What he by nature was, is she by art.

She comes to th' king, and with her cold hand slakes

His spirits, the sparks of life, and chills his heart, Life's forge: feign'd is her voice, and false too be Her words" Sleep'st thou, fond man? Sleep'st thou?" said she.

"So sleeps a pilot whose poor bark is press'd
With many a merciless o'er-mastering wave;
For whom, as dead, the wrathful winds contest
Which of them deep'st shall dig her wat'ry
grave.

Why dost thou let thy brave soul lie suppress'd
In death-like slumbers, while thy dangers crave
Awaking eye and hand? look up and see
The Fates ripe in their great conspiracy.

"Know'st thou not how of th' Hebrew's royal

stem

(That old dry stock) a despair'd branch is sprung,

A most strange babe? who here, conceal'd by them,

In a neglected stable lies, among

Beasts and base straw? already is the stream

Quite turn'd: the ingrateful rebels this their young

Master (with voice free as the trump of fame) Their new king, and thy successor proclaim.

"What busy motions, what wild engines stand

On tiptoe in their giddy brains? they have fire Already in their bosoms; and their hand

Already reaches at a sword: they hire Poisons to speed thee; yet through all the land

What one comes to reveal what they conspire? Go now, make much of these; wage still their wars, And bring home on thy breast more thankless scars.

"Why did I spend my life, and spill my blood,
That thy firm hand for ever might sustain
A well-poised sceptre ? does it now seem good
Thy brother's blood be spilt-life spent-in vain ?
'Gainst thy own sons and brothers thou hast stood
In arms, when lesser cause was to complain:
And now cross fates a watch about thee keep,
Canst thou be careless now, now canst thou sleep?

66

Where art thou, man? what cowardly mistake Of thy great self, hath stol'n king Herod from thee?

O call thyself home to thyself; wake, wake,

And fence the hanging sword Heav'n throws upon thee:

Redeem a worthy wrath, rouse thee, and shake

Thyself into a shape that may become thee. Be Herod, and thou shalt not miss from me Immortal stings to thy great thoughts, and thee."

So said, her richest snake, which to her wrist
For a beseeming bracelet she had tied,

(A special worm it was, as ever kiss'd

The foamy lips of Cerberus) she applied To the king's heart: the snake no sooner hiss'd, But Virtue heard it, and away she hied; Dire flames diffuse themselves through every vein : This done, home to her hell she hied amain.

He wakes, and with him (ne'er to sleep) new fears : His sweat-bedewed bed had now betray'd him, To a vast field of thorns; ten thousand spears

All pointed in his heart seem'd to invade him : So mighty were th' amazing characters

With which his feeling dream had thus dismay'd him,

He his own fancy-framed foes defies;

In rage, "My arms! give me my arms!" he cries.

As when a pile of food-preparing fire,

The breath of artificial lungs embraves, The cauldron-prison'd waters strait conspire, And beat the hot brass with rebellious waves: He murmurs and rebukes their bold desire; Th' impatient liquor frets, and foams, and raves; Till his o'erflowing pride suppress the flame, Whence all his high spirits and hot courage came ;

So boils the fired Herod's blood-swoll'n breast,
Not to be slak'd but by a sea of blood:
His faithless crown he feels loose on his crest,
Which on false tyrant's head ne'er firmly stood;
The worm of jealous envy and unrest,

To which his gnawed heart is the growing food,
Makes him impatient of the ling'ring light,
Hate the sweet peace of all-composing night.

A thousand prophecies, that talk strange things, Had sown of old these doubts in his deep breast; And now of late came tributary kings,

Bringing him nothing but new fears from th' East,

More deep suspicions, and more deadly stings;

With which his fev'rous cares their cold increas'd:

And now his dream (hell's firebrand) still more bright,

Show'd him his fears, and kill'd him with the sight.

No sooner therefore shall the morning see,

(Night hangs yet heavy on the lids of day,)
But all his counsellors must summon'd be,
To meet their troubled lord without delay:
Heralds and messengers immediately

Are sent about; who, posting every way
To the heads and officers of every band,
Declare who sends, and what is his command.

Why art thou troubled, Herod? what vain fear

Thy blood-revolving breast to rage doth move; Heaven's King, who doffs himself weak flesh to

wear,

Comes not to rule in wrath, but serve in love; Nor would be this thy fear'd crown from thee tear, But give thee a better with himself above. Poor jealousy! why should he wish to prey Upon thy crown, who gives his own away.

Make to thy reason, man, and mock thy doubts;
Look how below thy fears their causes are:
Thou art a soldier, Herod, send thy scouts;
See how he's furnish'd for so fear'd a war.
What armour does he wear? a few thin clouts.

His trumpets? tender cries: his men to dare So much? rude shepherds: what his steeds? alas, Poor beasts! a slow ox, and a simple ass.

ON A PRAYER BOOK SENT TO MRS. M. R.

Lo here a little volume, but great book, (Fear it not, sweet,

It is no hypocrite,)

Much larger in itself than in its look.
It is, in one rich handful, heaven and all
Heaven's royal hosts encamp'd, thus small;
To prove that true schools used to tell,
A thousand angels in one point can dwell.

It is love's great artillery,

Which here contracts itself and comes to lie Close couch'd in your white bosom, and from thence,

As from a snowy fortress of defence,
Against the ghostly foe to take your part,
And fortify the hold of your chaste heart.
It is the armoury of light;

Let constant use but keep it bright,
You'll find it yields

To holy hands and humble hearts,

More swords and shields

Than sin hath snares, or hell hath darts.

Only be sure,

The hands be pure

That hold these weapons, and the eyes
Those of turtles, chaste and true,

Wakeful and wise:

Here is a friend shall fight for you;
Hold but this book before your heart,

1

Let prayer alone to play his part.