Whether the immortal gods he sings In a no less immortal strain, Or the great acts of god-descended kings, Which their triumphant brows around III. Whether at Pisa's race he please To carve in polished verse the conqueror's images; Such mournful and such pleasing words As joy to his mother and his mistress grief affords ; He bids him live and grow in fame, Among the stars he sticks his name, The grave can but the dross of him devour, IV. Lo, how the obsequious wind, and swelling air, Into the walks of clouds, where he does play, And with extended wings opens his liquid way; For little drops of honey flee, And there with humble sweets contents her industry. COWLEY. CHRIST'S PASSION. First printed in the "Verses on several Occasions" of 1663. I. ENOUGH, my Muse, of earthly things, And inspirations but of wind, Take up thy lute and to it bind Loud and everlasting strings; And on them play, and to them sing, The happy mournful stories, The lamentable glories Of the great crucified King! Mountainous heap of wonders, which dost rise Till earth thou joinest with the skies! How shall I grasp this boundless thing? Which neither wretched man below, nor blessed spirits above, With all their comments can explain,— How all the whole world's Life to die did not disdain. II. I'll sing the searchless depths of the compassion divine, The depths unfathomed yet By reason's plummet and the line of wit,— Too light the plummet and too short the line; His own Eternal Son as ransom for his foe; How Hell was by its prisoner captive led, III. Methinks I hear of murdered men the voice My greedy eyes fly up the hill, and see O how unlike the others He! Look how he bends his gentle head with blessings from the tree! His gracious hands, ne'er stretched but to do good, And sinful man does fondly bind The arms which He extends to embrace all human kind. IV. Unhappy Man, canst thou stand by and see Since He thy sins doth bear, Make thou His sufferings thine own, And weep, and sigh, and groan, And let thy grief and let thy love Through all thy bleeding bowels move! Dost thou not see thy Prince in purple clad all o'er, Dost thou not see the roses which adorn Of thorns and scourges in thy heart, If that be yet not crucified, Look on his hands, look on his feet, look on his side! V. Open, ah! open wide the fountains of thine eyes, Their stock of moisture forth where'er it lies; |