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Eyes are vocal, tears have tongues,
And there be words not made with lungs ;-
Sententious showers! O, let them fall,
Their cadence is rhetorical.

Here's a theme will drink th' expence
Of all thy watʼry eloquence;

Weep then, only be express'd

Thus much, He's dead; and weep the rest.


PLANT of noble stem, forward and fair,
As ever whisper'd to the morning air,
Thrived in these happy grounds; the
earth's just pride,

Whose rising glories made such haste to hide
His head in clouds, as if in him alone
Impatient nature had taught motion
To start from time, and cheerfully to fly

Before, and seize upon maturity.

Thus grew this gracious plant, in whose sweet shade
The sun himself oft wish'd to sit, and made

The morning Muses perch like birds, and sing
Among his branches; yea, and vow'd to bring
His own delicious phoenix from the blest
Arabia, there to build her virgin nest,
To hatch herself in 'mongst his leaves: the day
Fresh from the rosy East rejoiced to play :
To them she gave the first and fairest beam

That waited on her birth; she gave to them
The purest pearls, that wept her evening death;
The balmy Zephyrus got so sweet a breath,
By often kissing them, and now begun
Glad time to ripen expectation :

The timorous maiden-blossoms on each bough
Peep'd forth from their first blushes: so that now
A thousand ruddy hopes smiled in each bud,
And flatter'd every greedy eye that stood
Fix'd in delight, as if already there

Those rare fruits dangled, whence the golden year
His crown expected; when-O Fate! O Time!
That seldom lett'st a blushing youthful prime
Hide his hot beams in shade of silver age!
So rare is hoary virtue-the dire rage
Of a mad storm these bloomy joys all tore,
Ravish'd the maiden blossoms, and down bore

The trunk; yet in this ground his precious root

Still lives, which, when weak time shall be poured out
Into eternity, and circular joys

Dance in an endless round, again shall rise,
The fair sun of an ever-youthful spring,
To be a shade for angels while they sing!
Meanwhile, whoe'er thou art that passest here,
O, do thou water it with one kind tear!



EATH, what dost? O, hold thy blow;
What thou dost, thou dost not know,

Death, thou must not here be cruel,
This is Nature's choicest jewel !
This is he in whose rare frame
Nature labour'd for a name;
And meant to leave his precious feature
The pattern of a perfect creature.
Joy of goodness, love of art,
Virtue wears him next her heart:
Him the Muses love to follow,
Him they call their vice-Apollo !
Apollo, golden though thou be,
Th’art not fairer than is he ;
Nor more lovely lift'st thy head,
Blushing from thine Eastern bed ;
The glories of thy youth ne'er knew
Brighter hopes than he can show!
Why, then, should it ere be seen,
That his should fade while thine is green ?
And wilt thou, O cruel boast,

Nature to such cost?
O, 'twill undo our common mother,
To be at charge of such another.
What! think we to no other end,


Gracious heavens do use to send Earth her best perfection, But to vanish and be gone ? Therefore, only give to-day, To-morrow to be snatch'd I've seen, indeed, the hopeful bud Of a ruddy rose, that stood Blushing to behold the ray Of the new-saluted dayHis tender top not fully spreadThe sweet dash of a shower now shed, Invited him no more to hide Within himself the purple pride Of his forward flower, when, lo ! While he sweetly ’gan to show His swelling glories, Auster spied him, Cruel Auster thither hied him, And with the rush of one rude blast Shamed not spitefully to waste All his leaves, so fresh, so sweet, And lay them trembling at his feet. I've seen the morning's lovely ray Hover o'er the new-born day, With rosy wings so richly bright, As if he scorn'd to think of night ; When a ruddy storm, whose scowl Made heaven's radiant face look foul, Call'd for an untimely night To blot the newly-blossom'd light. But were the rose's blush so rare, Were the morning's smile so fair


As is he, nor cloud nor wind
But would be courteous, would be kind.

Spare him, Death, O, spare him then,
Spare the sweetest among men:
Let not Pity with her tears
Keep such distance from thine ears ;
But, O, thou wilt not, can’st not spare,
Haste hath never time to hear;
Therefore, if he needs must go,
And the Fates will have it so,
Softly may he be possess'd
Of his monumental rest!
Safe, thou dark home of the dead,
Safe, O hide his loved head!
For pity's sake, 0 hide him quite,
From his mother Nature's sight:
Lest, for the grief his loss may move,
All her births abortive prove.


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UC hospes, oculos flecte, sed lacrimis cæcos,
Legit optime hæc, quem legere non sinit

Ars nuper et natura, forma, virtusque
Æmulatione fervidæ, paciscuntur
Probare in uno juvene quid queant omnes,
Fuere tantæ terra nuper fuit liti
Ergo hic ab ipso judicem maneat cælo.*

* From the edition of 1648.

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