Know'st thou not how of th' Hebrew's royal stem—
That old dry stock-a despair'd branch is sprung,
A most strange babe! who here, conceal'd by them,
In a neglected stable lies, among

Beasts and base straw: already is the stream
Quite turn'd: th' ingrateful rebels this their young
Master, with voice free as the trump of Fame,
Their new king, and thy successor proclaim.

What busy motions, what wild engines stand
On tiptoe in their giddy brains? th' have fire
Already in their bosoms; and their hand
Already reaches at a sword: they hire

Poisons to speed thee; yet through all the land
What one comes to reveal what they conspire?

Go now, make much of these; wage still their wars,
And bring home on thy breast more thankless scars.

Why did I spend my life, and spill my blood,
That thy firm hand for ever might sustain
A well-pois'd sceptre? Does it now seem good
Thy brother's blood be spilt, life spent in vain?
'Gainst thy own sons and brothers thou hast stood
In arms, when lesser cause was to complain:

And now cross fates a watch about thee keep-
Can'st thou be careless now, now can'st thou sleep?

Where art thou, man? What cowardly mistake
Of thy great self hath stol'n king Herod from thee?
O, call thyself home to thyself; wake, wake,

And fence the hanging sword heav'n throws upon thee:

Redeem a worthy wrath; rouse thee, and shake
Thyself into a shape that may become thee:

Be Herod, and thou shalt not miss from me
Immortal stings to thy great thoughts and thee.

So said, her richest snake, which to her wrist
For a beseeming bracelet she had tied—
A special worm it was as ever kiss'd
The foamy lips of Cerberus-she applied

To the king's heart; the snake no sooner hiss'd,
But virtue heard it, and away she hied;

Dire flames diffuse themselves through every vein :
This done, home to her hell she hied amain.

He wakes, and with him, ne'er to sleep, new fears:
His sweat-bedewed bed had now betray'd him
To a vast field of thorns; ten thousand spears,
All pointed in his heart, seem'd to invade him :
So mighty were th' amazing characters

With which his feeling dream had thus dismay'd him,
He his own fancy-framèd foes defies:

In rage, My arms! Give me my arms! he cries.

As when a pile of food-preparing fire
The breath of artificial lungs embraves,
The cauldron-prison'd waters straight conspire,
And beat the hot brass with rebellious waves;
He murmurs and rebukes their bold desire;
Th' impatient liquor frets, and foams, and raves;
Till his o'erflowing pride suppress the flame,
Whence his high spirits and hot courage came.

So boils the firèd Herod's blood-swoll'n breast,
Not to be slaked but by a sea of blood:

His faithless crown he feels loose on his crest,
Which on false tyrant's head ne'er firmly stood :
The worm of jealous envy and unrest,

To which his gnaw'd heart is the growing food,
Makes him impatient of the ling'ring light,
Hate the sweet peace of all-composing night.

A thousand prophecies that talk strange things
Had sown of old these doubts in his deep breast;
And now of late came tributary kings,

Bringing him nothing but new fears from th' East;
More deep suspicions, and more deadly stings,
With which his fev'rous cares their cold increased;
And now his dream, hell's firebrand, still more bright,
Show'd him his fears, and kill'd him with the sight.

No sooner, therefore, shall the morning see-
Night hangs yet heavy on the lids of day—
But all his councillors must summon'd be,
To meet their troubled lord: without delay
Heralds and messengers immediately
Are sent about, who, posting every way

To th' heads and officers of every band,
Declare who sends, and what is his command.

Why art thou troubled, Herod? What vain fear Thy blood-revolving breast to rage doth move? Heav'n's King, who doffs Himself weak flesh to wear, Comes not to rule in wrath, but serve in love:

Nor would He this thy fear'd crown from thee tear,
But give Thee a better with Himself above.

Poor jealousy! Why should He wish to prey
Upon thy crown, who gives His own away?

Make to thy reason, man, and mock thy doubts;
Look how below thy fears their causes are.
Thou art a soldier, Herod! Send thy scouts,
See how He's furnish'd for so fear'd a war.
What armour does He wear? a few thin clouts.
His trumpets? tender cries. His men to dare

So much? rude shepherds.

What his steeds? alas,

Poor beasts! a slow ox, and a simple ass.

IL FINE DEL LIBRO PRIMO.

ON A PRAYER-BOOK SENT TO MRS. M. R.

*

O, here a little volume, but great book!
A nest of new-born sweets,

Whose native pages disdaining

To be thus folded, and complaining

Of these ignoble sheets,

Affect more comely bands,

Fair one, from thy kind hands,

And confidently look

To find the rest

Of a rich binding in your breast. *

So in the Paris edition of 1652. In all the others

Fear it not, sweet,

It is no hypocrite,

Much larger in itself, than in its look!

It is in one choice handful, heaven; and all
Heaven's royal hosts encamp'd, thus small
To prove that true schools use to tell,
A thousand angels in one point can dwell.

It is love's great artillery,

Which here contracts itself, and comes to lie

Close couch'd in their white bosom; and from thence,

As from a snowy fortress of defence,

Against their ghostly foe to take their part,

And fortify the hold of your chaste heart.

It is an armoury of light;

Let constant use but keep it bright,

You'll find it yields

To holy hands and humble hearts,

More swords and shields

Than sin hath snares, or hell hath darts.

Only be sure

The hands be pure

That hold these weapons, and the eyes

Those of turtles, chaste, and true,

Wakeful, and wise.

Here's a friend shall fight for you;

Hold but this book before your heart,

Let prayer alone to play his part.

But, O! the heart

That studies this high art

Must be a sure housekeeper,

And yet no sleeper.