A long and daily-dying life, which breathes
A respiration of reviving deaths.

But neither are there those ignoble stings

That nip the bosom of the world's best things,
And lash earth-labouring souls;

No cruel guard of diligent cares, that keep
Crown'd woes awake, as things too wise for sleep;
But reverend discipline, and religious fear,
And soft obedience, find sweet biding here;
Silence and sacred rest, peace and pure joys,

Kind loves keep house, lie close, and make no noise,
And room enough for monarchs, while none swells
Beyond the kingdoms of contentful cells.
The self-rememb'ring soul sweetly recovers

Her kindred with the stars; not basely hovers
Below; but meditates her immortal way

Home to th' original source of light and intellectual day.

POEMATA LATINA.

POEMATA LATINA.

BULLA.

UID tibi vana suos offert mea bulla timores?
Quid facit ad vestrum pondus inane

ista

meum?

Expectat nostros humeros toga fortior;

En mea bulla, lares en tua dextera mihi.

Quid tu? quæ nova machina,

Quæ tam fortuito globo

In vitam properas brevem?
Qualis virgineos adhuc

Cypris concutiens sinus,
Cypris jam nova, jam recens,
Et spumis media in suis,
Promsit purpureum latus;
Concha de patria micas,
Pulchroque exsilis impetu ;
Statim et millibus ebria
Ducens terga coloribus
Evolvis tumidos sinus
Sphæra plena volubili.