To him that died to live, and would not be So home their bodies went to seek repose, So Philomel, perch'd on an aspen sprig, Nor ever lets sweet rest invade her eye; But leaning on a thorn her dainty chest, For fear soft sleep should steal into her breast, Expresses in her song grief not to be express'd. So when the lark (poor bird!) afar espy'th shave, That their warm nest is now become their grave; PART IV. CHRIST'S TRIUMPH AFTER DEATH. THE ARGUMENT. Christ's triumph after death, 1st, In his resurrection, manifested by its effects in the creatures-in himself—2d, In his ascension into heaven; whose joys are described, 1st, By the access of all good, the blessed society of the saints, angels,-the sweet quiet and peace enjoyed under God-the beauty of the place;-the carity (as the school calls it) of the saints' bodies-the impletion of the appetite-the joy of the senses, &c.-2d, By the absence of all evil-by the access of all good again—in the glory of the holy city-in the beatifical vision of God. BUT now the second morning, from her bower, In the eastern garden; for heaven's smiling brow The early sun came lively dancing out, And the brag lambs ran wantoning about, That heaven and earth might seem in triumph both to shout. The engladden'd Spring, forgetful now to weep, Began to eblazon from her leafy bed; The waking swallow broke her half year's sleep, And every bush lay deeply purpured With violets; the wood's late wintry head Wide flaming primroses set all on fire, And his bald trees put on their green attire, Among whose infant leaves the joyous birds conspire. And now the taller sons (whom Titan warms) To gild their leaves; saw never happier year Say, Earth, why hast thou got thee new attire, Tell me, ye trees, so fresh apparelled, So never let the spiteful canker waste you, So never let the heavens with lightning blast you, Why go you now so trimly drest, or whither haste you? Answer me, Jordan, why thy crooked tide As though some other way thy stream would slide, The while the lambs to hear you dance and play, Tell me, sweet birds, what is it you so fain would say? 1 Copses. And thou, fair spouse of Earth, that every year How chance thou hotter shin'st, and draw'st, more near ? Sure thou somewhere some worthy sight hast spied, That in one place for joy thou canst not bide: And you, dead swallows, that so lively now Through the flit air your winged passage row, How could new life into your frozen ashes flow? Ye primroses and purple violets, Tell me, why blaze ye from your leafy bed, You all would to your Saviour's triumph go: There would ye all await, and humble homage do. There should the earth herself, with garlands new And lovely flowers embellished, adore: There should the Sun another Sun behold, From whence himself borrows his locks of gold, That kindle heaven and earth with beauties manifold. There might the violet and primrose sweet, |