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Verfe fhould from their tongue fo flow,
Till my Anacreon by thee fell,
Sleep were well; thou 'aft learnt a way
It grieves me when I fee what fate
'Tis neither love nor poefy
Can arm, against death's fmalleft dart,
All the world's mortal to them then,
And wine is aconite to men;
Nay, in death's hand, the grape-stone proves As ftrong as thunder is in Jove's..
V ER SE S
Taken out of a Greek Ode, written by Mr. Mafters of New-College in Oxford.
ENOUGH, my Mufe! of earthly things,
And infpirations but of wind;
Take up thy lute, and to it bind
Loud and everlasting ftrings;
And on them play, and to them fing,
The happy mournful stories,
The lamentable glories,
Of the great crucified King.
Till earth thou joineft with the skies!
To be half feen by mortal eye!
*Thefe verfes were not included among thofe which Mr. Cowley himself ftyled " Mifcellanies;" but were claffed by Bishop Sprat under the title by which they are here diftinguifhed. N..
How fhall I grasp this boundless thing? What fhall I play? what shall I fing ? I'll fing the mighty riddle of mysterious love,
Which neither wretched men below, nor blessed spirits With all their comments can explain;
[above, How all the whole world's life to die did not difdain !
I'll fing the fearchlefs depths of the compaffion Divine, The depths unfathom'd yet
By reafon's plummet and the line of wit;
Too light the plummet, and too short the line!
His own eternal Son as ranfom for his foe,
I'll fing aloud, that all the world may hear
Methinks I hear of murdered men the voice,
Who 'tis hangs there the midmost of the three;
Oh, how unlike the others he!
Look, how he bends his gentle head with bleffings from His gracious hands, ne'er ftretch'd but to do good, Are nail'd to the infamous wood!
And finful man does fondly bind
The arms, which he extends t'embrace all human-kind.
Unhappy man! canft thou stand by and fee
All this as patient as he?
Since he thy fins does bear,
Make thou his fufferings thine own,
and figh, and groan,
And beat thy breast, and tear
Thy garments and thy hair,
And let thy grief, and let thy love,
Through all thy bleeding bowels move.
Doft thou not fee the rofes which adorn
Look on his hands, look on his feet, look on his fide!
Open, oh! open wide the fountains of thine cyes,
And let them call
Their stock of moisture forth, where'er it lies!
For this will afk it all.
"Twould all, alas! too little be,
Though thy falt tears come from a fea.
Canft thou deny him this, when he
Has open'd all his vital fprings for thee?
May well be understood,
That he will ftill require fome waters to his blood.