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Verfe fhould from their tongue fo flow,
As if it in the mouth did grow,
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,
But when their life, in its decline,
All the world's mortal to them then,
And wine is aconite to men;
Nay, in death's hand, the grape-ftone proves As ftrong as thunder is in Jove's.
SEVERAL OCCASIONS *.
Taken out of a Greek Ode, written by Mr. Mafters. of New-College in Oxford.
NOUGH, my Mufe! of earthly things,
And infpirations but of wind;
Take up thy lute, and to it bind
Loud and everlasting strings;
And on them play, and to them sing,
The happy mournful stories,
The lamentable glories,
Of the great crucified King.
Mountainous heap of wonders! which doft rife
Till earth thou joinest with the fkies! Too large at bottom, and at top too high, 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 diftinguished. N..
How fhall I grafp this boundless thing? What shall 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 fearchless 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 fhort 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 stretch'd but to do good,
And finful man does fondly bind
The arms, which he extends t'embrace all human-kind.
Unhappy man! canft thou ftand by and fee
All this as patient as he?
Since he thy fins does bear,
Make thou his fufferings thine own,
And weep, 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 eyes,
And let them call
Their stock of moisture forth, where'er it lies!
For this will ask 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 still require fome waters to his blood.