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.
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