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THE ATTENDANT SPIRIT, FROM COMUS
To the ocean now I fly,
And those happy climes that lie
All amid the gardens fair
Of Hesperus, and his daughters three
There eternal Summer dwells,
And west winds with musky wing
About the cedarn alleys fling
Nard and cassia's balmy smells.
Iris there with humid bow
Waters the odorous banks, that blow
Flowers of more mingled hue
But far above, in spangled sheen,
Celestial Cupid, her famed son, advanced, Holds his dear Psyche, sweet entranced,
James Graham, Marquis of Montrose
After her wandering labours long,
And from her fair unspotted side
But now my task is smoothly done:
Quickly to the green earth's end,
Where the bowed welkin slow doth bend,
Heaven itself would stoop to her.
JAMES GRAHAM, MARQUIS OF MONTROSE
THE VIGIL OF DEATH
LET them bestow on every airth a limb,
Then place my parboiled head upon a stake
Scatter my ashes--strew them in the air:
Lord! since thou know'st where all these atoms are,
I'm hopeful thou 'lt recover once my dust,
And confident thou 'lt raise me with the just.
ON A PRAYER-BOOK SENT TO MRS. M. R.
Lo, here a little volume, but great book!
A nest of new-born sweets,
Whose native pages, 'sdaining
To be thus folded, and complaining
Of these ignoble sheets,
Affect more comely bands,
Fair one, from thy kind hands,
And confidently look
To find the rest
Of a rich binding in your breast!
It is in one choice handful, heaven; and all
A thousand angels in one point can dwell.
It is love's great artillery,
Which here contracts itself, and comes to lie
Close couched in your white bosom; and from thence,
As from a snowy fortress of defence,
Against your ghostly foe to take your part,
And fortify the hold of your chaste heart.
It is an armoury of light;
Let constant use but keep it bright,
You'll find it yields
To holy hands and humble hearts
More swords and shields
Than sin hath snares, or hell hath darts.
Only be sure
The hands be pure
That hold these weapons, and the eyes
Those of turtles, chaste, and true,
Wakeful, and wise.
Here's a friend shall fight for you;
But, O! the heart
That studies this high art
Must be a sure housekeeper,
And yet no sleeper.
Dear soul, be strong;
Mercy will come ere long,
And bring her bosom full of blessings,
To make immortal dressings
For worthy souls, whose wise embraces Store up themselves for Him who is alone The Spouse of virgins, and the Virgin's Son.
But if the noble Bridegroom when He comes Shall find the wandering heart from home, Leaving her chaste abode
To gad abroad,
Amongst the gay mates of the god of flies
To take her pleasure, and to play
And keep the Devil's holy day;
To dance in the sunshine of some smiling,
Spheres of sweet and sugared lies,
Of false, perhaps, as fair,
Flattering, but forswearing, eyes;
Doubtless some other heart
Will get the start
Meanwhile, and, stepping in before,
Amorous languishments, luminous trances,
Whose pure and subtle lightning flies
Home to the heart, and sets the house on fire
Yet does not stay
To ask the window's leave to pass that way;
Delicious deaths, soft exhalations
Of soul; dear and divine annihilations;
A thousand unknown rites
Of joys, and rarefied delights;
A hundred thousand goods, glories, and graces,
And many a mystic thing,
Which the divine embraces
Of the dear Spouse of spirits with them will bring
For which it is no shame
That dull mortality must not know a name.