This is the sable stone,—this is the cave

And womb of earth that doth his corpse embrace ; While others sing his praise, let me engrave These bleeding numbers to adorn the place.

Here will I paint the characters of woo;
Here will I pay my tribute to the dead;
And here my faithful tears in showers shall flow,
To humanize the flints whereon I tread:

Where, though I mourn my matchless loss alone,
And none between my weakness judge and me,
Yet even these gentle walls allow my moan,
Whose doleful echoes to my plaints agree.

But is he gone? and live I rhyming here,
As if some Muse would listen to my lay,
When all distuned sit wailing for their dear,
And bathe the banks where he was wont to play?

Dwell thou in endless light, discharged soul,

Freed now from Nature's and from Fortune's trust! While on this fluent globe my glass shall roll, And run the rest of my remaining dust.

IX.

UPON THE DEATH OF SIR ALBERT.

MORTON'S WIFE.1

E first deceased; sho for a little tried
To live without him, liked it not, and

died.

H. WOTTON.

X.

A SHORT HYMN UPON THE BIRTH OF

PRINCE CHARLES.2

(May 29, 1630.)

OU that on stars do look,

Arrest not there your sight,
Though Nature's fairest book,

And signed with propitious light;

Our blessing now is more divine

Than planets that at noon did shine.

"Rel. Wotton." Also in Picke's "Festum Voluptatis,"

1639; and, with a different title, in Philipot's edit. of Cam

den's "Remains," 1657, p. 406.

"Worthies of Essex," p. 340.

"Rel. Wotton."

And also in Fuller,

To Thee alone be praise,

From whom our joy descends,
Thou cheerer of our days,

Of causes first, and last of ends :
To Thee this May we sing, by whom
Our roses from the lilies bloom.

Upon this royal flower,

Sprung from the chastest bed,
Thy glorious sweetness shower;

And first let myrtles crown his head,
Then palms and laurels wreathed between:
But let the cypress late be seen.

And so succeeding men,

When they the fulness see

Of this our joy, shall then

In consort join, as well as we,

To celebrate His praise above

That spreads our land with fruits of love.

II. WOTTON.

XI.

AN ODE TO THE KING,

AT HIS RETURNING FROM SCOTLAND TO THE QUEEN AFTER HIS CORONATION THERE.'

R

(1633.)

OUSE up thyself, my gentle Muse, Though now our green conceits be · grey,

And yet once more do not refuse

"Rel. Wotton." Transcribed as Wotton's in MS. Tann.

To take thy Phrygian harp, and play
In honour of this cheerful day.

Make first a song of joy and love,
Which chastely flame in royal eyes;
Then tune it to the spheres above
When the benignest stars do rise,
And sweet conjunctions grace the skies.

To this let all good hearts resound,
While diadems invest his head;
Long may he live, whose life doth bound
More than his laws, and better lead
By high example than by dread!

Long may he round about him see
His roses and his lilies blown ;
Long may his only dear and he
Joy in ideas of their own,

And kingdom's hopes so timely sown;

Long may they both contend to prove,
That best of crowns is such a love!

H. W.

465, fol. 61, verso, and MS. Rawl. Poet. 147, p. 96. Erroneously inserted among Ben Jonson's "Works," vol. ix. p. 52, edit. Gifford.

XII.

ON A BANK AS I SAT A-FISHING.

A DESCRIPTION OF THE SPRING.1

(Circ. 1638.)

ND now all nature seemed in love;
The lusty sap began to move;.
New juice did stir the embracing vines,
And birds had drawn their valentines;

The jealous trout, that low did lie,
Rose at a well-dissembled fly:

There stood my friend, with patient skill,
Attending of his trembling quill.
Already were the eaves possessed
With the swift pilgrim's daubed nest:
The groves already did rejoice
In Philomel's triumphing voice.

The showers were short, the weather mild,
The morning fresh, the evening smiled.
Joan takes her neat-rubbed pail, and now
She trips to milk the sand-red cow;
Where, for some sturdy football swain,
Joan strokes a sillabub or twain.
The fields and gardens were beset
With tulip, crocus, violet;

"Rel. Wotton." Also as Wotton's in MS. Tann. 465, fol. 61, verso; in MS. Raw). Poet. 147, p. 47; and in Walton's "Complete Angler," p. 78, edit. Nicolas, where it is said to have been written when Wotton was "beyond seventy years of age." He was born in 1568.