Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease,
We are worse in peace;

What then remains, but that we still should cry
For being born, or, being born, to die?

Lord Bacon

LVIII

THE LESSONS OF NATURE

F this volume which we World do name

this fair volume and leaves could turn with care,

Of him who it corrects, and did it frame,

We clear might read the art and wisdom rare :

Find out his power which wildest powers doth tame,

His providence extending everywhere,

His justice which proud rebels doth not spare,
In every page, no period of the same.

But silly we, like foolish children, rest

Well pleased with colour'd vellum, leaves of gold,
Fair dangling ribbands, leaving what is best,
On the great writer's sense ne'er taking hold;

Or if by chance we stay our minds on aught,
It is some picture on the margin wrought.
W. Drummond

LIX

OTH then the world go thus, doth all thus move?

DOTE

Is this the justice which on Earth we find?

Is this that firm decree which all doth bind?

Are these your influences, Powers above?

Those souls which vice's moody mists most blind,

Blind Fortune, blindly, most their friend doth prove;
And they who thee, poor idol Virtue ! love,
Ply like a feather toss'd by storm and wind.

Ah! if a Providence doth sway this all

Why should best minds groan under most distress?
Or why should pride humility make thrall,
And injuries the innocent oppress?

Heavens! hinder, stop this fate; or grant a time When good may have, as well as bad, their prime ! W. Drummond

TH

LX

THE WORLD'S WAY

IRED with all these, for restful death I cry -
As, to behold desert a beggar born,

And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,

And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disabled,

And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill,
And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,
And captive Good attending captain Ill:-

-

- Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,

Save that, to die, I leave my Love alone:

W. Shakespeare

LXI

SAINT JOHN BAPTIST

'HE last and greatest Herald of Heaven's King,

Among that savage brood the woods forth bring, Which he more harmless found than man, and mild.

His food was locusts, and what there doth spring, With honey that from virgin hives distill'd; Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing Made him appear, long since from earth exiled.

There burst he forth: All ye whose hopes rely
On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn,
Repent, repent, and from old errors turn!

- Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry?

Only the echoes, which he made relent,
Rung from their flinty caves, Repent! Repent!
W. Drummona

BOOK SECOND

LXII

ODE

ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY

HIS is the month, and this the happy morn,

Of wedded maid and virgin mother born,

Our great redemption from above did bring;
For so the holy sages once did sing

That he our deadly forfeit should release,

And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.

That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable,
And that far-beaming blaze of Majesty

Wherewith he wont at Heaven's high council-table
To sit the midst of Trinal Unity,

He laid aside; and, here with us to be,

Forsook the courts of everlasting day,

And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.

Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein
Afford a present to the Infant God?

Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain
To welcome him to this his new abode,

Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod,

Hath took no print of the approaching light,

And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?

See how from far, upon the eastern road,
The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet:
O run, prevent them with thy humble ode

And lay it lowly at his blessed feet;

Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet,

And join thy voice unto the angel quire

From out his secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire.

THE HYMN

It was the winter wild

While the heaven-born Child

All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies;

Nature in awe to him

Had doff'd her gaudy trim,

With her great Master so to sympathize:

It was no season then for her

To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour.

Only with speeches fair

She woos the gentle air

To hide her guilty front with innocent snow;
And on her naked shame,

Pollute with sinful blame,

The saintly veil of maiden white to throw ;
Confounded, that her Maker's eyes

Should look so near upon her foul deformities.