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“ Severe and saintly righteousness Compos'd the clear white bridal dress; JESUS, the son of Heaven's high king, Bought with his blood the marriage ring.
A wretched sinful creature, I
Deem'd lightly of that sacred tie,
Gave to a treacherous world my heart,
And play'd the foolish wanton's part,
Soon to these murky shades I came,
To hide from the sun's light my shame.
And still I haunt this woody dell,
And bathe me in that healing well,
Whose waters clear have influence
From sin's foul stains the soul to cleanse ;
And, night and day, I them augment
With tears, like a true penitent,
Until, due expiation made,
Aud fit atonement fully paid,
The lord and bridegroom me present,
Where in sweet strains of high consent,
God's throne before, the Seraphim
Shall chaunt the extatic marriage hymn."
" Now Christ restore thee soon”-I said, And thenceforth all my dream was fled.
DIALOGUE BETWEEN A MOTHER AND
CHILD. « O LADY, lay your costly robes aside, No longer may you glory in your pride.”
Wherefore to-day art singing in mine ear
Sad songs, were made so long ago, my dear ;
This day I am to be a bride, you know,
Why sing sad songs
, were made so long ago?
0, mother, lay your costly robes aside,
For you may never be another's bride.
That line I learn'd not in the old sad song.
MOTHER, I pray thee, pretty one, now hold thy tongue, Play with the bride-maids, and be glad, my boy, For thou shalt be a second father's joy.
CHILD. One father fondled me upon his knee. One father is enough, alone, for me.
On a bank with roses shaded,
Whose sweet scent the violets aided,
Violets whose breath alone
Yields but feeble smell or none,
(Sweeter bed Jove ne'er repos'd on
When his eyes Olympus closed on)
While o'er head six slaves did hold
Canopy of cloth o'gold,
And two more did music keep,
Which might Juno lull to sleep,
Oriana who was queen
To the mighty Tamerlane,
That was lord of all the land
Between Thrace and Samarchand,
While the noon-tide fervor beam'd,
Mused herself to sleep, and dream'd.
Thus far, in magnific strain,
A young poet sooth'd his vein,
But he had nor prose nor numbers
To express a princess' slumbers,
Youthful Richard had strange fancies,
Was deep versed in old romances,
And conld talk whole hours
The great Cham and Prester John,--
Tell the field in which the Sophi
From the Tartar won a trophy-
What he read with such delight of,
Thought he could as eas’ly write of
But his over-young invention
Kept not pace with brave intention.
Twenty suns did rise and set,
And he could no further get ;
But, unable to proceed,
Made a virtue out of need,
And, his labours wiselier deem'd of,
Did omit what the queen dream'd of,