Although the seas so calmly glide, as dangers none appear, And doubt of storms in sky is none, King Phoebus shines so clear, Yet when the boisterous winds break out, and raging waves do swell, The seely bark now heaves to heaven, now sinks again to hell. Thus change in every thing we see, Who floweth most in worldly wealth, of wealth is most unsure, And he that chiefly tastes of joy, doth sometimes woe endure; Who vaunteth most of number'd friends, forego them all he must; The fairest flesh and liveliest blood is turn'd at length to dust. Experience gives a certain ground That certain here is nothing found. Then trust to that which aye remains, the bliss of heaven above, Which time, nor fate, nor wind, nor storm is able to remove : Trust to that sure celestial Rock, that rests in glorious throne ; That hath been, is, and must be still, our anchorhold alone. The world is but a vanity, In heaven seek we our surety. SIR WALTER RALEIGH. ELEGY. BELIEVED TO BE ON SIR WALTER RALEIGH. WILL not weep-for 'twere as great a sin To shed a tear for thee, as to have been An actor in thy death. Thy life and age Was but a various scene on Fortune's stage; In thy long toil-ne'er master'd till thy death- I dare not then so blast thy memory L In spirit as desert: that durst not die, Thy most industrious and friendly foes; Who, when they thought to make thee scandal's story, Lent thee a swifter flight to heaven and glory. Who thought, by cutting off some wither'd days (Which thou couldst spare them), to eclipse thy praise, Yet gave it brighter foil; made thy aged frame Appear more white and fair, than foul their shame, And did promote an execution Which (but for them) nature and age had done. Such worthless things as these were only born To live on pity's alms; too mean for scorn. Thou diedst an envious wonder, whose high fate The world must still admire, scarce imitate. LIFE AND DEATH. AN EMBLEM. WILL not blame those grievèd hearts that shed Becoming tears for their departed friends, Nor those who sigh out passions for the dead, Who, out of season, reason seem to speak. The Corn, although awhile it lies in earth (And seemeth lost), consumes not quite away; But from that womb receives a second birth, And with additions rises from the clay. Much more shall man revive, whose worth is more ; For death, who from our dross will us refine, Unto that other life becomes the door, Where we in immortality shall shine : When once our glass is run, we presently Give up our souls to death; so death must give Our bodies back again, that we thereby The light of life eternal may receive. Lie down in hope, and bide in safety there. When we are born, to deathward straight we run, And by our death our life is new begun. GEORGE WITHER. |