XXI. TO CYRIAC SKINNER. CYRIAC, whose grandsire, on the royal bench Let Euclid rest, and Archimedes pause, 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 Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint. 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. ODES. I. ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY. THIS is the month, and this the happy morn, That he our daily forfeit should release, That glorious form, that light unsufferable, 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 Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain, Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod, |