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Of all this store
Of blessings, and ten thousand more,
If when He come
He find the heart from home,
Doubtless He will unload Himself some otherwhere, And pour abroad
His precious sweets,
On the fair soul whom first He meets.
O fair! O fortunate! O rich! O dear!
Whoe'er she be,
Whose early love
With winged vows
Makes haste to meet her morning Spouse,
And close with His immortal kisses!
Happy, indeed, who never misses
To improve that precious hour,
And every day
Seize her sweet prey,
All fresh and fragrant as He rises,
O, let the blessful heart hold fast
She shall have power
To rifle and deflower
The rich and roseal spring of those rare sweets, Which with a swelling bosom there she meets;
Boundless and infinite, bottomless treasures
Of pure inebriating pleasures; Happy proof she shall discover, What joy, what bliss,
How many heavens at once it is, To have a God become her lover!
TO THE MORNING
Satisfaction for Sleep
WHAT succour can I hope the Muse will send, Whose drowsiness hath wronged the Muse's friend? What hope, Aurora, to propitiate thee,
Unless the Muse sing my apology?
O! in that morning of my shame, when I
Lay folded up in sleep's captivity;
How at the sight didst thou draw back thine eyes,
His Lethe be my Helicon, and see
If Morpheus have a Muse to wait on me.
Marrow to my plump genius, make it live
Her starry throne; whose holy heats can warm
The grave, and hold up an exalted arm
In the deep wrinkles of his angry brow,
Where mercy cannot find them; but, O thou
So warm in thy soft breast, it cannot die;
And stroke his radiant cheeks; one timely kiss
Thrice will I pay three tears, to show how true
An anthem at the day's nativity.
And the same rosy-fingered hand of thine,
Was ever known to be thy votary.
No more my pillow shall thine altar be,
Nor will I offer any more to thee
Myself a melting sacrifice; I'm born
Again a fresh child of the buxom morn,
Heir of the sun's first beams; why threat'st thou so? Why dost thou shake thy leaden sceptre? Go,
Bestow thy poppy upon wakeful woe,
Sickness and sorrow, whose pale lids ne'er know
LOVE, brave Virtue's younger brother,
Ah, my heart, is that the way?
Are these the beams that rule thy day?
If those sharp rays, putting on
Cast amorous glances on his birth,
To pave his paths with all the good
That warms the bed of youth and blood:-
But if her milder influence move,
And gild the hopes of humble Love ;—
Though every diamond in Jove's crown
O, if Love shall live, O where,
Or, if Love shall die, O where,
While Love shall thus entombed lie,
ON MR. G. HERBERT'S BOOK
Entitled, 'The Temple of Sacred Poems,' sent to a Gentlewoman
KNOW you, fair, on what you look?
Divinest love lies in this book,