_t.i.tyrus_. Gloomy night embraced the place Where the n.o.ble infant lay: The babe looked up and showed his face: In spite of darkness it was day.

It was thy day, sweet, and did rise Not from the east, but from thy eyes.

_Chorus._ It was thy day, sweet, &c.

_Thyrsis_. Winter chid aloud, and sent The angry north to wage his wars: The north forgot his fierce intent, And left perfumes instead of scars.

By those sweet eyes' persuasive powers, Where he meant frosts, he scattered flowers.

_Chorus._ By those sweet eyes', &c.

_Both_. We saw thee in thy balmy nest, Young dawn of our eternal day; We saw thine eyes break from the east, And chase the trembling shades away.

We saw thee, and we blessed the sight; We saw thee by thine own sweet light.

_Chorus._ We saw thee, &c.

_t.i.tyrus_. "Poor world," said I, "what wilt thou do To entertain this starry stranger?

Is this the best thou canst bestow-- A cold and not too cleanly manger?

Contend, the powers of heaven and earth, To fit a bed for this huge birth."

_Chorus._ Contend, the powers, &c.

_Thyrsis_. "Proud world," said I, "cease your contest, And let the mighty babe alone: The phoenix builds the phoenix' nest-- Love's architecture is his own.

The babe, whose birth embraves this morn, Made his own bed ere he was born."

_Chorus._ The babe, whose birth, &c.

_t.i.tyrus_. I saw the curl'd drops, soft and slow, Come hovering o'er the place's head, Offering their whitest sheets of snow To furnish the fair infant's bed: "Forbear," said I; "be not too bold: Your fleece is white, but 'tis too cold."

_Chorus._ "Forbear," said I, &c.

_Thyrsis_. I saw the obsequious seraphim Their rosy fleece of fire bestow; For well they now can spare their wings, Since heaven itself lies here below.

"Well done," said I; "but are you sure Your down, so warm, will pa.s.s for pure?"

_Chorus._ "Well done," said I, &c.

_Full Chorus_. Welcome all wonders in one sight!

Eternity shut in a span!

Summer in winter! day in night!

Heaven in earth, and G.o.d in man!

Great little one, whose all-embracing birth Lifts earth to heaven, stoops heaven to earth!

Welcome--though not to those gay flies Gilded i' th' beams of earthly kings-- Slippery souls in smiling eyes-- But to poor shepherds, homespun things, Whose wealth's their flocks, whose wit's to be Well read in their simplicity.

Yet when young April's husband showers Shall bless the fruitful Maia's bed, We'll bring the firstborn of her flowers To kiss thy feet, and crown thy head: To thee, dear Lamb! whose love must keep The shepherds while they feed their sheep.

To thee, meek Majesty, soft king Of simple graces and sweet loves, Each of us his lamb will bring, Each his pair of silver doves.

At last, in fire of thy fair eyes, Ourselves become our own best sacrifice.

A splendid line to end with! too good for the preceding one. All temples and altars, all priesthoods and prayers, must vanish in this one and only sacrifice. Exquisite, however, as the poem is, we cannot help wishing it looked less heathenish. Its decorations are certainly meretricious.

From a few religious poems of Sir Edward Sherburne, another Roman Catholic, and a firm adherent of Charles I., I choose the following--the only one I care for.

AND THEY LAID HIM IN A MANGER.

Happy crib, that wert, alone, To my G.o.d, bed, cradle, throne!

Whilst thy glorious vileness I View with divine fancy's eye, Sordid filth seems all the cost, State, and splendour, crowns do boast.

See heaven's sacred majesty Humbled beneath poverty; Swaddled up in homely rags, On a bed of straw and flags!

He whose hands the heavens displayed, And the world's foundations laid, From the world's almost exiled, Of all ornaments despoiled.

Perfumes bathe him not, new-born; Persian mantles not adorn; Nor do the rich roofs look bright With the jasper's orient light.

Where, O royal infant, be The ensigns of thy majesty; Thy Sire's equalizing state; And thy sceptre that rules fate?

Where's thy angel-guarded throne, Whence thy laws thou didst make known-- Laws which heaven, earth, h.e.l.l obeyed?

These, ah! these aside he laid; Would the emblem be--of pride By humility outvied.

I pa.s.s by Abraham Cowley, mighty reputation as he has had, without further remark than that he is too vulgar to be admired more than occasionally, and too artificial almost to be, as a poet, loved at all.

Andrew Marvell, member of Parliament for Hull both before and after the Restoration, was twelve years younger than his friend Milton. Any one of some half-dozen of his few poems is to my mind worth all the verse that Cowley ever made. It is a pity he wrote so little; but his was a life as diligent, I presume, as it was honourable.

ON A DROP OF DEW.

See how the orient dew, Shed from the bosom of the morn Into the blowing roses, Yet careless of its mansion new For the clear region where 'twas born, Round in itself encloses, _used intransitively._ And in its little globe's extent, Frames as it can its native element.

How it the purple flower does slight, Scarce touching where it lies, But gazing back upon the skies, Shines with a mournful light, Like its own tear, Because so long divided from the sphere: Restless it rolls, and unsecure, Trembling lest it grow impure, Till the warm sun pity its pain, And to the skies exhale it back again.

So the soul, that drop, that ray Of the clear fountain of eternal day, Could it within the human flower be seen, Remembering still its former height, Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms green; And, recollecting its own light, Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express The greater heaven in an heaven less.

In how coy a figure wound, Every way it turns away, So the world excluding round, Yet receiving in the day; Dark beneath but bright above, Here disdaining, there in love.

How loose and easy hence to go!

How girt and ready to ascend!

Moving but on a point below, It all about does upwards bend.

Such did the manna's sacred dew distil-- White and entire,[141] though congealed and chill-- Congealed on earth, but does, dissolving, run Into the glories of the almighty sun.

Surely a lovely fancy of resemblance, exquisitely wrought out; an instance of the lighter play of the mystical mind, which yet shadows forth truth.

THE CORONET.

When for the thorns with which I long too long, With many a piercing wound, My Saviour's head have crowned, I seek with garlands to redress that wrong, Through every garden, every mead I gather flowers--my fruits are only flowers-- Dismantling all the fragrant towers That once adorned my shepherdess's head; And now, when I have summed up all my store, Thinking--so I myself deceive-- So rich a chaplet thence to weave As never yet the King of glory wore; Alas! I find the serpent old, That, twining in his speckled breast, About the flowers disguised does fold, With wreaths of fame and interest.

Ah, foolish man that wouldst debase with them And mortal glory, heaven's diadem!

But thou who only couldst the serpent tame, Either his slippery knots at once untie, And disentangle all his winding snare, Or shatter too with him my curious frame,[142]

And let these wither, that so he may die, Though set with skill, and chosen out with care; That they, while thou on both their spoils dost tread, May crown thy feet that could not crown thy head.

A true sacrifice of worship, if not a garland of praise! The disciple would have his works tried by the fire, not only that the gold and the precious stones may emerge relucent, but that the wood and hay and stubble may perish. The will of G.o.d alone, not what we may have effected, deserves our care. In the perishing of our deeds they fall at his feet: in our willing their loss we crown his head.

CHAPTER XVIII.

A MOUNT OF VISION--HENRY VAUGHAN.

We have now arrived at the borders of a long, dreary tract, which, happily for my readers, I can shorten for them in this my retrospect.