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The tyrannous pleasure could express.

Oh, 't is too much for man! but let it ne'er be less!

The mighty' Elijah mounted so on high,
That second man who leap'd the ditch where all
The rest of mankind fall,

And went not downwards to the sky!
With much of pomp and show

(As conquering kings in triumph go)

Did he to heaven approach,

And wondrous was his way, and wondrous was his coach.

'Twas gaudy all; and rich in every part Of essences, of gems; and spirit of gold Was its substantial mould,

Drawn forth by chemick angels' art. Here with moon-beams 't was silver'd bright, There double-gilt with the sun's light; And mystick shapes cut round in it, Figures that did transcend a vulgar angel's wit.

The horses were of temper'd lightning made,
Of all that in Heaven's beauteous pastures feed
The noblest, sprightful'st breed;

And flaming manes their necks array'd;
They all were shod with diamond,

Not such as here are found,

But such light solid ones as shine

On the transparent rocks o' th' Heaven-crystalline.

Thus mounted the great Prophet to the skies;
Astonish'd men, who oft had seen stars fall,
Or that which so they call,

Wonder'd from hence to see one rise.
The soft clouds melted him a way;
The snow and frosts which in it lay

Awhile the sacred footsteps bore;

The wheels and horses' hoofs hizz'd as they pass'd them o'er!

He pass'd by th' moon and planets, and did fright All the worlds there which at this meteor gaz'd, And their astrologers amaz'd

With th' unexampled sight.

But where he stopp'd will ne'er be known,
Till Phoenix Nature, aged grown,

To' a better thing do aspire,

And mount herself, like him, to' eternity in fire.

TO THE NEW YEAR.

GREAT Janus! (who dost sure my mistress view With all thine eyes, yet think'st them all too few) If thy fore-face do see

No better things prepar'd for me,

Than did thy face behind;

If still her breast must shut against me be (For 't is not Peace that temple's gate does bind); Oh, let my life, if thou so many deaths a-coming find,

With thine old

year its voyage

take,

Borne down that stream of Time which no return can

make!

Alas! what need I thus to pray?

Th' old avaricious year,

Whether I would or no, will bear

At least a part of me away :

His well-hors'd troops, the months, and days, and

hours,

Though never any-where they stay,

Make in their passage all their prey;
The months, days, hours, that march i' th' rear,
Nought of value left behind.

[find

can

All the good wine of life our drunken youth devours; Sourness and lees, which to the bottom sink,

Remain for latter years to drink;

Until, some one offended with the taste,

The vessel breaks, and out the wretched relicks run at last.

If then, young Year! thou needst must come
(For in Time's fruitful womb

The birth beyond its time can never tarry,
Nor ever can miscarry);

Choose thy attendants well; for 't is not thee
We fear, but 't is thy company:

Let neither Loss of Friends, or Fame, or Liberty,
Nor pining Sickness, nor tormenting Pain,

Nor Sadness, nor uncleanly Poverty,

Be seen among thy train:

Nor let thy livery be

Either black Sin, or gaudy Vanity:

Nay, if thou lov'st me, gentle Year!
Let not so much as Love be there;

Vain fruitless Love, I mean; for, gentle Year!
Although I fear,

There's of this caution little need,
Yet, gentle Year! take heed

How thou dost make

Such a mistake:

Such Love I mean, alone,

As by thy cruel predecessors has been shown;
For, though I have too much cause to doubt it,
I fain would try for once if Life can live without it.

Into the future times why do we pry,

And seek to antedate our misery?

Like jealous men, why are we longing still
To see the thing which only seeing makes an ill?
"T is well the face is veil'd; for 't were a sight
That would ev'n happiest men affright;
And something still they 'd spy that would destroy
The past and present joy.

In whatsoever character

The book of Fate is writ,

'Tis well we understand not it;

We should grow mad with little learning there:
Upon the brink of every ill we did foresee,

Undecently and foolishly

We should stand shivering, and but slowly venture The fatal flood to enter.

Since, willing or unwilling, we must do it, They feel least cold and pain who plunge at once into it.

LIFE.

"Nascentes morimur."

WE're ill by these grammarians us'd;
We are abus'd by words, grossly abus'd:
From the maternal tomb,

To the grave's fruitful womb,

MANIL.

We call here Life; but Life's a name
That nothing here can truly claim:
This wretched inn, where we scarce stay to bait,
We call our dwelling-place;

We call one step a race:

But angels, in their full enlighten'd state,
Angels, who Live, and know what 't is to Be ;
Who all the nonsense of our language see;

Who speak Things, and our words, their ill-drawn pictures' scorn;

When we, by' a foolish figure, say,

"Behold an old man dead!" then they [born!" Speak properly, and cry, "Behold a man-child

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