A friend was stricken from my life—
I found no word to sob or say;
One shiver marked the severed nerve,
And I walked silent on my way.

But from the bosom of my faith
I missed its soul of loveliness,
And, musing in my steps, I said:
What unblest vacancy is this?

What light hath fall'n from soul and sky
Whose absence should afflict so sore
That I discern no heaven on high,
Within, no living Saviour more?

I dreamed not how my worship hung
On human features, till that day
That showed th' ideal presence gone,

Can I then live to draw that breath
Which must bid farewell to thee?
Yet how should death not seize on me?
Since absence from the life I hold so dear must needs be death,
While I do feel in parting
Such a living dying,
As in this my most fatal hour
Grief such a life doth lend
As quick'ned by his power,
Even death cannot end.

Here lyes King James , who did so propagate
Unto the World that blest and quiet state
Wherein his Subjects liv'd, he seem'd to give
That peace which Christ did leave, and so did live,
As once that King and Shepherd of his Sheep,
That whom God saved, here he seem'd to keep,
Till with that innocent and single heart
With which he first was crown'd, he did depart
To better life: Great Brittain so lament,
That Strangers more then thou may yet resent
The sad effects, and while they feel the harm
They must endure from the victorious arm

Of Travellers: ( from Paris.)

Ben Johnson , Travel is a second birth,
Unto the Children of another earth,
Only as our King Richard was, so they appear,
New born to another World, with teeth and hair,
While got by English Parents, carried in
Some Womb of thirty tun, and lightly twin,
They are delivered at Callis , or at Diep ,
And strangely stand, go, feed themselves, nay keep
Their own money streightwayes; but that is all,
For none can understand them, when they call
For any thing. No more then Badger ,

Breaking from under that thy cloudy Vail,
Open and shine yet more, shine out more clear
Thou glorious golden-beam-darting hair,
Even till my wonderstrucken Senses fail.

Shoot out in light, and shine those Rays on far,
Thou much more fair than is the Queen of Love,
When she doth comb her in her Sphere above,
And from a Planet turns a Blazing-Star.

Nay, thou art greater too, more destiny
Depends on thee, then on her influence,
No hair thy fatal hand doth now dispence,
But to some one a thred of life must be.

Exalted Mind! whose Character doth bear
 The first Idea of Perfection, whence
Adam 's came, and stands so, how canst appear
In words? that only tell what here-
Tofore hath been; thou need'st as deep a sence
As prophecy, since there's no difference
 In telling what thou art, and what shall be:
Then pardon me that Rapture do profess,
 At thy outside, that want, for what I see,
Description, if here amaz'd I cesse
 Thus———
Yet grant one Question, and no more, crav'd under
 Thy gracious leave, How, if thou would'st express

Fatal Aspect! that hast an Influence
More powerful far than those Immortal Fires
That but incline the Will and move the Sense,
Which thou alone constrain'st, kindling Desires
Of such an holy force, as more inspires
The Soul with Knowledge, than Experience
Or Revelation can do with all
Their borrow'd helps: Sacred Astonishment
Sits on thy Brow, threatning a sudden fall
To all those Thoughts that are not lowly sent,

All ye who far from town in rural hall,
Like me, were wont to dwell near pleasant field,
Enjoying all the sunny day did yield,
With me the change lament, in irksome thrall,
By rains incessant held; for now no call
From early Swain invites my hand to wield
The scythe; in parlour dim I sit conceal'd,
And mark the lessening sand from hour-glass fall,
Or 'neath my window view the wistful train
Of dripping poultry, whom the vine's broad leaves
Shelter no more. — Mute is the mournful plain,
Silent the swallow sits beneath the thatch,

Deep Sighs, Records of my unpitied Grief,
Memorials of my true, though hopeless Love,
Keep time with my sad thoughts, till wish'd Relief
My long despairs for vain and causless prove.

Yet if such hap never to you befall,
I give you leave, break time, break heart and all.

FROM A BROTHER SKELETON .

A loft to high Parnassus' hill,
I heard thy pray'r ascending swift;
And are the Nine propitious still
To grant thy wish, and send the Gift?
Has kind Apollo made a shift,
To roll down from his kitchen high
A sirloin huge — a smoking lift,
To feed thy keen devouring eye?

If so, O much respected Swain!
Thou'rt surely Phaebus, fav'rite Bard;