Dumque novas pergunt menses consumere lunas
Coelumque mortales terit,

Accumulas cum sole dies, aevumque per omne
Fidelis induras latex ;

O quis inaccessos et quali murmure lucos
Mutumque solaris nemus!

Per te discerpti credo Thracis ire querelas
Plectrumque divini senis.

Authoris Emblema

(Silex Scintillans)

TENTASTI, fateor, sine vulnere sæpius et me
Consultum voluit vox, sine voce, frequens ;
Ambivit placido divinior aura meatu,
Et frustrà sancto murmure præmonuit.
Surdus eram, mutusque Silex : Tu (quanta tuorum
Cura tibi est!) aliâ das renovare viâ;

Permutas curam : jamque irritatus amorem
Posse negas, et vim vi superare paras ;
Accedis propior, molemque, et saxea rumpis
Pectora, fitque caro, quod fuit arte lapis.
En lacerum Cælosque tuos ardentia tandem
Fragmenta, et liquidas ex adamante genas.
Sic olim undantes petras, scopulosque vomentes
Curâsti, O populi providus usque tui!

Quam miranda tibi manus est! Moriendo, revixi ;
Et fractas jam sum ditior inter opes.

Midnight

WHEN to my eyes,
Whilst deep sleep others catches,

Thine host of spies,

The stars, shine in their watches,

I do survey
Each busy ray,

And how they work and wind,
And wish each beam

My soul doth stream

With the like ardour shin'd.
What emanations,

Quick vibrations,

And bright stirs are there!
What thin ejections,
Cold affections,

And slow motions here!

Thy heavens, some say,

Are a fiery-liquid light,

Which, mingling aye,

Streams and flames thus to the sight.
Come, then, my God!

Shine on this blood

And water in one beam;

And thou shalt see,
Kindled by Thee,

Both liquors burn and stream.
what bright quickness,
Active brightness,

And celestial flows,

Will follow after,

On that water

Which thy Spirit blows!

The Mother of Sorrows

IN shade of Death's sad Tree

Stood doleful she.

Ah she now by none other

Name to be known, alas, but Sorrow's Mother.
Before her eyes

Her's and the whole World's joys,

Hanging all torn, she sees; and in His woes
And pains, her pangs and throes:
Each wound of His, from every part,
Are more at home in her one heart.

What kind of marble then

Is that cold man

Who can look on and see,

Nor keep such noble sorrows company?
Sure even from you

(My flints) some drops are due,

To see so many unkind swords contest
So fast for one soft breast:
While with a faithful, mutual flood,
Her eyes bleed tears, His wounds weep blood.

O costly intercourse

Of deaths, and worse

Divided loves, while Son and mother Discourse alternate wounds to one another, Quick deaths that grow

And gather, as they come and go :

His nails write swords in her, which soon her heart
Pays back, with more than their own smart ;

Her swords, still growing with His pain,
Turn spears, and straight come home again.

She sees her Son, her God,

Bow with a load

Of borrow'd sins; and swim

In woes that were not made for Him.
Ah! hard command

Of love, here must she stand,

Charged to look on, and with a steadfast eye
See her life die ;

Leaving her only so much breath
As serves to keep alive her death.

O mother turtle-dove!
Soft source of love!

That these dry lids might borrow

Something from thy full seas of sorrow!
Ō in that breast

Of thine (the noblest nest

Both of Love's fires and floods) might I recline
This hard, cold heart of mine!

The chill lump would relent, and prove
Soft subject for the siege of Love.

O teach those wounds to bleed
In me; me, so to read

This book of love, thus writ

In lines of death, my life may copy it
With loyal cares.

O let me, here, claim shares,

Yield something to thy sad prerogative

(Great queen of griefs !), and give

Me too my tears; who, though all stone,
Think much that thou shouldst mourn alone.

[Yea, let my life and me

Fix here with thee,

And at the humble foot

Of this fair Tree, take our eternal root.

That so we may

At least be in Love's way;

And in these chaste wars, while the wing'd wounds flee
So fast 'twixt Him and thee,

My breast may catch the kiss of some kind dart,
Though as at second hand, from either heart.

O you, your own best darts,

Dear, doleful hearts!

Hail; and strike home, and make me see

That wounded bosoms their own weapons be.
Come wounds! come darts!

Nail'd hands! and piercèd hearts!

Come your whole selves, Sorrow's great Son and mother!

Nor grudge a younger brother

Of griefs his portion, who (had all their due)
One single wound should not have left for you.]

Shall I in sins set there
So deep a share,

(Dear wounds), and only now

In sorrows draw no dividend with you?
O be more wise,

If not more just, mine eyes!

Flow, tardy founts! and into decent showers
Dissolve my days and hours.

And if thou yet (faint soul!) defer

To bleed with Him, fail not to weep with her.

Lend, O lend some relief;

At least an alms of grief,

To a heart who by sad right of sin

Could prove the whole sum (too sure) due to him.
By all those stings

Of Love, sweet-bitter things,

Which these torn hands transcribed on thy true heart;

O teach mine, too, the art

To study thee so, till we mix

Wounds, and become one crucifix.

O let me suck the wine

So long of this chaste Vine,

Till drunk of the dear wounds, I be

A lost thing to the world, as it to me.
O faithful friend,

Of me and of my end,

Let my life end in love; and lie beneath
Thy dear lost vital death.

Lo, heart, thy hope's whole plea, her precious breath
Pour'd out in prayers for thee; in thy Lord's death.

Turnbull & Spears, Printers, Edinburgh.