That whensoe'er they cut the airy glade,

The wind into their hollow pipes is caught:

As seems the spheres with them they down have brought:

Like to the sev'nfold reed of Arcady,

Which Pan of Syrinx made, when she did fly To Ladon sands, and at his sighs sung merrily.

As melting honey, dropping from the comb,
So still the words, that spring between thy lips.
Thy lips, where smiling sweetness keeps her home,
And heav'nly eloquence pure manna sips :
He that his pen but in that fountain dips,
How nimbly will the golden phrases fly,
And shed forth streams of choicest rhetory,
Welling celestial torrents out of poesy!

Like as the thirsty land, in summer's heat,
Calls to the clouds, and gapes at ev'ry shower,
As though her hungry clefts all heav'n would eat,
Which if high God into her bosom pour,

Though much refresh'd, yet more she could de

vour;

So hang the greedy ears of angels sweet, And ev'ry breath a thousand Cupids meet, Some flying in, some out, and all about her fleet.

Upon her breast delight doth softly sleep,
And of eternal joy is brought abed,

Those snowy mountlets, through which do creep
The milky rivers, that are inly bred
In silver cisterns, and themselves do shed
To weary travellers, in heat of day,

To quench their fiery thirst, and to allay

With dropping nectar floods, the fury of their way.

If any wander, thou dost call him back;
If any
be not forward, thou incit'st him;
Thou dost expect, if any should grow slack;

If any seem but willing, thou invit❜st him;
Or if he do offend thee, thou acquitt'st him :

Thou find'st the lost, and follow'st him that flies, Healing the sick, and quick'ning him that dies, Thou art the lame man's friendly staff, the blind man's eyes.

So fair thou art, that all would thee behold;
But none can thee behold, thou art so fair;
Pardon, O pardon then thy vassal bold,

That with poor shadows strives thee to compare,
And match the things, which he knows matchless

are.

Thou living mirror of celestial grace,

How can frail colours portray out thy face, Or paint in flesh thy beauty, in such semblance base?

Her upper garment was a silken lawn,

With needlework richly embroidered,

Which she herself with her own hand had drawn,

And all the world therein had portrayed,

With threads so fresh and lively coloured

That seem'd the world she new created there,
And the mistaken eye would rashly swear

The silken trees did grow, and the beasts living

were.

Low at her feet the earth was cast alone,
(As though to kiss her foot it did aspire,
And gave itself for her to tread upon,)
With so unlike, and different attire,

That ev'ry one that saw it, did admire

What it might be, was of so various hue;

For to itself it oft so diverse grew,

That still it seem'd the same, and still it seem'd a

new.

And here and there few men she scattered,

(That in their thought the world esteem but small,

And themselves great,) but she with one fine thread So short, and small, and slender, wove them all, That like a sort of busy ants, that crawl

About some molehill, so they wandered; And round about the waving sea was shed: But, for the silver sands, small pearls were sprinkled.

So curiously the underwork did creep,
And curling circlets so well shadow'd lay,
That afar off the waters seem'd to sleep;
But those that near the margin pearl did play,
Hoarsely enwaved were with hasty sway,

As though they meant to rock the gentle ear, And hush the former that enslumber'd were: And here a dang'rous rock the flying ships did fear.

High in the airy element there hung
Another cloudy sea, that did disdain

(As though his purer waves from heaven sprung) To crawl on earth, as doth the sluggish main : But it the earth would water with his rain,

That ebb'd and flow'd, as wind and season

would,

And oft the sun would cleave the limber mould

To alabaster rocks, that in the liquid roll'd.

Beneath those sunny banks, a darker cloud,
Dropping with thicker dew, did melt apace,
And bent itself into a hollow shroud,
On which, if Mercy did but cast her face,
A thousand colours did the bow enchase,

That wonder was to see the silk distain'd

With the resplendence from her beauty gain'd, And Iris paint her locks with beams so lively feign'd.

About her head a cyprus heav'n she wore,
Spread like a veil upheld with silver wire,
In which the stars so burnt in golden ore,
As seem'd the azure web was all on fire:
But hastily, to quench the sparkling ire,

A flood of milk came rolling up the shore,
That on his curded wave swift Argus bore,
And the immortal swan, that did her life deplore.

Yet strange it was so many stars to see,
Without a sun to give their tapers light:
Yet strange it was not, that it so should be;
For, where the sun centres himself by right,
Her face, and locks did flame, that at the sight
The heav'nly veil, that else should nimbly

move,

Forgot his flight, and all incensed with love, With wonder, and amazement, did her beauty

prove.

Over her hung a canopy of state,

Not of rich tissue, nor of spangled gold,
But of a substance, though not animate,
Yet of a heav'nly and spiritual mould,
That only eyes of spirits might behold;

Such light as from main rocks of diamond, Shooting their sparks at Phoebus, would rebound, And little angels, holding hands, danc'd all around.

Seemed those little sprights, through nimbless bold,

The stately canopy bore on their wings,

But them itself, as pendants, did uphold,
Besides the crowns of many famous kings:
Among the rest, there David ever sings,

And now, with years grown young, renews his lays

Unto his golden harp, and ditties plays, Psalming aloud in well-tun'd songs his Maker's praise.

Thou Self-Idea of all joys to come,

Whose love is such, would make the rudest speak,
Whose love is such, would make the wisest dumb,
O, when wilt thou thy too-long silence break,
And overcome the strong to save the weak!

If thou no weapons hast, thine eyes will wound Th' Almighty's self, that now gaze on the ground,

As though some blessed object there did them impound.

Ah! miserable abject of disgrace,
What happiness is in thy misery?
I both must pity and envy thy case;
For she, that is the glory of the sky,

Leaves Heaven blind to fix on thee her eye.
Yet her (though Mercy's self esteems not small)
The world despis'd, they her Repentance call,
And she herself despises, and the world, and all.