The Golden Treasury. Unknown

song

           In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.

           There entertain him all the saints above

           In solemn troops, and sweet societies,

           That sing, and singing, in their glory move,

           And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.

           Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;

           Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore,

           In thy large recompense, and shalt be good

           To all that wander in that perilous flood.

             Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills,

           While the still morn went out with sandals gray;

           He touch'd the tender stops of various quills,

           With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:

           And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills,

           And now was dropt into the western bay:

           At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue:

           To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.

J. MILTON.

      67. THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY

           Mortality, behold and fear

           What a change of flesh is here!

           Think how many royal bones

           Sleep within these heaps of stones;

           Here they lie, had realms and lands,

           Who now want strength to stir their hands,

           Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust

           They preach, "In greatness is no trust."

           Here's an acre sown indeed

           With the richest royallest seed

           That the earth did e'er suck in

           Since the first man died for sin:

           Here the bones of birth have cried

           "Though gods they were, as men they died!"

           Here are sands, ignoble things,

           Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings

           Here's a world of pomp and state

           Buried in dust, once dead by fate.

F. BEAUMONT.

      68. THE LAST CONQUEROR

           Victorious men of earth, no more

             Proclaim how wide your empires are;

           Though you bind-in every shore

             And your triumphs reach as far

                As night and day,

             Yet you, proud monarchs, must obey

           And mingle with forgotten ashes, when

           Death calls ye to the crowd of common men.

           Devouring Famine, Plague, and War,

             Each able to undo mankind,

           Death's servile emissaries are;

             Nor to these alone confined,

                He hath at will

             More quaint and subtle ways to kill;

           A smile or kiss, as he will use the art,

           Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart.

J. SHIRLEY.

      69. DEATH THE LEVELLER

           The glories of our blood and state

              Are shadows, not substantial things;

           There is no armour against fate;

              Death lays his icy hand on kings:

                Sceptre and Crown

                Must tumble down,

           And in the dust be equal made

           With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

           Some men with swords may reap the field,

              And plant fresh laurels where they kill:

           But their strong nerves at last must yield;

              They tame but one another still:

                Early or late

                They stoop to fate,

           And must give up their murmuring breath

           When they, pale captives, creep to death.

           The garlands wither on your brow;

              Then boast no more your mighty deeds;

           Upon Death's purple altar now

              See where the victor-victim bleeds:

                Your heads must come

                To the cold tomb;

           Only the actions of the just

           Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

J. SHIRLEY.

      70. WHEN THE ASSAULT WAS INTENDED TO THE CITY

           Captain, or Colonel, or Knight in arms,

           Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize,

           If deed of honour did thee ever please;

           Guard them, and him within protect from harms.

           He can requite thee; for he knows the charms

           That call fame on such gentle acts as these.

           And he can spread thy name o'er lands and seas,

           Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms.

           Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower:

           The great Emathian conqueror bid spare

           The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower

           Went to the ground: and the repeated air

           Of sad Electra's poet had the power

           To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare.

J. MILTON.

      71. ON HIS BLINDNESS

           When 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,—