IV.

Beauty, whose conquests still are made O'er hearts by cowards kept, or else betray'd; Weak victor! who thy self destroy'd must be When sickness, storms, or time besieges thee! Thou unwholesome thaw to frozen age! Thou strong wine, which youths fever dost enrage, Thou tyrant which leav'st no man free! Thou subtle thief, from whom nought safe can be! Thou murth'rer which hast kill'd, and devil which would damn me.

HYMN to LIGHT.

First born of Chaos, who so far didst come, From the old negro's darksome womb! Which when it saw the lovely child, The melancholly mass put on kind looks and smiled.

Thou tide of glory, which no rest dost know, But ever ebb, and ever flow! Thou golden shower of a true Jove! Who does in thee descend, and Heaven to earth make love!

Hail active nature's watchful life, and health! Her joy, her ornament and wealth! Hail to thy husband heat, and thee! Thou the world's beauteous bride, the lusty bridegroom he!

Say from what golden quivers of the sky, Do all thy winged arrows fly? Swiftness and power by birth are thine, From thy great fire they came, thy fire the word divine.

'Tis I believe this archery to shew That so much cost in colours thou, And skill in painting dost bestow, Upon thy ancient arms, the gaudy heav'nly bow.

Swift as light, thoughts their empty career run, Thy race is finish'd, when begun; Let a Post-Angel start with thee, And thou the goal of earth shall reach as soon as he.

Thou in the moon's bright chariot proud and gay, Dost thy bright wood of stars survey; And all the year doth with thee bring O thousand flowry lights, thine own nocturnal spring.

Thou Scythian-like dost round thy lands above The sun's gilt tent for ever move, And still as thou in pomp dost go, The shining pageants of the world attend thy show.

Nor amidst all these triumphs dost thou scorn The humble Glow-Worms to adorn, And with those living spangles gild, (O greatness without pride!) the blushes of the Field.

Night, and her ugly subjects thou dost fright, And sleep, the lazy Owl of night; Asham'd and fearful to appear, They skreen their horrid shapes, with the black hemisphere.

With 'em there hastes, and wildly takes th' alarm, Of painted dreams, a busy swarm, At the first opening of thine eye, The various clusters break, the antick atoms fly.

The guilty serpents, and obscener beasts, Creep conscious to their secret rests: Nature to thee doth reverence pay, Ill omens, and ill sights removes out of thy way.

At thy appearance, grief itself is said, To shake his wings, and rouze his head; And cloudy care has often took A gentle beamy smile, reflected from thy look.

At thy appearance, fear itself grows bold; Thy sun-shine melts away his cold: Encourag'd at the sight of thee, To the cheek colour comes, and firmness to the knee.

Even lust, the master of a harden'd face, Blushes if thou be'st in the place, To darkness' curtains he retires, In sympathizing nights he rolls his smoaky fires.

When, goddess, thou lift'st up thy waken'd head, Out of the morning's purple bed, Thy choir of birds about thee play, And all the joyful world salutes the rising day.

The ghosts, and monster spirits, that did presume A body's priv'lege to assume, Vanish again invisibly, And bodies gain again their visibility.

All the world's bravery that delights our eyes, Is but thy sev'ral liveries, Thou the rich dye on them bestow'st, Thy nimble pencil paints this landskip as thou go'st.

A crimson garment in the rose thou wear'st; A crown of studded gold thou bear'st, The virgin lillies in their white, Are clad but with the lawn of almost naked light.

The Violet, spring's little infant, stands, Girt in thy purple swadling-bands: On the fair Tulip thou dost dote; Thou cloath'st it in a gay and party-colour'd coat.

With flame condens'd thou dost the jewels fix, And solid colours in it mix: Flora herself, envies to see Flowers fairer than her own, and durable as she.

Ah, goddess! would thou could'st thy hand with-hold, And be less liberal to gold; Didst thou less value to it give, Of how much care (alas) might'st thou poor man relieve!

To me the sun is more delightful far, And all fair days much fairer are; But few, ah wondrous few there be, Who do not Gold prefer, O goddess, ev'n to thee.

Thro' the soft ways of Heav'n, and air, and sea, Which open all their pores to thee, Like a clear river thou dost glide, And with thy living stream through the close channels slide.

But where firm bodies thy free course oppose, Gently thy source the land overflows; Takes there possession, and does make, Of colours mingled light, a thick and standing lake.