Because we draw a long nobility Whilst all these shadows, that for things we take, Are but the empty dreams which in death's sleep we make. COWLEY. Death.- Due Debt. To die, dame Nature did man frame : That hence we should return again; Death hath in all the earth a right; His power is great, it stretcheth far The wise, the just, the strong, the high, The rich, the poor,-who can deny? Seeing no man then can Death 'scape, Nor hire him hence for any gain, We ought not fear his carrion shape; If thou have led thy life aright, Each wight, therefore, while he lives here, MARSHALL. Thoughts in a Garden. FAIR Quiet, have I found thee here, In this delicious solitude. For here the mind from pleasure less The mind, that ocean where each kind To a green thought, in a green shade. Here, at the fountain's sliding foot, My soul into the boughs does glide; MARVELL. The Dew Drops. SEE how the orient dew, Shed from the bosom of the morn Into the blowing roses, Yet careless of its mansion new, For the clear region where 'twas born, Round it itself incloses ; And in its little globe's extent Frames as it can its native element. How it the purple flower does slight, Scarce touching where it lies! But gazing back upon the skies, Shines with a mournful light: Like its own tear, Because so long divided from the sphere. Trembling, lest it grow impure; Till the warm sun pities its pain, And to the skies exhales it back again. So the soul, that drop, that ray, Of the clear fountain of eternal day, Could it within the human flower be seen, Remembering still its former height, Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms green; Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express Every way it turns away! In all about does upwards bend. Such did the manna's sacred dew distil, White and entire, although congealed and chill— Congealed on earth; but does, desolving, run Into the glories of the Almighty Sun. MARVELL. The Emigrants. WHERE the remote Bermudas ride, What should we do but sing His praise He gave us this eternal spring He hangs in shade the orange bright, Oh, let our voice His praise exalt Thus sung they in an English boat, MARVELL. Subjection of the Soul to God. GREAT God, whose sceptre rules the earth, Full praises to my God, my King. Great God, Thy garden is defaced, The weeds thrive there, Thy flowers decay; O, call to mind Thy promise past, Restore Thou them, cut these away: |