Short Poems

From Abraham 's Bosom, full of Lice,
To Abraham 's Bosom in Paradice;
Poor Sarah 's Ghost has took its Flight,
And bid the lousy Rogue Good-Night.

Wild Flowers, and Leaves that mystic juice distil,
Unsorted, uncombined, one basket fill:
But if in each be aught of good or fair,
Ask not too nicely why 'tis here or there:
And meanest weeds to some perhaps recall
A field beloved, or childish garden small.

Reflection on MEDITATION.

TO earth it bows the knees, but lifts the soul
So high above all sublunary things,
That this low world shews like a fleeting dream
Already past away.

Now night submits to the encroaching day,
And groves, and fields, put on their spring array;
Now various flowers of various hues display'd,
Adorn the green, or deck the lonely shade.
These show the pow'r of the Almighty's hand;
They spring, they blow, they fade at his command:
United Nature does his word fulfil,
'Tis Man alone rejects his Maker's will.

Bluddins ut damnum ruris repararet Aviti,
Addicit fisco dum Diadema suo.
Egregium sacro facinus velavit amictu
(Larva magis Reges fallere nulla potest)
Excidit ast ausis tactus pietate profana,
Custodem ut servet, maluit ipse capi.
Si modo saevitiam texisset Pontificalem
Veste Sacerdotis, rapta Corona foret.

CORNUS .

C ORNUS proclaims aloud his wife's a whore:
Alas, good Cornus, what can we do more?
Wert thou no cuckold, we might make thee one:
But being one, we cannot make thee none.

I understand
The pride of being polite
To a little child, or one in age,
Or to a stranger in the land.
But when I face these nightly belly-stretchers,
These painted trulls, and fashionable owls,
I wonder how it is they never feel
The inferiority of being served.

But give me the air! Always the air!
The clean ways, and wings, wings,
To reach beyond accepted things,
And venture flights unendable!

Be wise, and ne'er to publick View produce
Thy undrest Mistress, or unfinisht Muse;
Since either, by that Dishabile , seem
To hurt their Beauties in our good Esteem:
And easier far we kind Impressions make,
Than we can rooted Prejudices shake.
From Nature learn, which Embrio 's does conceal,
Thine, till they're perfect, never to reveal.

The poet is a prisoner for all time;
But, captive in the shining House of Song,
Life, Love and Sorrow round about him throng,
And sweet are his enchanted chains of rhyme!