Upon her head she wore

Of amaranths a crown;

Her left hand palms, her right a torch did bear;
Unveiled skin's whiteness lay,

Gold hairs in curls hung down,

Eyes sparkled joy, more bright than star of day.

The flood a throne her reared

Of waves, most like that heaven

Where beaming stars in glory turn unsphered :
The air stood calm and clear,

No sigh by winds was given,

Birds left to sing, herds feed, her voice to hear. "World-wandering, sorry wights,

Whom nothing can content

Within these varying lists of days and nights,
Whose life ere known amiss,

In glittering griefs is spent,

Come learn," said she, "what is your choicest bliss:

"From toil and pressing cares

How ye may respite find;

A sanctuary from soul-thralling snares,

A port, to harbour sure,

In spite of waves and wind,

Which shall, when time's swift glass is run, endure.

"Not happy is that life,

Which you as happy hold;

No, but a sea of fears, a field of strife,

Charged on a throne to sit

With diadems of gold,

Preserved by force, and still observed by wit.

"Huge treasures to enjoy,

Of all her gems spoil Inde,

All Sere's silk in garments t' employ,
Deliciously to feed,

The Phoenix' plume to find,

To rest upon or deck your purple bed.

"Frail beauty to abuse,

And wanton Sybarites,

On past or present touch of sense to muse,

Never to hear of noise,

But what the ear delights,

Sweet music's charms, or charming flatterer's voice.

"Nor can it bliss you bring,

Hid nature's depths to know,

Why matter changeth, whence each form doth spring; Nor that your fame should range,

And after worlds it blow

From Tanais to Nile, from Nile to Gange.

"All these have not the power

To free the mind from fears,

Nor hideous horror can allay one hour,

When death in stealth doth glance,

In sickness lurks, or years,

And wakes the soul from out her mortal trance.

"No; but blest life is this,

With chaste and pure desire,

To turn unto the load-star of all bliss;

On God the mind to rest,

Burnt up by sacred fire,

Possessing Him, to be by Him possessed:

"When to the balmy east,

Sun doth his light impart,

Or when he diveth in the lowly west,

And ravisheth the day,

With spotless hand and heart,

Him cheerfully to praise, and to Him pray.

"Take heed each action to,

As ever in his sight;

More fearing doing ill, or passive woe;

Not to seem other thing,

Than what ye are aright;

Never to do what may repentance bring.

"Not to be blown with pride,

Nor moved at glory's breath,

Which shadow-like on wings of time doth glide; So malice to disarm,

And conquer hasty wrath,

As to do good to those that work you harm.

"To hatch no base desires,

Or gold, or land to gain,

Well pleased with that which virtue fair acquires; To have the wit and will,

Consorting in one strain,

Than what is good, to have no higher skill.

"Never on neighbour's goods,

With cockatrice's eye,

To look, nor make another's heaven your hell;
Nor to be beauty's thrall,

All fruitless love to fly,

Yet loving still, a love transcendant all.

"A love, which while it burns

The soul with fairest beams,

To that increated sun, the soul, it turns,
And makes such beauty prove,

That, if sense saw her gleams,

All lookers on would pine and die for love.

"Who such a life doth live,

You happy e'en may call,

Ere ruthless death a wished end may give,

And after then when given,

More happy by his fall,

For human's earth, enjoying angel's heaven.

"Swift is your mortal race,

And glassy is the field;

Vast are desires not limited by grace:

Life a weak taper is;

Then while it light doth yield,

Leave flying joys, embrace this lasting bliss."

This when the nymph had said,

She dived within the flood,

Whose face with smiling curls long after staid;

Then sighs did zephyrs press,

Birds sang from every wood,
And echoes rang, This was true happiness.

NO TRUST IN TIME.

Look how the flower, which lingeringly doth fade,
The morning's darling late, the summer's queen,
Spoiled of that juice which kept it fresh and green,
As high as it did raise, bows low the head:
Just so, the pleasures of my life, being dead,
Or in their contraries but only seen,

With swifter speed declines than erst it spread,

And, blasted, scarce now shows what it hath been.
Therefore, as doth the pilgrim, whom the night
Hastes darkly to imprison on his way,

Think on thy home, my soul, and think aright
Of what's yet left of life's wasting day:
The sun posts westward, passed is thy morn,
And twice it is not given thee to be born.

RETIREMENT.

THRICE happy he, who by some shady grove,
Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own,
Though solitary, who is not alone,

But doth converse with that eternal love.

Oh! how more sweet is bird's harmonious moan,

Or the hoarse sobbings of the widowed dove,

Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne,

Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve!

Oh! how more sweet is zephyr's wholesome breath,

And sighs embalmed which new-born flowers unfold, Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath!

How sweet are streams, to poison drank in gold!
The world is full of horrors, troubles, slights;
Woods' harmless shades have only true delights.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

SWEET bird, that sing'st away the early hours
Of winters past, or coming, void of care,
Well pleased with delights which present are;
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers,
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers,
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,

And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare.

A stain to human sense in sin that lowers.
What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs

(Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs,
And lift a reverent eye and thought to heaven?
Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise
To airs of spheres; yes, and to angels' lays.

APPLES OF SODOM.

As are those apples, pleasant to the eye,

But full of smoke within, which used to grow

Near that strange lake, where God poured from the sky Huge showers of flame, worse flame to overthrow: Such are their works, that with a glaring show

Of humble holiness, in virtue's dye

Would colour mischief, while within they glow

With coals of sin, though none the smoke descry.