English

Beauty ! thou Master-piece of Heav'ns best skill,
Who in all shapes and lights art Beauty still,
And whether black, or brown, tawny, or white,
Still strik'st with wonder every judging sight;
Thou tryumph, which dost entertain the Eye
With Admirations full variety.
Who, though thou variest here and there,
And trick'st thy self in various colour'd hair,
And though with several washes Nature has
Thought fit thy several Lineaments to grace,
Yet Beauty still we must acknowledge thee,
Whatever thy Complexion be.

Let each religious Soule then rise
To offer his best sacrifice,
And on the wings of pray'r and praise
His gratefull heart to Heav'n raise;
For this, that in a stable lyes,
This poor neglected babe is hee,
Hell and death that must controule,
And speake the blessed Word, Be free
To every true beleiving Soule:
Death has noe sting, nor Hell noe prize

Att th' teeming of this blessed wombe
All Nature is one joy become;
The Fire, the Earth, the Sea, and Ayre,
The great Salvation doe declare;
The Mountaines skipp with joyes excesse,
The ocean's briny billowes swell
O're the surface of their lands,
And at this blessed Miracle
Floods doe clap their liquid hands,
Joyes inundation to expresse;

Riding upon the morning's wings,
The joyfull Aire Salvation sings,
Peace upon earth, tow'rds men good will,
Echo's from every vale and hill;
For why the Prince of Peace is come,
The glorious infant, who this morne
By a strange misterious birth
Was of his Virgin Mother borne,
To redeem the seed of Earth
From foule rebellion's heavy Doome.

Rise Shepheards, leave your flockes, and run,
The Soule's great Shepheard now is come;
O wing your tardy feet, and fly
To greet this Dawning Majesty:
A glorious starr shines in the East,
To guide you to the Sacred place,
Where the blessed babe of joy,
Wrap't in his holy Father's grace,
Comes the serpent to destroy,
That lurkes in ev'ry humaine brest.

Rise , happy Mortalls, from your sleep,
Bright Phospher now begins to peep,
In such apparell as ne're drest
The proudest day-breake of the East:
Death's Sable Curtain 'gins disperse,
And now the blessed morne appeares,
Which has long'd and pray'd for been
Soe many Centuries of yeares,
To defray th' arreare of Sinn.
Now through the joyfull universe

THE STRING PLAYERS

As he rings the curled home with white
The narrow shoulders with the rich Dress
Adorned came forward and struck the loud
First, trembling in the shy of youth:
Thereupon become hot strict elderly.
As he lit on cheeks anxious red
As the inclined front unfamiliar greeting
From many a bosom delicious gehäng
And barrette fell down: the more will they
As far as the holy tree fruit thrives.
The girl talking eagerly among themselves
Secretive tolerating raving all boys

Great ghost! who in the autumn of the year,
When through gaunt branches terrible winds that blow
Seem whispering to us, seem more close and dear
Than all the human voices that we know —
Great ghost! who loved uncomprehended space
And were so fevered with immortal time,
Who dreamed that heaven lit up one chosen face,
And trusted fantasies crowded into rhyme —
Be not too far from us; come, at the pane
Flatten your pale face and look in on us:
We also are of those who live in vain;
Like you we are noble and ridiculous;

Dearest of all the heroes! Peerless knight
Whose follies sprang from such a generous blood!
Young, young must be the heart that in thy fight
Beholds no trace of its own servitude.
Young, or else darkened, is the eye that sees
No image of its own fate in thy quest.
The windmills and the swine, — by such as these
Is shaped the doom of those we love the best.
Beloved knight! La Mancha's windows gleam,
Across the plain time makes so chill and grey,
With thy light only. Still thy flambeaux stream

Don Quixote died a sane man; at his bed
The curate and the barber marvelling stood,
Admiring his new wisdom as he said
Clear words, abjuring in his dying mood
All of the far adventurings, cursing all
The old enchantments, casting out all fays
Of mad romances that had sounded call
So clarion-like to his knight-errant days.
Thus drew the high strange tragedy to its close;
Thus the great dupe and dreamer ebbed, was gone.
Madmen end ill, as everybody knows;
The barber and the curate, they lived on.