Was its substantial mould; Drawn forth by chymic angels' art. Here with moon-beams 'twas silver'd bright, There double-gilt with the sun's light, And mystic shapes cut round in it, Figures that did transcend a vulgar angel's wit. The horses were of temper'd lightning made, And flaming manes their necks array'd. But such light solid ones as shine On the transparent rocks o' th' heav'nly crystalline. Thus mounted the great prophet to the skies; Wonder'd from hence to see one rise. The wheels and horses' hoofs hiss'd as they past them o'er. He past by th' moon and planets, and did fright But where he stopp'd will ne'er be known, To a better being do aspire, And mount herself, like him, to eternity in fire. CHRIST'S PASSION. FROM A GREEK ODE. ENOUGH, my muse, of earthly things, And on them play, and to them sing Of the great crucified King. Mountainous heap of wonders! which dost rise How shall I grasp this boundless thing? With all their comments can explain, How all the whole world's Life to die did not disdain. I'll sing the searchless depths of the compassion divine, The depths unfathom'd yet By reason's plummet, and the line of wit ;— His own Eternal Son as ransom for his foe. Methinks I hear of murder'd men the voice, My greedy eyes fly up the hill, and see 23 Who 'tis hangs there the midmost of the three; Look how he bends his gentle head with blessings from the tree! His gracious hands, ne'er stretch'd but to do good, Are nail'd to the infamous wood : And sinful man does fondly bind The arms, which he extends to embrace all human kind. Unhappy man, canst thou stand by, and see Since he thy sins does bear, Make thou his sufferings thine own, And weep, and sigh, 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. Dost thou not see thy Prince in purple clad all o'er, Dost thou not see the roses, which adorn Look on his hands, look on his feet, look on his side. Open, oh! open wide the fountains of thine And let them call eyes, Their stock of moisture forth where'er it lies, 'Twould all (alas!) too little be, Though thy salt tears came from a sea: That he will still require some waters to his blood. THE GARDEN. WHEN God did man to his own likeness make, Could the divine impression take; As far as earth could such a likeness bear: By the quick hand of his omnipotent Word. For God, the universal architect, "T had been as easy to erect A Louvre, or Escurial, or a tower That might with heav'n communication hold, He wanted not the skill or power, In the world's fabric those were shown, But well he knew what place would best agree And we elsewhere still seek for them in vain, If any part of either we expect, This may our judgment in the search direct: O blessed shades! O gentle, cool retreat From all the immoderate heat, In which the frantic world does burn and sweat! This Avarice, the dog-star's thirst, assuage: But tyrannize o'er all the year; Whilst we ne'er feel their flame or influence here. The birds that dance from bough to bough, And sing above in ev'ry tree, Are not from fears and cares more free, Than we who lie, or sit, or walk below, What prince's quire of music can excel That which within this shade does dwell; They, like all other poets, live Without reward, or thanks for their obliging pains; 'Tis well if they become not prey: The whistling winds add their less artful strains, And a grave bass the murm'ring fountains play. |