Fought against frowns with smiles; gave glorious chase
To persecutions; and against the face
Of death and fiercest dangers, durst with brave
And sober pace march on to meet a grave.
On their bold breasts about the world they bore thee,
And to the teeth of hell stood up to teach thee;
In centre of their inmost souls they wore thee, Where racks and torments striv'd in vain to reach thee.
Little, alas! thought they
Who tore the fair breasts of thy friends,
Their fury but made way
For thee, and serv'd them in thy glorious ends.
What did their weapons, but with wider pores
Enlarge thy flaming-breasted lovers,
More freely to transpire
That impatient fire
The heart that hides thee hardly covers ?
What did their weapons, but set wide the doors
For thee? fair purple doors, of love's devising;
The ruby windows which enrich'd the east
Of thy so oft-repeated rising.
Each wound of theirs was thy new morning,
And re-enthron'd thee in thy rosy nest,
With blush of thine own blood thy day adorn
It was the wit of love o'erflow'd the bounds
Of wrath, and made the way through all these wounds.
Welcome, dear, all-adored name!
For sure there is no knee
That knows not thee;
Or if there be such sons of shame,
Alas! what will they do,
When stubborn rocks shall bow,
And hills hang down their heav'n-saluting heads
To seek for humble beds
Of dust, where, in the bashful shades of night,
Next to their own low nothing they may lie,
And couch before the dazzling light of thy dread
Majesty.
They that by love's mild dictate now
Will not adore thee,
Shall then, with just confusion, bow
And break before thee.
HAPPY me! O happy sheep!
Whom my God vouchsafes to keep,
Even my God, even he it is
That points me to these ways of bliss;
On whose pastures cheerful spring,
All the year doth sit and sing,
And, rejoicing, smiles to see
Their green backs wear his livery:
Pleasure sings my soul to rest,
Plenty wears me at her breast;
Whose sweet temper teaches me
Nor wanton, nor in want to be.
At my feet the blubbering mountain
Weeping, melts into a fountain,
Whose soft silver-sweating streams
Make high noon forget his beams.
When my wayward breath is flying,
He calls home my soul from dying,
Strokes and tames my rabid grief,
And does woo me into life.
When my simple weakness strays,
Tangled in forbidden ways,
He, my Shepherd, is my guide;
He's before me, on my side,
And behind me ; he beguiles
Craft in all her knotty wiles:
He expounds the giddy wonder
Of my weary steps, and under
Spreads a path clear as the day,
Where no churlish rub says nay
To my joy-conducted feet;
Whilst they gladly go to meet
Grace and peace, to meet new lays
Tun'd to my great Shepherd's praise.
Come now, all ye terrors, sally,
Muster forth into the valley,
Where triumphant darkness hovers
With a sable wing, that covers
Brooding horror. Come, thou death,
Let the damps of thy dull breath
Overshadow even the shade,
And make darkness' self afraid;
There my feet, even there, shall find
Way for a resolved mind.
Still, my Shepherd-still, my God,
Thou art with me; still thy rod
And thy staff, whose influence
Gives direction, gives defence.
At the whisper of thy word
Crown'd abundance spreads my board:
While I feast, my foes do feed
Their rank malice, not their need;
So that with the selfsame bread
They are starv'd, and I am fed.
How my head in ointment swims!
How my cup o'erlooks her brims!
So, even so, still may I move
By the line of thy dear love:
Still may thy sweet mercy spread
A shady arm above my head,
About my paths; so shall I find
The fair centre of my mind
Thy temple, and those lovely walls
Bright ever with a beam that falls
Fresh from the pure glance of thine eye,
Lightning to eternity.
There I'll dwell for ever; there
Will I find a purer air
To feed my life with; there I'll sup
Balm and nectar in my cup;
And thence my ripe soul will I breathe
Warm into the arms of Death.
THE FUNERAL OF A YOUNG GENTLEMAN.
DEAR relics of a dislodg'd soul, whose lack
Makes many a mourning paper put on black!
O stay awhile ere thou draw in thy head,
And wind thyself up close in thy cold bed.
Stay but a little while, until I call
A summons worthy of thy funeral.
Come then, youth, beauty, and blood;
All the soft pow'rs
Whose silken flatteries swell a few fond hours
Into a false eternity. Come, man,
Hyperbolized nothing! know thy span;
Take thine own measure here; down, down, and bow
Before thyself in thine idea, thou
Huge emptiness! contract thyself, and shrink
All thy wild circle to a point! O sink
Lower and lower yet; till thy lean size
Call Heav'n to look on thee with narrow eyes.
Lesser and lesser yet; till thou begin
To show a face, fit to confess thy kin,
Thy neighbourhood to nothing.
Proud looks, and lofty eyelids, here put on
Yourselves in your unfeign'd reflexion.
Here, gallant ladies! this unpartial glass,
Though you be painted, shows you your true
face:
These death-seal'd lips are they, dare give the lie
To the loud boast of poor mortality:
These curtain'd windows, this retired eye,
Out-stares the lids of large-look'd tyranny:
This posture is the brave one, this that lies
Thus low, stands up, methinks, thus, and defies
The world. All-daring dust and ashes! only you,
Of all interpreters, read nature true.
|