Those, coarse and negligent, as the natural locks
Of these loose groves; rough as th' unpolish't rocks.
A hasty portion of prescribèd sleep;

Obedient slumbers, that can wake and weep,

And sing, and sigh, and work, and sleep again;
Still rolling a round sphere of still-returning pain.
Hands full of hasty labours; pains that pay

And prize themselves; do much, that more they may,
And work for work, not wages; let to-morrow's
New drops wash off the sweat of this day's sorrows.
A long and daily-dying life, which breathes

A respiration of reviving deaths.

But neither are there those ignoble stings

That nip the blossom of the world's best things,
And lash Earth-labouring souls

No cruel guard of diligent cares, that keep

Crown'd woes awake, as things too wise for sleep:
But reverent discipline, and religious fear,
And soft obedience, find sweet biding here;
Silence, and sacred rest; peace, and pure joys;
Kind loves keep house, lie close, and make no noise;
And room enough for monarchs, while none swells
Beyond the kingdoms of contentful cells.

The self-remembring soul sweetly recovers

Her kindred with the stars; not basely hovers

Below but meditates her immortal way

Home to the original source of Light and intellectual day.

VAUGHAN.

THE RETREAT.

Happy those early days, when I
Shin'd in my angel-infancy!
Before I understood this place
Appointed for my second race,
Or taught my soul to fancy ought
But a white, celestial thought;
When yet I had not walk'd above
A mile or two, from my first love,
And looking back-at that short space-
Could see a glimpse of His bright face;
When on some gilded cloud or flower
My gazing soul would dwell an hour,
And in those weaker glories spy
Some shadows of eternity;

Before I taught my tongue to wound
My conscience with a sinful sound,
Or had the black art to dispense,
A sev'ral sin to ev'ry sense,

But felt through all this fleshly dress
Bright shoots of everlastingness.
O how I long to travel back,
And tread again that ancient track!
That I might once more reach that plain,
Where first I left my glorious train;
From whence th' enlightened spirit sees
That shady city of palm trees.
But ah! my soul with too much stay
Is drunk, and staggers in the way!
Some men a forward motion love,
But I by backward steps will move;
And when this dust falls to the urn,
In that state I came, return.

Sweetly didst thou expire: thy soul
Flew home unstain'd by his new kin;
For ere thou knew'st how to be foul,
Death wean'd thee from the world, and sin.

Softly rest all thy virgin-crumbs
Lapt in the sweets of thy young breath,
Expecting till thy Saviour comes

To dress them, and unswaddle death!

THE WORLD.

I saw Eternity the other night,

Like a great ring of pure and endless light,
All calm, as it was bright;

And round beneath it, Time in hours, days, years,
Driv'n by the spheres

Like a vast shadow mov'd; in which the world
And all her train were hurl'd.

The doting lover in his quaintest strain

Did there complain ;

Near him, his lute, his fancy, and his slights,
Wit's sour delights,

With gloves, and knots, the silly snares of pleasure,
Yet his dear treasure,

All scatter'd lay, while he his eyes did pour

Upon a flower.

1

The darksome statesman, hung with weights and woe,
Like a thick midnight-fog, mov'd there so slow,
He did not stay, nor go;

Condemning thoughts-like sad eclipses-scowl
Upon his soul,

And clouds of crying witnesses without

Pursued him with one shout.

Yet digg'd the mole, and lest his ways be found,
Worked under ground,

Where he did clutch his prey; but one did see
That policy;

Churches and altars fed him; perjuries
Were gnats and flies;

It rain'd about him blood and tears, but he
Drank them as free.

The fearful miser on a heap of rust

Sate pining all his life there, did scarce trust
His own hands with the dust,

Yet would not place one piece alone, but lives
In fear of thieves.

Thousands there were as frantic as himself,
And hugg'd each one his pelf;

The downright epicure plac'd heav'n in sense,
And scorn'd pretence;

While others, slipt into a wide excess,
Said little less;

The weaker sort, slight, trivial wares enslave,
Who think them brave;

And poor despised Truth sate counting by
Their victory.

Yet some, who all this while did weep and sing,
And sing, and weep, soar'd up into the ring;
But most would use no wing.

O fools-said I-thus to prefer dark night
Before true light!

To live in grots, and caves, and hate the day
Because it shews the way,

The way, which from this dead and dark abode
Leads up to God;

A way where you might tread the sun, and be
More bright than he !

But as I did their madness so discuss

One whisper'd thus,

'This ring the Bridegroom did for none provide, But for His bride.'

BEYOND THE VEIL.

They are all gone into the world of light!
And I alone sit lingering here;
Their very memory is fair and bright,
And my sad thoughts doth clear.

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,
Like stars upon some gloomy grove,

Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest,
After the sun's remove.

I see them walking in an air of glory,

Whose light doth trample on my days:
My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,
Mere glimmering and decays.

O holy Hope! and high Humility,

High as the heavens above!

These are your walks, and you have shew'd them me, To kindle my cold love.

Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the just,

Shining no where, but in the dark;

What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust;

Could man outlook that mark!