And the sweet pleasures of theyr loves delight
With secret ayde doest succor and supply,
Till they bring forth the fruitfull progeny;
Send us the timely fruit of this same night.
And thou, fayre Hebe! and thou, Hymen free'
Grant that it may so be.

Til which we cease your further prayse to sing;

Ne any woods shall answer, nor your Eccho ring.

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And ye high heavens, the temple of the gods,
In which a thousand torches flaming bright
Doe burne, that to us wretched earthly clods
In dreadful darknesse lend desired light;
And all ye powers which in the same remayne,
More then we men can fayne!

Poure out your blessing on us plentiously,
And happy influence upon us raine,

That we may raise a large posterity,
Which from the earth, which they may long

possesse

With lasting happinesse,

Up to your haughty pallaces may mount;
And, for the guerdon of theyr glorious merit.
May heavenly tabernacles there inherit,
Of blessed Saints for to increase the count.
So let us rest, sweet love, in hope of this,
And cease till then our tymely joyes to sing:
The woods no more us answer, nor our eccho

ring!

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Song! made in lieu of many ornaments, With which my love should duly have been dect,

Which cutting off through hasty accidents, Ye would not stay your dew time to expect, But promist both to recompens;

Be unto her a goodly ornament,

And for short time an endlesse moniment.

1595

433

Edmund Spenser.

A PINDARIC ODE

ON THE DEATH OF SIR H. MORISON

BRAVE infant of Saguntum, clear

Thy coming forth in that great year, When the prodigious Hannibal did crown His rage, with razing your immortal town. Thou looking then about,

Ere thou wert half got out,

Wise child, didst hastily return,

And mad'st thy mother's womb thine urn. How summed a circle didst thou leave mankind Of deepest lore, could we the centre find!

Did wiser nature draw thee back,

From out the horror of that sack;

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Where shame, faith, honour, and regard of right, Lay trampled on? the deeds of death and night, Urged, hurried forth, and hurled

Upon th' affrighted world;

Sword, fire, and famine with fell fury met,
And all on utmost ruin set:

As, could they but life's miseries foresee,
No doubt all infants would return like thee.

For what is life, if measured by the space,
Not by the act?

Or masked man, if valued by his face,
Above his fact?

Here's one outlived his peers,

And told forth fourscore years:

He vexed time, and busied the whole state;
Troubled both foes and friends;

But ever to no ends:

What did this stirrer but die late? How well at twenty had he fallen or stood! For three of his fourscore he did no good.

He entered well by virtuous parts, Got up, and thrived with honest arts; He purchased friends, and fame, and honours

then,

And had his noble name advanced with men:
But weary of that flight,

He stooped in all men's sight
To sordid flatteries, acts of strife,
And sunk in that dead sea of life,

So deep, as he did then death's waters sup,
But that the cork of title buoyed him up.

Alas! but Morison fell young:

He never fell,-thou fall'st, my tongue.

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He stood a soldier to the last right end.
A perfect patriot, and a noble friend;
But most a virtuous son.

All offices were done

By him, so ample, full, and round,

In weight, in measure, number, sound, As, though his age imperfect might appear, His life was of humanity the sphere.

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Go now, and tell our days summed up with fears,
And make them years;

Produce thy mass of miseries on the stage,
To swell thine age:

Repeat of things a throng,

To shew thou hast been long,

Not lived; for life doth her great actions
spell,

By what was done and wrought

In season, and so brought

To light her measures are, how well

Each syllable answered, and was formed, how

fair;

These make the lines of life, and that 's her

air!

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It is not growing like a tree

In bulk, doth make man better be;
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear:

A lily of a day,

Is fairer far, in May,

Although it fall and die that night;

It was the plant and flower of light. In small proportions we just beauties see; And in short measures life may perfect be.

Call, noble Lucius, then for wine,

And let thy looks with gladness shine: Accept this Garland, plant it on thy head, And think, nay know, thy Morison's not dead. He leaped the present age,

Possest with holy rage,

To see that bright eternal day;

Of which we priests and poets say

Such truths as we expect for happy men:
And there he lives with memory and Ben

Jonson, who sung this of him, ere he went,
Himself, to rest,

Or taste a part of that full joy he meant
To have exprest,

In this bright asterism!

Where it were friendship's schism,
Were not his Lucius long with us to tarry,
To separate these twi-

Lights, the Dioscuri,

And keep the one half from his Harry.

But fate doth so alternate the design,

Whilst that in Heaven, this light on earth must

shine,—

And shine as you exalted are;

Two names of friendship, but one star:

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