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ENOUGH, my Muse! of earthly things, And inspirations but of wind; Take up thy lute, and to it bind Loud and everlasting strings; And on them play, and to them sing, The happy mournful stories, The lamentable glories, Of the great crucified King. Mountainous heap of wonders! which dost rise Till earth thou joinest with the skies! Too large at bottom, and at top too high, To be half seen by mortal eye How shall I grasp this boundless thing What shall I play what shall I sing? I'll sing the mighty riddle of mysterious love, Which neither wretched men below, nor blessed spirits above, With all their comments can explain; How all the whole world's life to die did not disdain!

I'llsing the searchless depths of the compassion Divine,
The depths unfathom'd yet
By reason's plummet, and the line of wit:
Too light the plummet, and too short the line !


How the eternal Father did bestow His own eternal Son as ransom for his foe, I'll sing aloud, that all the world may hear The triumph of the buried Conqueror. How hell was by its prisoner captive led, And the great slayer, Death, slain by the dead.

Methinks I hear of murdered men the voice, Mixt with the murderers' confused noise, Sound from the top of Calvary; My greedy eyes fly up the hill, and see Who’t is hangs there the midmost of the three; Oh, how unlike the others He Look, how he bends his gentle head with blessings from the tree His gracious hands, ne'er stretch'd but to do good, Are nail'd to the infamous wood; And sinful man does fondly bind The *: * he extends to embrace all humanIIlOl. .

Unhappy man! canst thou stand by and see
All this as patient as he
Since he thy sins does bear,
Make thou his sufferings thine own,
And weep, and sigh, and groan,
And beat thy breast, and tear
Thy garments and thy hair,
And let thy grief, and let thy love,
Through all thy bleeding bowels move.

Dost thou not see thy Prince in purple clad all o'er, Not purple brought from the Sidonian shore,

But made at home with richer gore ?

Dost thou not see the roses which adorn
The thorny garland by him worn ?
Dost thou not see the livid traces
Of the sharp scourges' rude embraces
If yet thou feelest not the smart
Of thorns and scourges in thy heart;
If that be yet not crucify'd;

Look on his hands, look on his feet, look on his side '

Open, oh! open wide the fountains of thine eyes,
And let them call
Their stock of moisture forth where'er it lies
For this will ask it all.
*T would all, alas ! too little be,
Though thy salt tears come from a sea.
Canst thou deny him this, when he
Has open'd all his vital springs for thee
Take heed; for by his side's mysterious flood
May well be understood, }
That he will still require some waters to his blood.

on or INDA's Poems.

WE allow'd you beauty, and we did submit
To all the tyrannies of it;
Ah! cruel sex, will you depose us too in with
Orinda" does in that too reign;
Does man behind her in proud triumph draw,
And cancel great Apollo's Salique law.
We our old title plead in vain,
Man may be head, but woman’s now the brain.
Verse was love's fire-arms heretofore,
In Beauty's camp it was not known;
Too many arms besides that conqueror bore:
"T was the great cannon we brought down
To assault a stubborn town;
Orinda first did a bold sally make,
Our strongest quarter take,
And so successful prov'd, that she
Turn'd upon Love himself his own artillery.

Woman, as if the body were their whole,
Did that, and not the soul,
Transmit to their posterity;
If in it sometime they conceiv'd,
Th’ abortive issue never liv'd.

"T were shame and pity', Orinda, if in thee

* Mrs. Catharine Philips.

A spirit so rich, so noble, and so high,
Should unmanur'd or barren lie.
But thou industriously hast sow'd and till’d
The fair and fruitful field;
And ’t is a strange increase that it does yield.
As, when the happy Gods above
Meet altogether at a feast,
A secret joy unspeakable does move
In their great mother Cybele's contented breast:
With no less pleasure thou, methinks, should see
This thy no less immortal progeny;
And in their birth thou no one touch dost find
Of th’ ancient curse to woman-kind: .
Thou bring'st not forth with pain;
It neither travail is nor labour of the brain:
So easily they from thee come,
And there is so much room
In th’ unexhausted and unfathom'd womb,
That, like the Holland Countess, thou may'st bear
A child for every day of all the fertile year.

Thou dost my wonder, wouldst my envy, raise, If to be prais'd I lov'd more than to praise: Where'er I see an excellence, I must admire to see thy well-knit sense, Thy numbers gentle, and thy fancies high; Those as thy forehead smooth, these sparkling as thine eye. "T is solid, and 'tis manly all, Or rather’t is angelical;

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