S

WEET Spring, thou turn'st with all thy goodly train, Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flowers;

The zephyrs curl the green locks of the plain,

The clouds for joy in pearls weep down their showers: Thou turn'st, sweet youth; but ah! my pleasant hours And happy days with thee come not again :

The sad memorials only of my pain

Do with thee turn, which turn my sweets in sours. Thou art the same which still thou wast before, Delicious, wanton, amiable, fair;

But she, whose breath embalmed thy wholesome air, Is gone; nor gold, nor gems her can restore. Neglected Virtue! seasons go and come, While thine, forgot, lie closed in a tomb.

IAT doth it serve to see Sun's burning face,

WHAT

And skies enamelled with both Indies' gold?

Or moon at night in jetty chariot rolled,

And all the glory of that starry place?

What doth it serve earth's beauty to behold,— The mountains' pride, the meadows' flowery grace, The stately comeliness of forests old,

The sport of floods which would themselves embrace? What doth it serve to hear the sylvans' songs,

The wanton merle, the nightingale's sad strains, Which in dark shades seem to deplore my wrongs?—For what doth serve all that this world contains, Sith she for whom those once to me were dear No part of them can have now with me here?

NO TRUST IN TIME.

L

OOK how the flower which lingeringly doth fade,

The morning's darling late, the summer's queen,
Spoiled of that juice which kept it fresh and green,
As high as it did raise, bows low the head:
Right so my life, contentments being dead,
Or in their contraries but only seen,

With swifter speed declines than erst it spread,
And blasted, scarce now shows what it hath been.
As doth the pilgrim therefore, whom the night
By darkness would imprison on his way,
Think on thy home, my soul, and think aright
Of what yet rests thee of life's wasting day;
Thy sun posts westward, passèd is thy morn,
And twice it is not given thee to be born.

THE BOOK OF THE WORLD.

F this fair volume which we World do name

OF

If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care,

Of Him who it corrects and did it frame,

We clear might read the art and wisdom rare:

Find out his power which wildest powers doth tame, His providence extending everywhere,

His justice which proud rebels doth not spare,

In every page, no, period of the same.

But silly we, like foolish children, rest

Well pleased with coloured vellum, leaves of gold, Fair dangling ribbons, leaving what is best,

On the great writer's sense ne'er taking hold;
Or if by chance we stay our minds on ought,
It is some picture on the margin wrought.

THE NATIVITY OF OUR LORD.

I. THE ANGELS.

RUN, shepherds, run where Bethlehem blest appears!

We bring the best of news, be not dismayed:

A Saviour there is born, more old than years,

Amidst heaven's rolling heights this earth who stayed. In a poor cottage inned, a virgin maid

A weakling did Him bear who all upbears;

There is He poorly swaddled, in manger laid,
To whom too narrow swaddlings are our spheres.
Run, shepherds, run, and solemnize his birth:

This is that night, no, day grown great with bliss,
In which the power of Satan broken is:

In heaven be glory, peace upon the earth!

Thus singing through the air the angels swam,
And cope of stars re-echoed the same.