POETS OF THE RESTORATION. COOPER'S HILL. My eye, descending from the hill, surveys By his old sire, to his embraces runs, Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea, Like mortal life to meet eternity. Though with those streams he no resemblance hold, Like mothers who their infants overlay ; Nor with a sudden and impetuous wave, Like profuse kings, resumes the wealth he gave. No unexpected inundations spoil The mower's hopes, or mock the ploughman's toil; But Godlike his unwearied bounty flows; First loves to do, then loves the good he does. But free and common as the sea or wind: Visits the world, and in his flying towers Brings home to us, and makes both Indies ours; So that to us no thing, no place, is strange, Oh, could I flow like thee! and make thy stream My great example, as it is my theme; Though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not dull; Variety, which all the rest endears. DENHAM. HYMN TO LIGHT. FIRST-BORN of Chaos, who so fair didst come From the old Negro's darksome womb; Which, when it saw the lovely child, The melancholy mass put on kind looks and smiled. Thou tide of glory which no rest doth 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! Say, from what golden quivers of the sky Do all thy winged arrows fly? Swiftness and power by birth are thine; From thy great Sire they come, thy Sire, the Word Divine. Thou in the moon's bright chariot, proud and gay, And all the year dost with thee bring Of thousand flowery lights thine own nocturnal spring. Thou, Scythian-like, dost round thy lands above And still, as thou in pomp dost go, The shining pageants of the world attend thy show. TO THE GRASSHOPPER. HAPPY insect! what can be In happiness compared to thee? And thy verdant cup does fill. COWLEY. Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing, Man for thee does sow and plough; Nor does thy luxury destroy. Thee country hinds with gladness hear, To thee, of all things upon earth, Life's no longer than thy mirth. Happy insect! happy thou Dost neither age nor winter know. But when thou'st drunk, and danced, and sung Thy fill, the flow'ry leaves among, Sated with thy summer feast, Thou retir'st to endless rest. COWLEY. GOD'S THRONE. ABOVE the subtle foldings of the sky, Above those petty lamps that gild the night, Is stretched out far, nor its own bounds confined; For there no twilight of the sun's dull ray No pale-faced moon does in stolen beams appear, There thou thyself dost in full presence show, Not absent from these meaner worlds below: No; if thou wert, the Elements' league would cease, And all thy creatures break thy nature's peace. COWLEY. TO THE ETERNAL WISDOM. O THOU eternal Mind! whose wisdom sees |