A glory at opinion's frown that low'rs,
A treasury which bankrupt time devours,
A knowledge than grave ignorance more blind,
A vain delight our equals to command,
A style of greatness, in effect a dream,
A swelling thought of holding sea and land,
A servile lot, deck'd with a pompous name;
Are the strange ends we toil for here below,
Till wisest death make us our errors know.

Look as the flow'r which ling'ringly doth fade,
The morning's darling late, the summer's queen,
Spoil'd of that juice which kept it fresh and green,
As high as it did raise, bows low the head:
Right so the pleasures of my life being dead,
Or in their contraries but only seen,

With swifter speed declines than erst it spread,
And (blasted) scarce now shows what it hath been.
Therefore as doth the pilgrim, whom the night
Hastes darkly to imprison on his way,

Think on thy home (my soul) and think aright,
Of what's yet left thee of life's wasting day;

Thy sun posts westward, passed is thy morn,
And twice it is not given thee to be born.

The weary mariner so fast not flies
An howling tempest, harbour to attain,
Nor shepherd hastes (when frays of wolves arise)
So fast to fold, to save his bleating train,
As I (wing'd with contempt and just disdain)
Now fly the world, and what it most doth prize,
And sanctuary seek, free to remain

From wounds of abject times, and envy's eyes.

To me this world did once seem sweet and fair,
While senses light mind's perspective kept blind;
Now, like imagin'd landskip in the air,

And weeping rainbows, her best joys I find :
Or if ought here is had that praise should have,
It is an obscure life, and silent grave.

JOHN THE BAPTIST.

THE last and greatest herald of heav'n's King, Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild, Among that savage brood the woods forth bring, Which he more harmless found than man, and

mild;

His food was locusts, and what there doth spring,
With honey that from virgin hives distill'd;
Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing
Made him appear, long since from earth exil'd.
There burst he forth; all ye whose hopes rely
On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn,
Repent, repent, and from old errors turn.
Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry?
Only the echoes, which he made relent,
Rung from their flinty caves, repent, repent.

This world a hunting is,

The prey poor man, the Nimrod fierce is death,
His speedy greyhounds are,

Lust, sickness, envy, care,
Strife that ne'er falls amiss,

With all those ills which haunt us while we

breathe;

Now, if by chance we fly

Of these the eager chase,
Old age with stealing pace

Casts on his nets, and there we panting die.

APPLES OF SODOM.

As are those apples, pleasant to the eye,
But full of smoke within, which use to grow
Near that strange lake where God pour'd from the
sky

Huge show'rs of flames, worse flames to overthrow :
Such are their works that with a glaring show
Of humble holiness, in virtue's die

Would colour mischief, while within they glow
With coals of sin, though none the smoke descry.
Bad is that angel that erst fell from heaven,
But not so bad as he, nor in worse case,
Who hides a trait'rous mind with smiling face,
And with a dove's white feathers clothes a raven :
Each sin some colour hath it to adorn,
Hypocrisy Almighty God doth scorn.

RETIREMENT.

THRICE happy he who by some shady grove, Far from the clam'rous world, doth live his own, Though solitary, who is not alone,

But doth converse with that eternal love :

O how more sweet is birds' harmonious moan,
Or the hoarse sobbings of the widow'd dove,
Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's
throne,

Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve!

O how more sweet is zephyr's wholesome breath, And sighs embalm'd, which new-born flow'rs unfold,

Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath! How sweet are streams to poison drunk in gold! The world is full of horrors, troubles, slights, Woods' harmless shades have only true delights.

CRASHAW.

Poet and Saint! to thee alone are given

The two most sacred names of earth and heaven.-COWLEY. RICHARD CRASHAW, a religious poet, was a man of fervid mind and ardent piety, an accomplished scholar, and a powerful and popular preacher. The period of his birth is not ascertained; but it is known that his father was an author, and a preacher of the Temple church, London. Crashaw was educated at the Charter-House, and took a degree at Cambridge, where he published his sacred poem of "Steps to the Temple." In 1644 he was ejected from his living on refusing to subscribe the Covenant, and soon afterwards he professed the Roman Catholic faith. Crashaw was recommended by his friend, Cowley the poet, to the exiled Queen Henrietta, through whose interest he obtainèd a small office in Rome. He died about the year 1650, a canon of the church of Loretto. Though the poetical writings of Crashaw do not suffer the reader to forget that he was of the same church as Pascal and Fenelon, they cannot fail to please from their reverential fervour and genuine warmth of devotion.

THE CIRCUMCISION.

RISE, thou best and brightest morning,
Rosy with a double red,

With thine own blush thy cheeks adorning,
And the dear drops this day were shed.

All the purple pride that laces
The crimson curtains of thy bed,
Gilds thee not with so sweet graces,
Nor sets thee in so rich a red.

Of all the fair-cheek'd flowers that fill thee,
None so fair thy bosom shows,

As this modest maiden lily,

Our sins have sham'd into a rose.

Bid thy golden god the sun,

Burnish'd in his best beams, rise,

Put all his red-ey'd rubies on ;

豪

Those rubies shall put out their eyes.

TWO WENT UP INTO THE TEMPLE.

Two went to pray? O! rather say

One went to brag, th' other to pray :
One stands up close, and treads on high,
Where th' other dares not send his eye;
One nearer to God's altar trod,

The other to the altar's God.

EASTER DAY.

RISE, Heir of fresh eternity

From thy virgin tomb,

Rise, mighty Man of wonders, and thy world with thee,

Thy tomb the universal east,

Nature's new womb,

Thy tomb fair immortality's perfumed nest.