IV.

COWLEY.

F

The GARDEN.

5

AIN would my Muse the flow'ry Treasures fing, And humble glories of the youthful Spring; Where opening Roses breathing sweets diffuse, And foft Carnations show'r their balmy dews; Where Lilies finile in virgin robes of white, The thin undress of fuperficial Light, And vary'd Tulips show so dazling gay, Blushing in bright diverfities of day. Each painted flouret in the lake below Surveys its beauties, whence its beauties grow; And pale Narcissus on the bank, in vain Transformed, gazes on himself again. Here aged trees Cathedral Walks compose, And mount the hill in venerable rows; There the green Infants in their beds are laid,

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The Garden's Hope, and its expected shade.
Here Orange-trees with blooms and pendants shine,
And vernal honours to their autumn join;

Exceed their promise in the ripen'd store,
Yet in the rifing blossom promife more.
There in bright drops the crystal Fountains play,

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By Laurels shielded from the piercing day :

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Where Daphne, now a tree as once a maid,
Still from Apollo vindicates her shade,
Still turns her beauties from th'invading beam,
Nor seeks in vain for fuccour to the stream,
The stream at once preserves her virgin leaves,
At once a shelter from her boughs receives,
Where Summer's beauty midst of Winter stays,
And Winter's Coolness spite of Summer's rays. 30

W

WEEPING.

HILE Celia's Tears make forrow bright,
Proud grief fits swelling in her eyes;

The Sun, next those the fairest light,
Thus from the Ocean first did rife:
And thus thro' Mifts we fee the Sun,
Which else we durst not gaze upon.

These silver drops, like morning dew,
Foretell the fervour of the day :
So from one cloud soft show'rs we view,
And blafting lightnings burst away.
The Stars that fall from Celia's eye,
Declare our Doom in drawing nigh.

The Baby in that sunny Sphere

So like a Phaëton appears,

That Heav'n, the threaten'd World to spare,

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Thought fit to drown him in her Tears : Else might th' ambitious Nymph aspire, To fet, like him, Heav'n too on fire.

S

V.

E. of ROCHESTER.

On SILENCE,

I.

ILENCE! coeval with Eternity;

Thou wert, ere Nature's self began to be, 'Twas one vast Nothing, all, and all flept faft in thee.

II.

Thine was the sway, ere heav'n was form'd, or earth,

Ere fruitful Thought conceiv'd creation's birth, Or midwife Word gave aid, and spoke the infant

forth.

III.

Then various elements, against thee join'd,
In one more various animal combin'd,

And fram'd the clam'rous race of busy Human-kind.

IV.

The tongue mov'd gently first, and speech was low, 'Till wrangling Science taught it noise and show,

And wicked Wit arose, thy most abusive foe.

WEEPING.

WHILE Celia's Tears make forrow bright,

grief fits swelling in her eyes;

The Sun, next those the fairest light,
Thus from the Ocean first did rise:
And thus thro' Mifts we fee the Sun,
Which else we durft not gaze upon.

These silver drops, like morning dew,
Foretell the fervour of the day :
So from one cloud soft show'rs we view,
And blasting lightnings burst away.
The Stars that fall from Celia's eye,
Declare our Doom in drawing nigh.

The Baby in that sunny Sphere
So like a Phaëton appears,

That Heav'n, the threaten'd World to fpare,
Thought fit to drown him in her Tears :
Else might th' ambitious Nymph aspire,
To fet, like him, Heav'n too on fire.

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40

45