EAR no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Fear no more the frown o' the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke:
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning flash;
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; Fear nor slander; censure rash:
Thou hast finished joy and moan: All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust.
No exorciser harm thee!
Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renowned be thy grave!
And marshalling the heroes of his name,
As in their order, next, to light they came.
Nor Cybele, with half so kind an eye,
Survey'd her sons and daughters of the sky;
Proud, shall I say, of her immortal fruit?
As far as pride with heavenly minds may suit.
Her pious love excell'd to all she bore;
New objects only multiplied it more.
And as the chosen found the pearly grain,
As much as every vessel could contain;
As in the blissful vision each shall share
As much of glory as his soul can bear;
So did she love, and so dispense her care.
Her eldest thus, by consequence, was best,
As longer cultivated than the rest.
The babe had all that infant care beguiles,
And early knew his mother in her smiles:
But when dilated organs let in day
To the young soul, and gave it room to play,
At his first aptness, the maternal love
Those rudiments of reason did improve :
The tender age was pliant to command;
Like wax, it yielded to the forming hand :
True to th' artificer, the labour'd mind
With care was pious, generous, just, and kind;
Soft for impression, from the first prepared,
Till virtue with long exercise grew hard:
With every act confirm'd, and made, at last,
So durable as not to be effaced,
It turn'd to habit; and, from vices free,
Goodness resolved into necessity.
DRYDEN. [From "Eleonora."]
OW wild and dim this
life appears!
One long, deep, heavy
When o'er our eyes, half
closed in tears,
The images of former
Are faintly glittering by!
And still forgotten while they
As, on the sea-beach, wave on
Dissolves at once in snow.
The amber clouds one moment lie,
Then, like a dream, are gone!
Though beautiful the moon-beams play
On the lake's bosom, bright as they,
And the soul intensely loves their stay,
Soon as the radiance melts away,
We scarce believe it shone !
Heaven-airs amid the harp-strings dwell;
And we wish they ne'er may fade;-
They cease; and the soul is a silent cell,
Where music never play'd!
Dreams follow dreams, through the long night-hours, Each lovelier than the last;
But, ere the breath of morning-flowers,
That gorgeous world flies past;
And many a sweet angelic cheek,
Whose smiles of love and fondness speak,
Glides by us on this earth;
While in a day we cannot tell
Where shone the face we loved so well,
In sadness, or in mirth!
HAT needs my Shakespeare for his honoured
The labour of an age in pilèd stones,
Or that his hallowed reliques should be hid
Under a starry-pointing pyramid ?
Dear son of Memory, great heir of Fame,
What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name?
Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Hast built thyself a live-long monument.
For whilst to the shame of slow-endeavouring art
Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book
Those Delphic lines with deep impression took;
Then thou our fancy of itself bereaving,
Dost make us marble with too much conceiving;
And so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie,
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.
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