Run themselves out of breath Hell is not had for naught, Their souls are Satan's fee He'll not abate it; Is this the world men choose, And not receive it? 90 95 100 CXXXIII HYMN FOR ADVENT; OR CHRIST'S COMING Lord, come away, Why dost Thou stay? Thy road is ready: and thy paths, made strait, The consecration of thy beauteous feet. Hosanna! welcome to our hearts. Lord, here Nothing but thieves and robbers dwell therein, Profane that holy place, Where Thou hast chose to set thy face. And then if our stiff tongues shall be Mute in the praises of thy Deity, The stones out of the temple wall Shall cry aloud, and call Hosanna! and thy glorious footsteps greet. CXXXIV BEYOND THE VEIL. Jeremy Taylor. They are all gone into the world of light, 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, 5 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, O holy Hope! and high Humility! High as the heavens above! These are your walks, and you have showed them me Dear, beauteous death; the jewel of the just, Shining nowhere but in the dark; What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, Could man outlook that mark! He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know, At first sight, if the bird be flown; But what fair dell or grove he sings in now, And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams Call to the soul when man doth sleep, So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, And into glory peep. If a star were confined into a tomb, Her captive flames must needs burn there; But when the hand that locked her up gives room, O Father of eternal life, and all Created glories under Thee, Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill Or else remove me hence unto that hill, Where I shall need no glass. ΙΟ 15 20 25 30 35 40 Henry Vaughan. PART THE THIRD. CXXXV ODE ON SOLITUDE. Happy the man, whose wish and care In his own ground. Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter fire. Blest, who can unconcern'dly find Hours, days, and years slide soft away, In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day, Sound sleep by night; study and ease, Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie. CXXXVI 5 IO 15 20 Alexander Pope. STELLA'S BIRTHDAY. 1720. All travellers at first incline Will call again, and recommend What though the painting grows decayed, Nay, though the treacherous tapster Thomas Now this is Stella's case in fact, With breeding, humour, wit, and sense; 5 ΙΟ 15 20 25 And makes such reasonable bills, So little gets for what she gives, We really wonder how she lives; 30 And, had her stock been less, no doubt She must have long ago run out. Then who can think we'll quit the place, When Doll hangs out a newer face? 35 Or stop and light at Chloe's head, With scraps and leavings to be fed? M 40 |