Why did you not defend that which was once your own? Even in the infancy of Time, when man was innocent1: Where pride of courage made men fall, and baseness rais'd them Where they that would be great, to be so must be least, And where to bear and suffer wrong, was Virtue's native crest. Nor any end, but-as the plants-to bring each other forth As they came in, so they go out with that which you call vice. No Babel-walls by greatness built, for littleness a wonder, As wheels whereon the world must run, and never can be fixt. Nor stories of acts done; for these all entered with the sin. The glory of the skilful shines, where men may go amiss. Keep therefore where you are; descend not but ascend: For, underneath the sun, be sure no brave state is your friend 1i. e. 'consider the boundless power you enjoyed in the golden age.' Good Spirits. What have you won by this, but that curst under Sin, You make and mar; throw down and raise; as ever to begin; Like meteors in the air, you blaze but to burn out; And change your shapes-like phantom'd clouds-to leave weak eyes in doubt. Not Truth but truth-like grounds you work upon, Varying in all but this, that you can never long be one: Deceive, and be deceivèd still, be foolish and seem wise; In Peace erect your thrones, your delicacy spread; The flowers of time corrupt, soon spring, and are as quickly dead. Let War, which-tempest-like- all with itself o'erthrows, Make of this diverse world a stage of blood-enamelled shows. Successively both these yet this fate follow will, That all their glories be no more than change from .ll to ill SEED-TIME AND HARVEST. [From Caelica, Sonnet XL.] The nurse-life wheat within his green husk growing Nature's true riches in sweet beauties shewing, That love and glory there are brought to bed; And your ripe years, Love, now they grow no higher, Turn all the spirits of man into desire'. The reading of these last two lines is conjectural. ELIZABETHA REGINA, [From Caelica, Sonnet LXXXII.] Under a throne I saw a virgin sit, The red and white rose quartered in her face, Fortune can here claim nothing truly great, SONNET. [From Caelica, Sonnet CX.] Sion lies waste, and Thy Jerusalem, O Lord, is fall'n to utter desolation; Thy powerful laws, Thy wonders of creation, Thy Christ still crucified for doing well: Impiety, O Lord, sits on Thy throne, Which makes Thee living Lord, a God unknown. Man's superstition hath Thy truth entombed, His atheism again her pomps defaceth; That sensual, insatiable vast womb, Of thy seen Church, Thy unseen Church disgraceth; There lives no truth, with them that seem Thine own, Which makes Thee, living Lord, a God unknown. t Yet unto Thee, Lord-mirror of transgression- All desolate implore that to Thine own, Yea, Lord, let Israel's plagues not be eternal, Nor sin for ever cloud Thy sacred mountains, t AN ELEGY ON SIR PHILIP SIDNEY'. Silence augmenteth grief, writing increaseth rage, Staled are my thoughts, which loved and lost the wonder of our age; Yet quickened now with fire, though dead with frost ere now, Hard-hearted minds relent and Rigour's tears abound, Place pensive wails his fall, whose presence was her pride, He was (woe worth that word!) to each well-thinking mind The authorship of this poem is by no means certain. Lamb howeve believed it to be by Lord Brooke. 1 Farewell to you my hopes, my wonted waking dreams, And farewell merry heart, the gift of guiltless minds, Now rhyme, the son of rage, which art no kin to skill, Salute the stones that keep the limbs, that held so good a inind. |