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Friend faber, cast me a round hollow ball,
Blown full of wind, for emblem of this All ;
Adorn it fair, and flourish every part
With flowers and fruits, with brooks, beasts, fish, and fowl,
With rarest cunning of thy curious art :
5 And grave in gold, about my silver bowl, Thus rolls the world, the idol of mankind, Whose fruit is fiction; whose foundation wind.
Where, where are now the great reports
Of those huge haughty earthborn giants ?
Where are the lofty towers and forts
Of those proud kings bade Heaven defiance?
When these I to my mind revoke,
Methinks I see a mighty smoke
Thick mounting from quick-burning matter,
Which in an instant winds do scatter.
Go, silly worm, drudge, trudge, and travel,
Despising pain, so thou may'st gain
Some honour or some golden gravel;
But death the while, to fill his number,
With sudden call takes thee from all,
To prove thy days but dream and slumber.
The World and Death one day them cross-disguised,
To cozen man, when sin had once beguiled him. Both called him forth, and questioning advised
To say whose servant he would fairly yield him. Man, weening then but to the World to have given him, 5
By the false World became the slave of Death ;
But from their fraud he did appeal by faith To Him whose death killed Death, and from the world has driven him.
THE STORY OF A SUMMER DAY.
O perfect Light, which shaid away
The darkness from the light,
And set a ruler o'er the day,
Another o'er the night ;
Thy glory, when the day forth flies,
More vively does appear,
Than at midday unto our eyes
The shining sun is clear.
The shadow of the earth anon
Removes and drawis by,
While in the east, when it is gone,
Appears a clearer sky.
Which soon perceive the little larks,
The lapwing and the snipe,
And tune their songs, like Nature's clerks,
O'er meadow, muir, and stripe.
Our hemisphere is polished clean,
And lightened more and more;
While everything is clearly seen,
Which seemed dim before :
Except the glistering astres bright,
Which all the night were clear,
Offusked with a greater light
No longer do appear.
The golden globe incontinent
Sets up his shining head,
And o'er the earth and firmament
Displays his beams abread.
For joy the birds with boulden throats
Against his visage sheen
Take up their kindly music notes
In woods and gardens green.
The dew upon the tender crops,
Like pearles white and round,
Or like to melted silver drops,
Refreshes all the ground.
The misty reek, the clouds of rain
From tops of mountains skails,
Clear are the highest hills and plain,
The vapours take the vales.
The ample heaven, of fabric sure,
In cleanness does surpass
The crystal and the silver pure,
Or clearest polished glass.
The time so tranquil is and still,
That no where shall ye find,
Save on a high and barren hill,
The air of peeping wind.
All trees and simples, great and small,
That balmy leaf do bear,
Than they were painted on a wall,
No more they move or steir.
Calm is the deep and purple sea,
Yea, smoother than the sand ;
The waves, that weltering wont to be,
Are stable like the land.
So silent is the cessile air,
That every cry and call,
The hills and dales and forest fair
Again repeats them all.
The flourishes and fragrant flowers,
Through Phæbus' fostering heat,
Refreshed with dew and silver showers,
Cast up an odour sweet.
The cloggèd busy humming bees,
That never think to drone,
On flowers and flourishes of trees,
Collect their liquor brown.
The sun, most like a speedy post,
With ardent course ascends;
The beauty of the heavenly host
Up to our zenith tends;
Not guided by a Phaëthon,
Not trained in a chair,
But by the high and holy One,
Who does all where empíre.
The burning beams down from his face
So fervently can beat,
That man and beast now seek a place
To save them from the heat.
The herds beneath some leafy tree,
Amidst the flowers they lie ;
The stable ships upon the sea
Tend up their sails to dry.
With gilded eyes and open wings,
The cock his courage shows;
With claps of joy his breast he dings,
And twenty times he crows.
The dove with whistling wings so blue,
The winds can fast collect,
Her purple pens turn many a hue
Against the sun direct.
Now noon is went ; gone is midday,
The heat does slake at last,
The sun descends down west away,
For three o'clock is past.
The rayons of the sun we see
Diminish in their strength,
The shade of every tower and tree
Extended is in length.
Great is the calm, for everywhere
The wind is setting down,
The reek throws right up in the air
From every tower and town.
The gloming comes, the day is spent,
The sun goes out of sight,
And painted is the occident
With purple sanguine bright.
The scarlet nor the golden thread,
Who would their beauty try,
Are nothing like the colour red
And beauty of the sky.