ON HIS BLINDNESS.

HEN I consider how my light is spent

Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,

And that one talent, which is death to hide,
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, lest He, returning, chide ;-
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied ?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need

Either man's works or his own gifts. Who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state

Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,

And post o'er land and ocean without rest :-
They also serve who only stand and wait."

JADY, that in the prime of earliest youth

Wisely hast shunned the broad way and the

green,

And with those few art eminently seen
That labour up the hill of heavenly truth,
The better part with Mary and with Ruth

Chosen thou hast; and they that overween,
And at thy growing virtues fret their spleen,
No anger find in thee, but pity and ruth.
Thy care is fixed, and zealously attends

To fill thy odorous lamp with deeds of light,
And hope that reaps not shame. Therefore be sure
Thou, when the Bridegroom with his feastful friends
Passes to bliss at the mid-hour of night,

Hast gained thy entrance, Virgin wise and pure.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

NIGHTINGALE, that on yon bloomy spray
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still,

Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill,
While the jolly hours lead on propitious May;
Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day,

First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill, Portend success in love; O, if Jove's will Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay, Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh; As thou from year to year hast sung too late For my relief, yet hadst no reason why:

Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate, Both them I serve, and of their train am I.

ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT.

VENGE, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose

bones

Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold; Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones, Forget not: in thy book record their groans

Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that rolled Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they

To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway

The triple tyrant; that from these may grow A hundred-fold, who, having learnt thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian woe.

AWRENCE, of virtuous father virtuous son,

Now that the fields are dank, and ways are

mire,

Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire

Help waste a sullen day, what may be won

From the hard season gaining? Time will run

On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire

The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire The lily and rose, that neither sowed nor spun. What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,

Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise
To hear the lute well touched, or artful voice
Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air?

He who of those delights can judge, and spare
To interpose them oft, is not unwise.

E