UPON THE CIRCUMCISION. YE flaming Powers, and winged Warriors bright! Seas wept from our deep sorrow He, who with all Heaven's heraldry whilere Enter'd the world, now bleeds to give us ease: Alas, how soon our sin Sore doth begin His infancy to seize ! O more exceeding love, or law more just! And that great covenant which we still transgress And the full wrath beside, Of vengeful justice bore for our excess; And seals obedience first, with wounding smart, This day; but O! ere long, Huge pangs and strong Will pierce more near his heart. ON THE DEATH OF A FAIR INFANT, DYING OF A COUGH. O FAIREST flower! no sooner blown but blasted, Soft silken primrose fading timelessly, Summer's chief honor, if thou hadst out-lasted Bleak Winter's force that made thy blossom dry; For he, being amorous on that lovely dye That did thy cheek envermeil, thought to kiss, But kill'd, alas! and then bewail'd his fatal bliss. For since grim Aquilo, his charioteer, Of long-uncoupled bed and childless eld, Which, 'mongst the wanton gods, a foul reproach was held. So, mounting up on icy-pearled car, Through middle empire of the freezing air But, all unwares, with his cold-kind embrace Unhoused thy virgin soul from her fair biding place. Yet art thou not inglorious in thy fate; Young Hyacinth, born on Eurotas' strand, Yet can I not persuade me thou art dead, Hid from the world in a low-delved tomb; Oh no! for something in thy face did shine Above mortality, that show'd thou wast divine. Resolve me then, oh Soul most surely bless'd! (If so it be that thou these plaints dost hear;) Tell me, bright Spirit! where'er thou hoverest, Whether above that high first-moving sphere, Or in the' Elysian fields, (if such there were ;) Oh say me true, if thou wert mortal wight, And why from us so quickly thou didst take thy flight? Wert thou some star which from the ruin'd roof Of sheeny heaven, and thou, some goddess, fled, Amongst us here below to hide thy nectar'd head? Or wert thou that just maid, who once before Or any other of that heavenly brood [good? Let down in cloudy throne to do the world some Or wert thou of the golden-winged host, To scorn the sordid world, and unto heaven aspire? But oh! why didst thou not stay here below To stand 'twixt us and our deserved smart? But thou canst best perform that office where thou art. Then thou, the Mother of so sweet a Child, This if thou do, he will an offspring give, That, till the world's last end, shall make thy name to live. ON TIME'. FLY, envious Time! till thou run out thy race; Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours, Whose speed is but the heavy plummet's pace; And glut thyself with what thy womb devours, Which is no more than what is false and vain, And merely mortal dross : So little is our loss, So little is thy gain! For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb'd, And last of all thy greedy self consumed, Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss With an individual kiss; And Joy shall overtake us as a flood, And perfectly divine, With Truth, and Peace, and Love, shall ever shine About the supreme throne Of Him, to whose happy-making sight alone When once our heavenly-guided soul shall climb; Then, all this earthly grossness quit, Attired with stars, we shall for ever sit, Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee, O Time! In Milton's manuscript, written with his own hand, the title is, On Time. TO BE SET ON A CLOCK-CASE.' |