But full as well may we blame night, and chide His wisdom, Who doth light with darkness hide, Or deny curtains to thy royal bed, As take this sacred cov'ring from thy head.

Secrets of State are points we must not know; This vizard is thy privy-council now, Thou royal riddle, and in everything The true white prince, our hieroglyphic king!

Ride safely in His shade, Who gives thee light, And can with blindness thy pursuers smite.

O! may they wander all from thee as far As they from peace are, and thyself from war!

And wheresoe'er thou dost design to be With thy--now spotted--spotless majesty, Be sure to look no sanctuary there, Nor hope for safety in a temple, where Buyers and sellers trade: O! strengthen not With too much trust the treason of a Scot!

THE EAGLE.

Tis madness sure; and I am in the fit, To dare an eagle with my unfledg'd wit.

For what did ever Rome or Athens sing In all their lines, as lofty as his wing?

He that an eagle's powers would rehea.r.s.e Should with his plumes first feather all his verse.

I know not, when into thee I would pry, Which to admire, thy wing first, or thine eye; Or whether Nature at thy birth design'd More of her fire for thee, or of her wind.

When thou in the clear heights and upmost air Dost face the sun and his dispersed hair, Ev'n from that distance thou the sea dost spy And sporting in its deep, wide lap, the fry.

Not the least minnow there but thou canst see: Whole seas are narrow spectacles to thee.

Nor is this element of water here Below of all thy miracles the sphere.

If poets ought may add unto thy store, Thou hast in heav'n of wonders many more.

For when just Jove to earth his thunder bends, And from that bright, eternal fortress sends His louder volleys, straight this bird doth fly To aetna, where his magazine doth lie, And in his active talons brings him more Of ammunition, and recruits his store.

Nor is't a low or easy lift. He soars 'Bove wind and fire; gets to the moon, and pores With scorn upon her duller face; for she Gives him but shadows and obscurity.

Here much displeas'd, that anything like night Should meet him in his proud and lofty flight, That such dull tinctures should advance so far, And rival in the glories of a star, Resolv'd he is a n.o.bler course to try, And measures out his voyage with his eye.

Then with such fury he begins his flight, As if his wings contended with his sight.

Leaving the moon, whose humble light doth trade With spots, and deals most in the dark and shade, To the day's royal planet he doth pa.s.s With daring eyes, and makes the sun his gla.s.s.

Here doth he plume and dress himself, the beams Rushing upon him like so many streams; While with direct looks he doth entertain The thronging flames, and shoots them back again.

And thus from star to star he doth repair, And wantons in that pure and peaceful air.

Sometimes he frights the starry swan, and now Orion's fearful hare, and then the crow.

Then with the orb itself he moves, to see Which is more swift, th' intelligence or he.

Thus with his wings his body he hath brought Where man can travel only in a thought.

I will not seek, rare bird, what spirit 'tis That mounts thee thus; I'll be content with this, To think that Nature made thee to express Our soul's bold heights in a material dress.

TO MR. M. L. UPON HIS REDUCTION OF THE PSALMS INTO METHOD.

Sir,

You have oblig'd the patriarch, and 'tis known He is your debtor now, though for his own.

What he wrote is a medley: we can see Confusion trespa.s.s on his piety.

Misfortunes did not only strike at him, They charged further, and oppress'd his pen; For he wrote as his crosses came, and went By no safe rule, but by his punishment.

His quill mov'd by the rod; his wits and he Did know no method, but their misery.

You brought his Psalms now into tune. Nay all His measures thus are more than musical; Your method and his airs are justly sweet, And--what's church music right--like anthems meet.

You did so much in this, that I believe He gave the matter, you the form did give.

And yet I wish you were not understood, For now 'tis a misfortune to be good!

Why then you'll say, all I would have, is this: None must be good, because the time's amiss.

For since wise Nature did ordain the night, I would not have the sun to give us light.

Whereas this doth not take the use away, But urgeth the necessity of day.

Proceed to make your pious work as free, Stop not your seasonable charity.

Good works despis'd or censur'd by bad times Should be sent out to aggravate their crimes.

They should first share and then reject our store, Abuse our good, to make their guilt the more.

'Tis war strikes at our sins, but it must be A persecution wounds our piety.

TO THE PIOUS MEMORY OF C[HARLES] W[ALBEOFFE] ESQUIRE, WHO FINISHED HIS COURSE HERE, AND MADE HIS ENTRANCE INTO IMMORTALITY UPON THE 13 OF SEPTEMBER, IN THE YEAR OF REDEMPTION, 1653.

Now that the public sorrow doth subside, And those slight tears which custom springs are dried; While all the rich and outside mourners pa.s.s Home from thy dust, to empty their own gla.s.s; I--who the throng affect not, nor their state-- Steal to thy grave undress'd, to meditate On our sad loss, accompanied by none, An obscure mourner that would weep alone.

So, when the world's great luminary sets, Some scarce known star into the zenith gets, Twinkles and curls, a weak but willing spark, As glow-worms here do glitter in the dark.

Yet, since the dimmest flame that kindles there An humble love unto the light doth bear, And true devotion from an hermit's cell Will Heav'n's kind King as soon reach and as well, As that which from rich shrines and altars flies, Led by ascending incense to the skies: 'Tis no malicious rudeness, if the might Of love makes dark things wait upon the bright, And from my sad retirements calls me forth, The just recorder of thy death and worth.

Long didst thou live--if length be measured by The tedious reign of our calamity-- And counter to all storms and changes still Kept'st the same temper, and the selfsame will.

Though trials came as duly as the day, And in such mists, that none could see his way, Yet thee I found still virtuous, and saw The sun give clouds, and Charles give both the law.

When private interest did all hearts bend, And wild dissents the public peace did rend, Thou, neither won, nor worn, wert still thyself, Not aw'd by force, nor basely brib'd with pelf.

What the insuperable stream of times Did dash thee with, those suff'rings were, not crimes.

So the bright sun eclipses bears; and we, Because then pa.s.sive, blame him not. Should he For enforc'd shades, and the moon's ruder veil Much nearer us than him, be judg'd to fail?

Who traduce thee, so err. As poisons by Correction are made antidotes, so thy Just soul did turn ev'n hurtful things to good, Us'd bad laws so they drew not tears, nor blood.

Heav'n was thy aim, and thy great, rare design Was not to lord it here, but there to shine.

Earth nothing had, could tempt thee. All that e'er Thou pray'd'st for here was peace, and glory there.

For though thy course in Time's long progress fell On a sad age, when war and open'd h.e.l.l Licens'd all arts and sects, and made it free To thrive by fraud, and blood, and blasphemy: Yet thou thy just inheritance didst by No sacrilege, nor pillage multiply.

No rapine swell'd thy state, no bribes, nor fees, Our new oppressors' best annuities.

Such clean pure hands hadst thou! and for thy heart, Man's secret region, and his n.o.blest part; Since I was privy to't, and had the key Of that fair room, where thy bright spirit lay, I must affirm it did as much surpa.s.s Most I have known, as the clear sky doth gla.s.s.

Constant and kind, and plain, and meek, and mild It was, and with no new conceits defil'd.

Busy, but sacred thoughts--like bees--did still Within it stir, and strive unto that hill Where redeem'd spirits, evermore alive, After their work is done, ascend and hive.

No outward tumults reach'd this inward place: 'Twas holy ground, where peace, and love, and grace Kept house, where the immortal restless life, In a most dutiful and pious strife, Like a fix'd watch, mov'd all in order still; The will serv'd G.o.d, and ev'ry sense the will!

In this safe state Death met thee, Death, which is But a kind usher of the good to bliss, Therefore to weep because thy course is run, Or droop like flow'rs, which lately lost the sun, I cannot yield, since Faith will not permit A tenure got by conquest to the pit.

For the great Victor fought for us, and He Counts ev'ry dust that is laid up of thee.

Besides, Death now grows decrepit, and hath Spent the most part both of its time and wrath.

That thick, black night, which mankind fear'd, is torn By troops of stars, and the bright day's forlorn.

The next glad news--most glad unto the just!-- Will be the trumpet's summons from the dust.

Then I'll not grieve; nay, more, I'll not allow My soul should think thee absent from me now.

Some bid their dead "Good night!" but I will say "Good morrow to dear Charles!" for it is day.

IN ZODIAc.u.m MARCELLI PALINGENII.

It is perform'd! and thy great name doth run Through ev'ry sign, an everlasting sun, Not planet-like, but fixed; and we can see Thy genius stand still in his apogee.

For how canst thou an aux eternal miss, Where ev'ry house thy exaltation is?

Here's no ecliptic threatens thee with night, Although the wiser few take in thy light.

They are not at that glorious pitch, to be In a conjunction with divinity.

Could we partake some oblique ray of thine, Salute thee in a s.e.xtile, or a trine, It were enough; but thou art flown so high, The telescope is turn'd a common eye.

Had the grave Chaldee liv'd thy book to see, He had known no astrology but thee; Nay, more--for I believe't--thou shouldst have been Tutor to all his planets, and to him.

Thus, whosoever reads thee, his charm'd sense Proves captive to thy zodiac's influence.

Were it not foul to err so, I should look Here for the Rabbins' universal book: And say, their fancies did but dream of thee, When first they doted on that mystery.