— Sunt ipsa pericula tanti.

Her Viceroy now had Ireland 's Coast
Survey'd with his last parting Eye:
And now the less'ning Land was lost,
And all was only Sea and Sky;

When round the watr'y Mountains rise,
Rolling aloft in proud Array,
Roar the rough Winds, the Lightning flies,
And black'ning Clouds exclude the Day.

The lab'ring Bark no Stay nor Rest,
No Help or knows, or hopes to find;

When P HEBVS bright was setled in the West,
And darknesse dimme, the earth had ouerspread:
When sylent night, that moues eche thing to rest,
With quyet pawse, had plaste me in my bed,
In slombring Dreame, me thought I heard a wyght,
His woes bewayle, that grewe through loues despyght.

Whose wearing weede and vestures all were greene,
Saue that his loynes with black were girded rounde:
And on his brest a badge of blewe was seene,
In signe his fayth and truth remayned sounde.
He sighed oft and said, O blissul hier,

Though P ARIS prayse, Apollos Impe gan stayne,
When change of choyce his fickle humor fedde,
And C ARTHAGE cryes, with strayned voyce complayne,
On periurde Prince, by night that faithlesse fledde.
Though I ASONS heste M EDEA founde vntrue,
And others mo there be whose fancye past:
That skorne the olde still haunting after newe,
Wythin whose hartes no leeking long may last,
Yet tyll syr P HEBVS beames shall lose their light,
And Ocean Seas doe cease to ebbe and flowe:
Vntill the day shall turne to perfite night,

For future Fame when anxious we prepare,
How false our Views, how fruitless is our Care!
In vain Ambition hopes, or Virtue claims;
'Tis Fate, imperious Fate controuls our Aims.
See what a glorious Trophy Cotton rears!
The learned Spoils of twice a thousand Years;
From Goths and Vandals 'scap'd, and what we feel
Than these more dreadful, from Reforming Zeal;
From ev'ry Foe the Muses us'd to fear,
Sacred and safe preserv'd—to perish Here!
 So Philadelphus through the World explor'd,
And Learning's copious Works insatiate stor'd;

He that hes no will to wirk;
And luifs not God, nor haly kirk;
And hes no lands, [furth] for to spend;
Nor yit hes freynds, his needs to mend;
And hes na rent, quhairon to leif;
And will not beg, thoch men wald geif;
And with that is trym, fat, and fair —
How sall he byde the justice-ayr?

Queen of all Virtues! for whate'er we call
Godlike and Great, 'tis Thou obtain'st it all.
No Task too arduous for thy strong Essay,
And Art and Nature own thy potent Sway.
Inspir'd by Thee to each superior Aim,
We press with Ardour thro' the Paths of Fame
Up to the sacred Top, and leave behind
Th'inglorious Croud, the Herd of Humankind;
Whilst Wisdom round us pours her heav'nly Ray,
And old Experience guides our steady Way.
No anxious Cares, no furious Lusts controul
The free habitual Vigour of the Soul.

Though V IRGILS Vearse, for loftie style were rare,
Surmounting farre my feeble Muses might:
Yet in this poynte my case I may compare
With his, what tyme another claymde his right,
And say with him, though I the seede did sowe,
Another seekes the fruite therof to mowe.

Like as the toyling Oxe the Plow doth pull,
And hath but stalkes, when others share the eares:
Or as the sheepe that Nature clothes with wooll,
Brings forth the Fleece, the shearer from him sheares,
Euen much alike it fareth now with me,

Fair as the dawning Light! auspicious Guest!
Source of all Comfort to the Human Breast!
Depriv'd of Thee in sad Despair we moan,
And tedious roll the heavy Moments on.
Though beauteous Objects all around us rise
To charm the Fancy, and delight the Eyes;
Though Art's fair Works and Nature's Gifts conspire
To please each Sense, and satiate each Desire,
'Tis joyless all — till thy enliv'ning Ray
Scatters the melancholy Gloom away.
Then opens to the Soul a heav'nly Scene,
Gladness and Peace, all spritely, all serene.

A SANG.

Under ane brokin bank ane by,
I hard ane heynd cheild mak his mane,
He sicht, and said richt drerelie,
Evil is the wyf that I have tane!
Forthy to yow I mak my mane,
Ye tak gud tent quhair that ye wow.
It is scant ane twelf-month gane —
God gif I wer wedo now!

War I ane wedo, forouttin weir,
Full weill I culd luik me aboute:
In all this land, bayth far and neir,
Of wyfing I suld have no doute.
Upon my hip I have ane clout,
Quhilk is nocht plesand for my prow.

( " L'eglise est vaste et haute. " )

The Church is vast; its towering pride, its steeples loom on on high;
The bristling stones with leaf and flower are sculptured wondrously;
The portal glows respondent with its " rose, "
And 'neath the vault immense at evening swarm
Figures of angel, saint, or demon's form,
As oft a fearful world our dreams disclose.
But not the huge Cathedral's height, nor yet its vault sublime,
Nor porch, nor glass, nor streaks of light, nor shadows deep with time;