot die!

Waters above! eternal springs! The dew that silvers the Dove's wings! O welcome, welcome to the sad! Give dry dust drink; drink that makes glad! Many fair ev'nings, many flow'rs Sweeten'd with rich and gentle showers, Have I enjoy'd, and down have run Many a fine and shining sun; But never, till this happy hour, Was blest with such an evening-shower!

Fair Prince of Light! Light's living Well Who hast the keys of death and Hell! If the mole[66] man despise Thy day, Put chains of darkness in his way. Teach him how deep, how various are The counsels of Thy love and care. When acts of grace and a long peace, Breed but rebellion, and displease, Then give him his own way and will, Where lawless he may run, until His own choice hurts him, and the sting Of his foul sins full sorrows bring. If Heaven and angels, hopes and mirth, Please not the mole so much as earth: Give him his mine to dig, or dwell, And one sad scheme of hideous Hell.

Whither, O whither didst thou fly When I did grieve Thine holy eye? When Thou didst mourn to see me lost, And all Thy care and counsels cross'd. O do not grieve, where'er Thou art! Thy grief is an undoing smart, Which doth not only pain, but break My heart, and makes me blush to speak. Thy anger I could kiss, and will; But O Thy grief, Thy grief, doth kill.

O come, and welcome! come, refine! For Moors, if wash'd by Thee, will shine. Man blossoms at Thy touch; and he, When Thou draw'st blood is Thy rose-tree. Crosses make straight his crookèd ways, And clouds but cool his dog-star days; Diseases too, when by Thee blest, Are both restoratives and rest. Flow'rs that in sunshines riot still, Die scorch'd and sapless; though storms kill, The fall is fair, e'en to desire, Where in their sweetness all expire. O come, pour on! what calms can be So fair as storms, that appease Thee?

Fresh fields and woods! the Earth's fair face! God's footstool! and man's dwelling-place! I ask not why the first believer Did love to be a country liver? Who, to secure pious content, Did pitch by groves and wells his tent; Where he might view the boundless sky, And all those glorious lights on high, With flying meteors, mists, and show'rs, Subjected hills, trees, meads, and flow'rs, And ev'ry minute bless the King And wise Creator of each thing. I ask not why he did remove To happy Mamre's holy grove, Leaving the cities of the plain To Lot and his successless train? All various lusts in cities still Are found; they are the thrones of ill, The dismal sinks, where blood is spill'd, Cages with much uncleanness fill'd: But rural shades are the sweet sense Of piety and innocence; They are the meek's calm region, where Angels descend and rule the sphere; Where Heaven lies leiguer, and the Dove Duly as dew comes from above. If Eden be on Earth at all, 'Tis that which we the country call.

Unfold! unfold! Take in His light, Who makes thy cares more short than night. The joys which with His day-star rise He deals to all but drowsy eyes; And, what the men of this world miss, Some drops and dews of future bliss. Hark! how His winds have chang'd their note! And with warm whispers call thee out; The frosts are past, the storms are gone, And backward life at last comes on. The lofty groves in express joys Reply unto the turtle's voice; And here in dust and dirt, O here The lilies of His love appear!

Early, while yet the dark was gay And gilt with stars, more trim than day, Heav'n's Lily, and the Earth's chaste Rose, The green immortal Branch arose; } S. Mark, c. 1, v. 35- And in a solitary place Bow'd to His Father His blest face. If this calm season pleased my Prince, Whose fulness no need could evince, Why should not I, poor silly sheep, His hours, as well as practice, keep? Not that His hand is tied to these, From whom Time holds his transient lease But mornings new creations are, When men, all night sav'd by His care, Are still reviv'd; and well He may Expect them grateful with the day. } Job, c. 38, v. 7 So for that first draught of His hand, Which finish'd heav'n, and sea, and land, The sons of God their thanks did bring, And all the morning stars did sing. Besides, as His part heretofore The firstlings were of all that bore So now each day from all He saves Their soul's first thoughts and fruits He craves. This makes Him daily shed and show'r His graces at this early hour; Which both His care and kindness show, Cheering the good, quickening the slow. As holy friends mourn at delay, And think each minute an hour's stay, So His Divine and loving Dove With longing throes[67] doth heave and move, And soar about us while we sleep; Sometimes quite through that lock doth peep, And shine, but always without fail, Before the slow sun can unveil, In new compassions breaks, like light, And morning-looks, which scatter night. And wilt Thou let Thy creature be, When Thou hast watch'd, asleep to Thee? Why to unwelcome loath'd surprises Dost leave him, having left his vices? Since these, if suffer'd, may again Lead back the living to the slain. O, change this scourge; or, if as yet None less will my transgressions fit, Dissolve, dissolve! Death cannot do What I would not submit unto.

Fair vessel of our daily light, whose proud And previous glories gild that blushing cloud; Whose lively fires in swift projections glance From hill to hill, and by refracted chance Burnish some neighbour-rock, or tree, and then Fly off in coy and wingèd flames again: If thou this day Hold on thy way, Know, I have got a greater light than thine; A light, whose shade and back-parts make thee shine. Then get thee down! then get thee down! I have a Sun now of my own.

Those nicer livers, who without thy rays Stir not abroad, those may thy lustre praise; And wanting light—light, which no wants doth know— To thee—weak shiner!—like blind Persians bow. But where that Sun, which tramples on thy head, From His own bright eternal eye doth shed One living ray, There thy dead day Is needless, and man to a light made free, Which shows that thou canst neither show nor see. Then get thee down! then get thee down! I have a Sun now of my own.

Peace? and to all the world? Sure One, And He the Prince of Peace, hath none! He travels to be born, and then Is born to travel more again. Poor Galilee! thou canst not be The place for His Nativity. His restless mother's call'd away, And not deliver'd till she pay. A tax? 'tis so still! we can see The Church thrive in her misery, And, like her Head at Beth'lem, rise, When she, oppress'd with troubles, lies. Rise?—should all fall, we cannot be In more extremities than He. Great Type of passions! Come what will, Thy grief exceeds all copies still. Thou cam'st from Heav'n to Earth, that we Might go from Earth to Heav'n with Thee: And though Thou found'st no welcome here, Thou didst provide us mansions there. A stable was Thy Court, and when Men turn'd to beasts, beasts would be men: They were Thy courtiers; others none; And their poor manger was Thy throne. No swaddling silks Thy limbs did fold, Though Thou couldst turn Thy rays to gold. No rockers waited on Thy birth, No cradles stirr'd, nor songs of mirth; But her chaste lap and sacred breast, Which lodg'd Thee first, did give Thee rest. But stay: what light is that doth stream And drop here in a gilded beam? It is Thy star runs page, and brings Thy tributary Eastern kings. Lord! grant some light to us, that we May with them find the way to Thee! Behold what mists eclipse the day! How dark it is! Shed down one ray, To guide us out of this dark night, And say once more, "Let there be light!"

So, stick up ivy and the bays, And then restore the heathen ways. Green will remind you of the spring, Though this great day denies the thing; And mortifies the earth, and all But your wild revels, and loose hall. Could you wear flow'rs, and roses strow Blushing upon your breasts' warm snow, That very dress your lightness will Rebuke, and wither at the ill. The brightness of this day we owe Not unto music, masque, nor show, Nor gallant furniture, nor plate, But to the manger's mean estate. His life while here, as well as birth, Was but a check to pomp and mirth; And all man's greatness you may see Condemned by His humility. Then leave your open house and noise, To welcome Him with holy joys, And the poor shepherds' watchfulness, Whom light and hymns from Heav'n did bless. What you abound with, cast abroad To those that want, and ease your load. Who empties thus, will bring more in; But riot is both loss and sin. Dress finely what comes not in sight, And then you keep your Christmas right.

O thou who didst deny to me This world's ador'd felicity, And ev'ry big imperious lust, Which fools admire in sinful dust, With those fine subtle twists, that tie Their bundles of foul gallantry— Keep still my weak eyes from the shine Of those gay things which are not Thine! And shut my ears against the noise Of wicked, though applauded, joys! For Thou in any land hast store Of shades and coverts for Thy poor; Where from the busy dust and heat, As well as storms, they may retreat. A rock or bush are downy beds, When Thou art there, crowning their heads With secret blessings, or a tire Made of the Comforter's live fire. And when Thy goodness in the dress Of anger will not seem to bless, Yet dost Thou give them that rich rain, Which, as it drops, clears all again. O what kind visits daily pass 'Twixt Thy great self and such poor grass: With what sweet looks doth Thy love shine On those low violets of Thine, While the tall tulip is accurst, And crowns imperial die with thirst! O give me still those secret meals, Those rare repasts which Thy love deals! Give me that joy, which none can grieve, And which in all griefs doth relieve! This is the portion Thy child begs; Not that of rust, and rags, and dregs.

Quid celebras auratam undam, et combusta pyropis Flumina, vel medio quæ serit æthra salo? Æternum refluis si pernoctaret in undis Phœbus, et incertam sidera suda Tethyn Si colerent, tantæ gemmæ! nil cærula librem: Sorderet rubro in littore dives Eos. Pactoli mea lympha macras ditabit arenas, Atque universum gutta minuta Tagum. O caram caput! O cincinnos unda beatos Libata! O Domini balnea sancta mei! Quod fortunatum voluit spectare canalem, Hoc erat in laudes area parva tuas. Jordanis in medio perfusus flumine lavit, Divinoque tuas ore beavit aquas. Ah! Solyma infelix rivis obsessa prophanis! Amisit genium porta Bethesda suum. Hic Orientis aquæ currunt, et apostata Parphar, Atque Abana immundo turbidus amne fluit, Ethnica te totam cum fœdavere fluenta, Mansit Christicolâ Jordanis unus aqua.

Et sic in cithara, sic in dulcedine vitæ Et facti et luctus regnat amarities. Quam subito in fastum extensos atque esseda[68] vultus Ultrici oppressit vilis arena sinu! Si violæ, spiransque crocus: si lilium ἀέινον Non nisi justorum nascitur e cinere: Spinarum, tribulique atque infelicis avenæ Quantus in hoc tumulo et qualis acervus erit? Dii superi! damnosa piis sub sidera longum Mansuris stabilem conciliate fidem! Sic olim in cœlum post nimbos clarius ibunt, Supremo occidui tot velut astra die. Quippe ruunt horæ, qualisque in corpore vixit, Talis it in tenebras bis moriturus homo.

Accipe prærapido salmonem in gurgite captum, Ex imo in summas cum penetrasset aquas, Mentitæ culicis quem forma elusit inanis: Picta coloratis plumea musca notis. Dum captat, capitur; vorat inscius, ipse vorandus; Fitque cibi raptor grata rapina mali. Alma quies! miseræ merces ditissima vitæ, Quam tuto in tacitis hic latuisset aquis! Qui dum spumosi fremitus et murmura rivi Quæritat, hamato sit cita præda cibo, Quam grave magnarum specimen dant ludicra rerum? Gurges est mundus: salmo, homo: pluma, dolus.

Can any tell me what it is? Can you That wind your thoughts into a clue To guide out others, while yourselves stay in, And hug the sin? I, who so long have in it liv'd, That, if I might, In truth I would not be repriev'd, Have neither sight Nor sense that knows These ebbs and flows: But since of all all may be said, And likeliness doth but upbraid And mock the truth, which still is lost In fine conceits, like streams in a sharp frost; I will not strive, nor the rule break, Which doth give losers leave to speak. Then false and foul world, and unknown Ev'n to thy own, Here I renounce thee, and resign Whatever thou canst say is thine. Thou art not Truth! for he that tries Shall find thee all deceit and lies, Thou art not Friendship! for in thee 'Tis but the bait of policy; Which like a viper lodg'd in flow'rs, Its venom through that sweetness pours; And when not so, then always 'tis A fading paint, the short-liv'd bliss Of air and humour; out and in, Like colours in a dolphin's skin; But must not live beyond one day, Or convenience; then away. Thou art not Riches! for that trash, Which one age hoards, the next doth wash And so severely sweep away, That few remember where it lay. So rapid streams the wealthy land About them have at their command; And shifting channels here restore, There break down, what they bank'd before. Thou art not Honour! for those gay Feathers will wear and drop away; And princes to some upstart line Gives new ones, that are full as fine. Thou art not Pleasure! for thy rose Upon a thorn doth still repose; Which, if not cropp'd, will quickly shed, But soon as cropp'd, grows dull and dead. Thou art the sand, which fills one glass, And then doth to another pass; And could I put thee to a stay, Thou art but dust! Then go thy way, And leave me clean and bright, though poor; Who stops thee doth but daub his floor; And, swallow-like, when he hath done, To unknown dwellings must be gone! Welcome, pure thoughts, and peaceful hours, Enrich'd with sunshine and with show'rs; Welcome fair hopes, and holy cares, The not to be repented shares Of time and business; the sure road Unto my last and lov'd abode! O supreme Bliss! The Circle, Centre, and Abyss Of blessings, never let me miss Nor leave that path which leads to Thee, Who art alone all things to me! I hear, I see, all the long day The noise and pomp of the broad way. I note their coarse and proud approaches, Their silks, perfumes, and glittering coaches. But in the narrow way to Thee I observe only poverty, And despis'd things; and all along The ragged, mean, and humble throng Are still on foot; and as they go They sigh, and say, their Lord went so. Give me my staff then, as it stood When green and growing in the wood; —Those stones, which for the altar serv'd, Might not be smooth'd, nor finely carv'd— With this poor stick I'll pass the ford, As Jacob did; and Thy dear word, As Thou hast dress'd it, not as wit And deprav'd tastes have poison'd it, Shall in the passage be my meat, And none else will Thy servant eat. Thus, thus, and in no other sort, Will I set forth, though laugh'd at for't; And leaving the wise world their way, Go through, though judg'd to go astray.

From fruitful beds and flow'ry borders, Parcell'd to wasteful ranks and orders, Where State grasps more than plain Truth needs, And wholesome herbs are starv'd by weeds, To the wild woods I will be gone, And the coarse meals of great Saint John. When truth and piety are miss'd Both in the rulers and the priest; When pity is not cold, but dead, And the rich eat the poor like bread; While factious heads with open coil And force, first make, then share, the spoil; To Horeb then Elias goes, And in the desert grows the rose. Hail crystal fountains and fresh shades, Where no proud look invades, No busy worldling hunts away The sad retirer all the day! Hail, happy, harmless solitude! Our sanctuary from the rude And scornful world; the calm recess Of faith, and hope, and holiness! Here something still like Eden looks; Honey in woods, juleps in brooks, And flow'rs, whose rich, unrifled sweets With a chaste kiss the cool dew greets, When the toils of the day are done, And the tir'd world sets with the sun. Here flying winds and flowing wells Are the wise, watchful hermit's bells; Their busy murmurs all the night To praise or prayer do invite, And with an awful sound arrest, And piously employ his breast. When in the East the dawn doth blush, Here cool, fresh spirits the air brush; Herbs straight get up, flow'rs peep and spread, Trees whisper praise, and bow the head: Birds, from the shades of night releas'd, Look round about, then quit the nest, And with united gladness sing The glory of the morning's King. The hermit hears, and with meek voice Offers his own up, and their joys: Then prays that all the world may be Bless'd with as sweet an unity. If sudden storms the day invade, They flock about him to the shade: Where wisely they expect the end, Giving the tempest time to spend; And hard by shelters on some bough Hilarion's servant, the sage crow. O purer years of light and grace! The diff'rence is great as the space 'Twixt you and us, who blindly run After false fires, and leave the sun. Is not fair Nature of herself Much richer than dull paint or pelf? And are not streams at the spring-head More sweet than in carv'd stone or lead? But fancy and some artist's tools Frame a religion for fools. The truth, which once was plainly taught, With thorns and briars now is fraught. Some part is with bold fables spotted, Some by strange comments wildly blotted; And Discord—old Corruption's crest— With blood and blame hath stain'd the rest. So snow, which in its first descents A whiteness, like pure Heav'n, presents, When touch'd by man is quickly soil'd, And after, trodden down and spoil'd. O lead me, where I may be free In truth and spirit to serve Thee! Where undisturb'd I may converse With Thy great Self; and there rehearse Thy gifts with thanks; and from Thy store, Who art all blessings, beg much more. Give me the wisdom of the bee, And her unwearied industry! That from the wild gourds of these days, I may extract health, and Thy praise, Who canst turn darkness into light, And in my weakness show Thy might. Suffer me not in any want To seek refreshment from a plant Thou didst not set; since all must be Pluck'd up, whose growth is not from Thee. 'Tis not the garden, and the bow'rs, Nor sense and forms, that give to flow'rs Their wholesomeness, but Thy good will, Which truth and pureness purchase still. Then since corrupt man hath driv'n hence Thy kind and saving influence, And balm is no more to be had In all the coasts of Gilead; Go with me to the shade and cell, Where Thy best servants once did dwell. There let me know Thy will, and see Exil'd Religion own'd by Thee; For Thou canst turn dark grots to halls, And make hills blossom like the vales; Decking their untill'd heads with flow'rs, And fresh delights for all sad hours; Till from them, like a laden bee, I may fly home, and hive with Thee

Farewell, thou true and tried reflection Of the still poor, and meek election: Farewell, soul's joy, the quick'ning health Of spirits, and their secret wealth! Farewell, my morning-star, the bright And dawning looks of the True Light! O blessed shiner, tell me whither Thou wilt be gone, when night comes hither! A seër that observ'd thee in Thy course, and watch'd the growth of sin, Hath giv'n his judgment, and foretold, That westward hence thy course will hold; And when the day with us is done, There fix, and shine a glorious sun. O hated shades and darkness! when You have got here the sway again, And like unwholesome fogs withstood The light, and blasted all that's good, Who shall the happy shepherds be, To watch the next nativity Of truth and brightness, and make way For the returning, rising day? O what year will bring back our bliss? Or who shall live, when God doth this? Thou Rock of Ages! and the Rest Of all, that for Thee are oppress'd! Send down the Spirit of Thy truth, That Spirit, which the tender youth, And first growths of Thy Spouse did spread Through all the world, from one small head! Then if to blood we must resist, Let Thy mild Dove, and our High-Priest, Help us, when man proves false or frowns, To bear the Cross, and save our crowns. O honour those that honour Thee! Make babes to still the enemy! And teach an infant of few days To perfect by his death Thy praise! Let none defile what Thou didst wed, Nor tear the garland from her head! But chaste and cheerful let her die, And precious in the Bridegroom's eye So to Thy glory and her praise, These last shall be her brightest days. Revel[ation] chap. last, vers. 17. "The Spirit and the Bride say, Come."

What clouds, Menalcas, do oppress thy brow, Flow'rs in a sunshine never look so low? Is Nisa still cold flint? or have thy lambs Met with the fox by straying from their dams?

Ah, Damon, no! my lambs are safe; and she Is kind, and much more white than they can be. But what doth life when most serene afford Without a worm which gnaws her fairest gourd? Our days of gladness are but short reliefs, Giv'n to reserve us for enduring griefs: So smiling calms close tempests breed, which break Like spoilers out, and kill our flocks when weak. I heard last May—and May is still high Spring— The pleasant Philomel her vespers sing. The green wood glitter'd with the golden sun. And all the west like silver shin'd; not one Black cloud; no rags, nor spots did stain The welkin's beauty; nothing frown'd like rain. But ere night came, that scene of fine sights turn'd To fierce dark show'rs; the air with lightnings burn'd; The wood's sweet syren, rudely thus oppress'd, Gave to the storm her weak and weary breast. I saw her next day on her last cold bed: And Daphnis so, just so is Daphnis, dead!

So violets, so doth the primrose, fall, At once the Spring's pride, and its funeral. Such easy sweets get off still in their prime, And stay not here to wear the soil of time; While coarser flow'rs, which none would miss, if past, To scorching Summers and cold Autumns last.

Souls need not time. The early forward things Are always fledg'd, and gladly use their wings. Or else great parts, when injur'd, quit the crowd, To shine above still, not behind, the cloud. And is't not just to leave those to the night That madly hate and persecute the light? Who, doubly dark, all negroes do exceed, And inwardly are true black Moors indeed?

The punishment still manifests the sin, As outward signs show the disease within. While worth oppress'd mounts to a nobler height, And palm-like bravely overtops the weight. So where swift Isca from our lofty hills With loud farewells descends, and foaming fills A wider channel, like some great port-vein With large rich streams to fill the humble plain: I saw an oak, whose stately height and shade, Projected far, a goodly shelter made; And from the top with thick diffusèd boughs In distant rounds grew like a wood-nymph's house. Here many garlands won at roundel-lays Old shepherds hung up in those happy days With knots and girdles, the dear spoils and dress Of such bright maids as did true lovers bless. And many times had old Amphion made His beauteous flock acquainted with this shade: His flock, whose fleeces were as smooth and white As those the welkin shows in moonshine night. Here, when the careless world did sleep, have I In dark records and numbers nobly high, The visions of our black, but brightest bard From old Amphion's mouth full often heard; With all those plagues poor shepherds since have known, And riddles more, which future time must own: While on his pipe young Hylas play'd, and made Music as solemn as the song and shade. But the curs'd owner from the trembling top To the firm brink did all those branches lop; And in one hour what many years had bred, The pride and beauty of the plain, lay dead. The undone swains in sad songs mourn'd their loss, While storms and cold winds did improve the cross; But nature, which—like virtue—scorns to yield, Brought new recruits and succours to the field; For by next spring the check'd sap wak'd from sleep, And upwards still to feel the sun did creep; Till at those wounds, the hated hewer made, There sprang a thicker and a fresher shade.

So thrives afflicted Truth, and so the light When put out gains a value from the night. How glad are we, when but one twinkling star Peeps betwixt clouds more black than is our tar: And Providence was kind, that order'd this To the brave suff'rer should be solid bliss: Nor is it so till this short life be done, But goes hence with him, and is still his sun.

Come, shepherds, then, and with your greenest bays Refresh his dust, who lov'd your learnèd lays. Bring here the florid glories of the spring, And, as you strew them, pious anthems sing, Which to your children and the years to come May speak of Daphnis, and be never dumb. While prostrate I drop on his quiet urn My tears, not gifts; and like the poor that mourn With green but humble turfs, write o'er his hearse For false, foul prose-men this fair truth in verse. "Here Daphnis sleeps, and while the great watch goes Of loud and restless Time, takes his repose. Fame is but noise; all Learning but a thought; Which one admires, another sets at nought, Nature mocks both, and Wit still keeps ado: But Death brings knowledge and assurance too."

Cast in your garlands! strew on all the flow'rs, Which May with smiles or April feeds with show'rs, Let this day's rites as steadfast as the sun Keep pace with Time and through all ages run; The public character and famous test Of our long sorrows and his lasting rest. And when we make procession on the plains, Or yearly keep the holiday of swains, Let Daphnis still be the recorded name, And solemn honour of our feasts and fame. For though the Isis and the prouder Thames Can show his relics lodg'd hard by their streams: And must for ever to the honour'd name Of noble Murrey chiefly owe that fame: Yet here his stars first saw him, and when Fate Beckon'd him hence, it knew no other date. Nor will these vocal woods and valleys fail, Nor Isca's louder streams, this to bewail; But while swains hope, and seasons change, will glide With moving murmurs because Daphnis died.

A fatal sadness, such as still foregoes, Then runs along with public plagues and woes, Lies heavy on us; and the very light, Turn'd mourner too, hath the dull looks of night. Our vales, like those of death, a darkness show More sad than cypress or the gloomy yew; And on our hills, where health with height complied, Thick drowsy mists hang round, and there reside. Not one short parcel of the tedious year In its old dress and beauty doth appear. Flow'rs hate the spring, and with a sullen bend Thrust down their heads, which to the root still tend. And though the sun, like a cold lover, peeps A little at them, still the day's-eye sleeps. But when the Crab and Lion with acute And active fires their sluggish heat recruit, Our grass straight russets, and each scorching day Drinks up our brooks as fast as dew in May; Till the sad herdsman with his cattle faints, And empty channels ring with loud complaints.

Heaven's just displeasure, and our unjust ways, Change Nature's course; bring plagues, dearth, and decays. This turns our lands to dust, the skies to brass, Makes old kind blessings into curses pass: And when we learn unknown and foreign crimes, Brings in the vengeance due unto those climes. The dregs and puddle of all ages now, Like rivers near their fall, on us do flow. Ah, happy Daphnis! who while yet the streams Ran clear and warm, though but with setting beams, Got through, and saw by that declining light, His toil's and journey's end before the night.

A night, where darkness lays her chains and bars, And feral fires appear instead of stars. But he, along with the last looks of day, Went hence, and setting—sunlike—pass'd away. What future storms our present sins do hatch Some in the dark discern, and others watch; Though foresight makes no hurricane prove mild, Fury that's long fermenting is most wild. But see, while thus our sorrows we discourse, Phœbus hath finish'd his diurnal course; The shades prevail: each bush seems bigger grown; Darkness—like State—makes small things swell and frown: The hills and woods with pipes and sonnets round, And bleating sheep our swains drive home, resound.

What voice from yonder lawn tends hither? Hark! 'Tis Thyrsis calls! I hear Lycanthe bark! His flocks left out so late, and weary grown, Are to the thickets gone, and there laid down.

Menalcas, haste to look them out! poor sheep, When day is done, go willingly to sleep: And could bad man his time spend as they do, He might go sleep, or die, as willing too.

Farewell! kind Damon! now the shepherd's star With beauteous looks smiles on us, though from far. All creatures that were favourites of day Are with the sun retir'd and gone away. While feral birds send forth unpleasant notes, And night—the nurse of thoughts—sad thoughts promotes: But joy will yet come with the morning light, Though sadly now we bid good night!

Good night!