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XXI.

TO CYRIAC SKINNER.

CYRIAC, whose grandsire, on the royal bench
Of British Themis, with no mean applause,
Pronounced, and in his volumes taught, our laws,
Which others at their bar so often wrench;
To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench
In mirth that, after, no repenting draws;

Let Euclid rest, and Archimedes pause,

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And what the Swede intends, and what the French.

To measure life learn thou betimes, and know Towards solid good what leads the nearest way;

For other things mild Heaven a time ordains, And disapproves that care, though wise in show, That with superfluous burden loads the day,

And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.

XXII.

TO THE SAME.

CYRIAC, this three years' day, these eyes, though clear,

To outward view, of blemish or of spot, Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot; Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask?

The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied In liberty's defence, my noble task,

Of which all Europe rings from side to side. This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask,

Content, thought blind, had I no better guide.

XXIII.

ON HIS DECEASED WIFE.

METHOUGHT I saw my late espoused saint
Brought to me, like Alcestis, from the grave,
Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband
gave,

Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint.
Mine, as whom, wash'd from spot of child-bed taint,
Purification in the old law did save,

And such, as yet once more I trust to have Full sight of her in heaven without restraint, Come vested all in white, pure as her mind : Her face was veil'd, yet, to my fancied sight,

Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shined So clear, as in no face with more delight.

But, oh! as to embrace me she inclined,

I waked-she fled-and day brought back my night.

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ODES.

I. ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY.

THIS is the month, and this the happy morn,
Wherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King,
Of wedded maid and virgin mother born,
Our great redemption from above did bring;
For so the holy sages once did sing,

That he our daily forfeit should release,
And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.

That glorious form, that light unsufferable,
And that far-beaming blaze of majesty,
Wherewith he wont at Heaven's high council-table
To sit the midst of Trinal Unity,

He laid aside, and here with us to be,

Forsook the courts of everlasting day,

And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.

Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein
Afford a present to the Infant-God?

Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain,
To welcome him to this his new abode,

Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod,
Hath took no print of the approaching light,
And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons
bright?

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