The harvest bring; nor thresh and grind the corn.
Without all these Love could supply our need,
And with five loaves, five thousand hungers feed.
More wonders did he; for all which suppose
How he was crown'd with lily, or with rose,
The winding ivy, or the glorious bay,
Or myrtle, with the which Venus, they say,
Girts her proud temples! Shepherds, none of
them;
But wore, poor head! a thorny diadem.
Feet to the lame he gave; with which they run
To work their surgeon's last destruction.
The blind from him had eyes; but used that light
Like basilisks to kill him with their sight.
Lastly, he was betray'd, (O sing of this)
How Love could be betray'd! 'twas with a kiss.
And then his innocent hands, and guiltless feet
Were nail'd unto the cross, striving to meet
In his spread arms his spouse: so mild in show
He seem'd to court th' embraces of his foe.
Through his pierc'd side, through which a spear
A torrent of all-flowing balsam went.
Run Amarillis, run: one drop from thence
Cures thy sad soul, and drives all anguish hence.
Go, sun-burnt Thestylis, go and repair
Thy beauty lost, and be again made fair;
Love-sick Amyntas get a philtrum here,
To make thee lovely to thy truly dear.
But coy Licoris, take the pearl from thine,
And take the blood-shot from Alexis' eyne.
Wear this, an amulet 'gainst all syrens' smiles,
The stings of snakes, and tears of crocodiles,
Now, Love is dead :-Oh, no, he never dies!
Three days he sleeps, and then again doth rise,
(Like fair Aurora from the eastern bay,)
And with his beams drives all our clouds away :
This pipe unto our flocks; this sonnet get.
But ho! I see the sun ready to set:
Good night to all; for the great night is come:
Flocks, to your folds; and, shepherds, hie you home;
To-morrow morning, when we all have slept,
Pan's' cornet's blown, and the great sheep-shear 's kept.
The Saviour is frequently celebrated, by our elder poets, under the name of Pan.
He was author of "Observations on History," "History of Edward the Fourth," "The Queen of Arragon, a Tragedy;" and a volume of lyrics, entitled, "Castara." In Mr. Elton's excellent edition, (Bristol, 1812,) this volume is divided into four parts; the first and second consisting of poems in which he celebrates his wife, the Lady Lucia, daughter of Lord Powis, before and after their marriage, in a style honourable alike to the virtue of the lady, and to the chaste but fervent passion of the poet; the third comprising Funeral Elegies; the fourth, Devotional Pieces. The "Castara" is among the most exquisite productions of the kind; whether in regard to the purity of its sentiments, the moral weight and dignity of its thoughts, or the force and sweetness of its language.
ELEGY ON THE HON. GEORGE TALBOT.
TALBOT is dead. Like lightning, which no part
O' the body touches, but first strikes the heart,
This word bath murder'd me. There's not in all
The stock of sorrow any charm can call
Death sooner up: for music's in the breath
Of thunder, and a sweetness even i' th' death
That brings with it, if you with this compare
All the loud noises which torment the air.
They cure (physicians say) the element,
Sick with dull vapours, and to banishment
Confine infections; but this fatal shriek,
Without the least redress, is utter'd like
The last day's summons, when earth's trophies lie
A scatter'd heap, and time itself must die.
What now hath life to boast of? Can I have
A thought less dark than th' horror of the grave,
Now thou dost dwell below? Were 't not a fault
Past pardon, to raise fancy 'bove thy vault?
Hail, sacred house in which his relics sleep!
Blest marble, give me leave to approach, and weep
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