FROM A VOLUME ENTITLED "THALIA REDIVIVA."
BRIGHT books! the perspectives to our weak sights,
The clear projections of discerning lights,
Burning and shining thoughts, man's posthume day,
The track of fled souls, and their milkie way,
The dead alive and busie, the still voice
Of enlarged spirits, kind Heaven's white decoys!
Who lives with you lives like those knowing flowers,
Which in commerce with light spend all their hours;
Which shut to clouds, and shadows nicely shun,
But with glad haste unveil to kiss the sun.
Beneath you all is dark, and a dead night,
Which whoso lives in wants both health and sight.
By sucking you, the wise, like bees, do grow
Healing and rich, though this they do most slow,
Because most choicely; for as great a store
Have we of books as bees of herbs, or more:
And the great task to try, then know, the good,
To discern weeds, and judge of wholesome food,
Is a rare scant performance. For man dyes
Oft ere 'tis done, while the bee feeds and flyes.
But you were all choice flowers; all set and dressed
By old sage florists, who well knew the best;
And I amidst you all am turned a weed,
Not wanting knowledge, but for want of heed.
Then thank thyself, wild fool, that would'st not be
Content to know what was too much for thee!
FAIR, shining mountains of my pilgrimage,
And flowery vales, whose flowers were stars!
The days and nights of my first happy age,
An age without distaste or warrs!
When I by thought ascend your sunny heads,
And mind those sacred midnight lights
By which I walked, when curtained rooms and beds
Confined or sealed up other's sights;
O then how bright and quick a light
Doth brush my heart and scatter night!
Chasing that shade which my sins made,
While I so spring, as if I could not fade.
How brave a prospect is a traversed plain,
Where flowers and palms refresh the eye! And days well spent like the glad East remain, Whose morning glories cannot dye.
WATERS above! eternal springs!
The dew that silvers the Dove's wings!
O welcome, welcome, to the sad!
Give dry dust drink, drink that makes glad.
Many fair evenings, many flowers
Sweetened with rich and gentle showers,
Have I enjoyed; and down have run
Many a fine and shining sun;
But never, till this happy hour,
Was blest with such an evening shower!
FAIR Prince of life! light's living well!
Who hast the keys of death and hell;
If the mule man despise thy day,
Put chains of darkness in his way.
Teach him how deep, how various, are
The counsels of thy love and care.
When acts of grace, and a long peace,
Breed but rebellion, and displease,
Then give him his own way and will,
Where lawless he may run, until
His own choice hurts him, and the sting
Of his foul sin full sorrows bring.
If heaven and angels, hopes and mirth,
Please not the mole so much as earth,
Give him his mine to dig, or dwell,
And one sad scheme of hideous hell.
WHITHER, O whither didst thou fly?
When did I grieve thy holy eye?
When thou didst mourn to see me lost,
And all thy care and counsels crost.
O do not grieve, whereer thou art!
Thy grief is an undoing smart,
Which doth not only pain, but break,
My heart, and makes me blush to speak.
Thy anger I could kiss, and will;
But O thy grief, thy grief, doth kill!
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