A moment there, no lovelier scene On England's Wye, or Scotland's Tay, Would charm your gaze a summer's day. And on it glides, by grove and glen, Dark woodlands and the homes of men, With now a ferry, now a mill: Has come, its larger life to share, Our death is gradual, like to these: We die with every waning day; There is no waft of sorrow's breeze But bears some heart-leaf slow away! Up and on to the vast To Be Our life is going eternally! Less of earth than we had last year Throbs in your veins and throbs in mine, But the way to heaven is growing clear, While the gates of the city fairer shine, And the day that our latest treasures flee, Wide they will open for you and me! HEROES. THE winds that once the Argo bore Have died by Neptune's ruined shrines, And her hull is the drift of the deep sea-floor, Though shaped of Pelion's tallest pines. You may seek her crew on every isle Fair in the foam of Ægean seas, But, out of their rest, no charm can wile Jason and Orpheus and Hercules. FRANCIS QUARLES. THE WORLD. SHE'S empty: hark! she sounds: there's nothing there Thy vain inquiry can at length but find A blast of murmuring wind: It is a cask that seems as full as fair, But merely tunned with air. Fond youth, go build thy hopes on better grounds; Her joys upon this world, but feeds on empty sounds. She's empty: hark! she sounds; there's nothing in't: Shall sooner melt, and hardest raunce shall first Ere this false world shall still thy stormy breast Thou mayst as well expect meridian light From shades of black-mouthed night, She's empty: hark! she sounds: 'tis void and vast; Of fatuous honor should perchance be there, It is but wind, and blows but where it list, Poor honor earth can give! What generous mind Her heaven-bred soul, a slave to serve a blast of wind? She's empty; hark! she sounds: 'tis but a ball The painted film but of a stronger bubble, That's lined with silken trouble. It is a world whose work and recreation Is vanity and vexation; A hag, repaired with vice-complexioned paint, A quest-house of complaint. It is a saint, a fiend; worse fiend when most a saint. She's empty: hark! she sounds: 'tis vain and void. But grief and sickness, and large bills of sorrow, Or, what are men but puffs of dying breath, Revived with living death? Fond youth, O build thy hopes on surer grounds Than what dull flesh propounds: Trust not this hollow world; she's empty: hark! she sounds. ON MAN. My darkened soul, but they were false alarms; AT our creation, but the Word was I thought I'd had fair Rachel in my said; And we were made; No sooner were, but our false hearts did swell With pride, and fell: How slight is man! At what an easy cost He's made and lost! bed, But I had blear-eyed Leah in my |