EVERLASTING MEMORIES.

O monument of me remain;
My memory rust

In the same marble with my dust,
Ere I the spreading laurel gain,

By writing wanton or profane.

Ye glorious wonders of the skies,
Shine still, bright stars!

Th' Almighty's mystic characters-
I'll not your beauteous lights surprise,
T'illuminate a woman's eyes;

Nor to perfume her veins, while I

In each one set

The purple of the violet:

The untouch'd flower may grow and die,

Safe from my fancy's injury.

Open my lips, great God! and then
I'll soar above

The humble flights of earthly love;
Upwards to Thee I'll force my pen,
And trace no path of vulgar men.

HABINGTON.

THE RETREAT.

APPY those early days, when I
Shone in mine angel infancy!
Before I understood this place
Appointed for my second race,
Or taught my soul to fancy aught
But a white, celestial thought;
While yet I had not walk'd above
A mile or two from my first love:
And looking back at that short space,
Could catch 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 several sin to every 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' enlighten'd 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 would move;
And when this dust falls to the urn,
In that state which I came, return.

HENRY VAUGHAN.

DEATH'S CONQUEST.

HE glories of our birth and state
Are shadows, not substantial things:
There is no armour against fate:
Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:

Early or late

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow;

Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon Death's purple altar now,

See where the victor victim bleeds!

All heads must come

To the cold tomb;

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.

JAMES SHIRLEY.

1596-1666.

TIMES GO BY TURNS.

HE lopp'd tree in time may grow again, Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower;

The sorriest wight may find release

from pain;

The driest soil suck in some moistening shower.

Times go by turns; and chances change by course, From foul to fair, from better hap to worse.

The sea of fortune doth not ever flow,

She draws her favours to the lowest ebb;
Her tides have equal times to come and go,
Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web:
No joy so great but runneth to an end;
No hap so hard but may in fine amend.

Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring;
No endless night, nor yet eternal day:
The saddest birds a season find to sing;

The roughest storm a calm may soon allay.
Thus, with succeeding turns, God tempereth all,
That man may hope to rise or fear to fall.

ROBERT SOUTHWELL.

1560-1595.

THE CONTINUAL FEAST.

M

Y conscience is my crown,
Contented thoughts my rest;
My heart is happy in itself,
My bliss is in my breast;

My wishes are but few,

All easy to fulfil;

I make the limits of my power
The bounds unto my will.