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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,
Of all that in heav'n's beauteous pastures feed
The noblest, sprightful'st breed,

And flaming manes their necks array'd.
They all were shod with diamond,
Not such as here are found,

But such light solid ones as shine

On the transparent rocks o' th' heav'nly crystalline.

Thus mounted the great prophet to the skies;
Astonish'd men, who oft had seen stars fall,
Or that which so they call,

Wonder'd from hence to see one rise.
The soft clouds melted him a way,
The snow and frosts which in it lay
Awhile the sacred footsteps bore,

The wheels and horses' hoofs hiss'd as they past them o'er.

He past by th' moon and planets, and did fright
All the worlds there, which at this meteor gaz'd,
And their astrologers amaz'd
With th' unexampled sight.

But where he stopp'd will ne'er be known,
"Till Phoenix nature, aged grown,

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 inspirations 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 dost rise
'Till earth thou joinest with the skies!
Too large at bottom, and at top too high,
To be half seen by mortal eye.

How shall I grasp this boundless thing?
What shall I play? What shall I sing?
I'll sing the mighty riddle of mysterious love,
Which neither wretched men below, nor blessed
spirits above,

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 ;—
Too light the plummet, and too short the line;-—
How the Eternal Father did bestow

His own Eternal Son as ransom for his foe.
I'll sing aloud, that all the world may hear
The triumph of the buried Conqueror.
How hell was by its pris'ner captive led,
And the great slayer, Death, slain by the Dead.

Methinks I hear of murder'd men the voice,
Mixed with the murderers' confused noise,
Sound from the top of Calvary:

My greedy eyes fly up the hill, and see

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Who 'tis hangs there the midmost of the three;
Oh how unlike the others he!

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
All this, as patient as he?

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,
Not purple brought from the Sidonian shore,
But made at home with richer gore?

Dost thou not see the roses, which adorn
The thorny garland, by him worn?
Dost thou not see the livid traces
Of the sharp scourge's rude embraces ?
If yet thou feelest not the smart
Of thorns and scourges in thy heart,
If that be yet not crucified,

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,
For this will ask it all.

'Twould all (alas!) too little be,

Though thy salt tears came from a sea:
Canst thou deny him this, when he
Has open'd all his vital springs for thee?
Take heed; for by his side's mysterious flood
May well be understood,

That he will still require some waters to his blood.

THE GARDEN.

WHEN God did man to his own likeness make,
As much as clay, though of the purest kind,
By the great Potter's art refin'd,

Could the divine impression take;
He thought it fit to place him where
A kind of heav'n too did appear,

As far as earth could such a likeness bear:
That man no happiness might want,
Which earth to her first mother could afford,
He did a garden for him plant,

By the quick hand of his omnipotent Word.
As the chief help and joy of human life,
He gave him the first gift; first, ev'n before a wife.

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,
As Babel vainly thought to do of old:

He wanted not the skill or power,

In the world's fabric those were shown,
And the materials were all his own.

But well he knew what place would best agree
With innocence, and with felicity:

And we elsewhere still seek for them in vain,
If any part of either yet remain;

If any part of either we expect,

This may our judgment in the search direct:
God the first garden made, and the first city, Cain.

O blessed shades! O gentle, cool retreat

From all the immoderate heat,

In which the frantic world does burn and sweat!
This does the lion-star, Ambition's rage,

This Avarice, the dog-star's thirst, assuage:
Ev'rywhere else their fatal pow'r to see,
They make and rule man's wretched destiny:
They neither set, nor disappear,

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,
And should by right be singers too.

What prince's quire of music can excel

That which within this shade does dwell;
To which we nothing pay, or give?

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.

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