HEN I consider how my light is spent

WH

Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,

And that one talent, which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, lest He, returning, chide; 'Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?' I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies: 'God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve Him best. His state Thousands, at his bidding, speed

Is kingly.

And post o'er land and ocean without rest;—

They also serve who only stand and wait.'

L

AWRENCE, of virtuous father virtuous son,

Now that the fields are dank and ways are mire, Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire Help waste a sullen day, what may be won From the hard season gaining? Time will run On smoother, till Favonius reinspire

The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire The lily and rose, that neither sowed nor spun. What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,

Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise To hear the lute well toucht, or artful voice

Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air?

He who of those delights can judge, and spare To interpose them oft, is not unwise.

CYRIA

"YRIACK, whose grandsire on the royal bench Of British Themis, with no mean applause, Pronounc't, and in his volumes taught, our laws, Which others at their bar so often wrench, To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench In mirth that after no repenting draws; Let Euclid rest and Archimedes pause,

And what the Swede intends, and what the French. To measure life learn thou betimes, and know

Toward solid good what leads the nearest way;

For other things mild Heaven a time ordains, And disapproves that care, though wise in show, That with superfluous burden loads the day,

And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.

"YRIACK, this three-years-day these eyes, though

CY

clear,

To outward view, of blemish or of spot,
Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot;
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear
Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year,
Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not

Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot
Of heart or hope, but still bear up and steer
Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask?
The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied
In Liberty's defence, my noble task,

Of which all Europe rings from side to side.

This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask,

Content, though blind, had I no better guide.

METHOUGHT I saw my late espoused saint

Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave,

Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave, Rescued from Death by force, though pale and faint. Mine, as whom washt from spot of child-bed taint Purification in the old law did save,

And such as yet once more I trust to have
Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint,
Came vested all in white, pure as her mind:

Her face was veiled; yet to my fancied sight
Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shined
So clear, as in no face with more delight.
But, oh! as to embrace me she inclined,

I waked, she fled, and day brought back my night.

H