Life and Existence

Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?

Where the bright seraphim in burning row Their loud uplifted angel trumpets blow.

For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor; So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed; And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky. So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, Through the dear might of him that walk’d the waves.

For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor; So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed; And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky. So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, Through the dear might of him that walk’d the waves.

At last he rose, and twitch’d his mantle blue: Tomorrow to fresh woods and pastures new.

But O the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone and never must return!

Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forc’d fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.

That power Which erring men call Chance.

I was all ear, And took in strains that might create a soul Under the ribs of Death.

Yet some there be that by due steps aspire To lay their just hands on that golden key That opes the palace of Eternity.

And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light. There let the pealing organ blow, To the full-voiced choir below, In service high, and anthems clear As may, with sweetness, through mine ear Dissolve me into ecstasies, And bring all Heaven before mine eyes.

Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee Jest, and youthful jollity, Quips and cranks and wanton wiles, Nods and becks and wreathed smiles.

As ever in my great Taskmaster’s eye.

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, Stol’n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year.

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, Stol’n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year.

Peor and Baalim Forsake their temples dim.

Time will run back and fetch the Age of Gold.

It was the winter wild While the Heav’n-born child All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies.

This is the month, and this the happy morn, Wherein the Son of Heav’n’s eternal King, Of wedded maid and virgin mother born, Our great redemption from above did bring; For so the holy sages once did sing, That He our deadly forfeit should release, And with His Father work us a perpetual peace.

This is the month, and this the happy morn, Wherein the Son of Heav’n’s eternal King, Of wedded maid and virgin mother born, Our great redemption from above did bring; For so the holy sages once did sing, That He our deadly forfeit should release, And with His Father work us a perpetual peace.

He that loves a rosy cheek, Or a coral lip admires, Or, from starlike eyes, doth seek Fuel to maintain his fires; As old Time makes these decay, So his flames must waste away.

Ask me no more if east or west The Phoenix builds her spicy nest; For unto you at last she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies.

Religion stands on tiptoe in our land, Ready to pass to the American strand.

Here lies a King that rul’d, as he thought fit The universal monarchy of wit; Here lies two flamens, and both those the best: Apollo’s first, at last the true God’s priest.