Relishing truly what thy rhymes convey,
And highly praising thy soul-smiting lay.

"The mincing maid her mind will then bewray, Her heart-blood flaming up into her face; Grave matrons will wax wanton, and betray Their unresolvedness in their wonted grace; Young boys and girls would feel a froward spring,

And former youth to old thou back wouldst bring.

"All sexes, ages, orders, occupations,
Would listen to thee with attentive ear,
And moved with thy sweet persuasions,
Thy pipe would follow with full merry cheer:
While thou thy lively voice didst loud advance,
Their tickled blood for joy would inly dance.

"But now, alas! poor solitary man,
In lonesome desert thou dost wander wide,
To seek and serve thy disappearing Pan,
Whom no man living in the world hath eyed :
For Pan is dead; but I am still alive,

66

And live in men who honour to me give.

They honour also those that honour me

With sacred songs; but thou now sing'st to trees,
To rocks, to hills, to caves that senseless be,
And mindless quite of thy hid mysteries,
In the void air thy idle voice is spread;
Thy muse is music to the deaf or dead."

Now, out alas!" said I, " and we'll away; The tale thou tellest I confess too true:

Fond man so doteth on this living clay,
His carcass dear, and doth its joys pursue,
That of his precious soul he takes no keep;
Heaven's love, and reason's light lie fast
asleep.

"This body's life, vain shadow of the soul,
With full desire they closely do embrace;
In fleshly mud, like swine, they wallow and roll;
The loftiest mind is proud but of the face,
Or outward person; if men but adore
That walking sepulchre, cares for no more.

"This is the measure of man's industry,
To vexen somebody, and getten grace
To's outward presence; though true majesty,
Crown'd with that heavenly light and lively rays
Of holy wisdom and seraphic love,

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From his deformed soul he far remove.

Slight knowledge and less virtue serves his turn For this design. If he had trod the ring

Of peddling arts, in usual pack-horse form Keeping the road; oh! then 'tis a learned thing;

If any chanced to write or speak what he
Conceives not, 't were a foul discourtesy.

To cleanse the soul from sin, and still diffide
Whether our reason's eye be clear enough
To intromit true light, that fain would glide
Into purged hearts-this way's too harsh and
rough:

Therefore the clearest truths may well seem dark,
When slothful men have eyes so dim and dark.

T

These be our times; but if my mind's presage
Bear any moment, they can ne'er last long;
A three-branch'd flame will soon sweep clean the
stage

Of this old dirty dross, and all wax young:

My words, into this frozen air I throw,

Will then grow vocal at that general thaw."

"Nay, now thou 'rt perfect mad," said he, with

scorn,

And full of foul derision quit the place:
The sky did rattle with his wings ytorn,
Like to rent silk; but I in the mean space
Sent after him this message by the wind,—

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Be't so, I'm mad; yet sure I am thou 'rt blind."

By this the outstretch'd shadows of the trees Pointed me homeward, and with one consent Foretold the day's descent. So strait I rise, Gathering my limbs from off the green pavement, Behind me leaving then the sloping light.

PATRICK CAREY.

THE name of CAREY is but recently added to our list of poets. The small volume which establishes his claim to that distinction was published in 1819, by Sir Walter Scott, from the only MS. copy known to exist. appears to have been a loyalist and high-churchman.

The date is 1651.

Carey