Early , cheerful, mounting Lark!
Light's gentle usher! Morning's Clerk!
In merry notes delighting;
Stint awhile thy song, and hark,
And learn my new inditing!

Bear up this Hymn! to heaven, it bear!
Even up to heaven, and sing it there!
To heaven, each morning bear it!
Have it set to some sweet sphere,
And let the angels hear it!

Renowned A STRÆA , that great name!
(Exceeding great in worth and fame,
Great worth hath so renowned it)
It is A STRÆA'S name I praise!
Now, then, sweet Lark! do thou it raise;

Earth now is green, and heaven is blue,
Lively spring which makes all new,
Jolly spring, doth enter:
Sweet young sunbeams do subdue
Angry, agid winter.

Blasts are mild, and seas are calm,
Every meadow flows with balm,
The earth wears all her riches;
Harmonious birds sing such a psalm
As ear and heart bewitches.

Reserve, sweet spring, this nymph of ours
Eternal garlands of thy flowers,
Green garlands never wasting;
In her shall last our State's fair spring,
Now and for ever flourishing,
As long as heaven is lasting.

Early before the day doth spring
Let us awake, my Muse, and sing,
It is no time to slumber;
So many joys this time doth bring
As time will fail to number.

But whereto shall we bend our lays?
Even up to heaven, again to raise
The maid which, thence descended,
Hath brought again the golden days
And all the world amended.

Rudeness itself she doth refine,
E'en like an alchemist divine,
Gross times of iron turning
Into the purest form of gold,
Not to corrupt till heaven wax old,
And be refined with burning.

I

Percussion, salt and honey,
A quivering in the thighs;
He shakes me all over again,
Eros who cannot be thrown,
Who stalks on all fours
Like a beast.

II

Eros makes me shiver again
Strengthless in the knees,
Eros gall and honey,
Snake-sly, invincible.

A HYMN
TO
THE NAME AND HONOR
OF
THE ADMIRABLE
SAINTE
TERESA,
FOUNDRESSE
of the Reformation of the Discalced
CARMELITES , both
men and Women;
A
WOMAN
for Angelicall heigth of speculation, for
Masculine courage of performance,

Upon her head she weares a crown of starres,
Through which her orient hayre waves to her waist,
By which beleeving mortalls hold fast,
And in those golden chordes are carried even,
Till with her breath she blowes them up to heaven.
She wears a robe enchas'd with eagles eyes,
To signifie her sight in mysteries;
Upon each shoulder sits a milke-white dove,
And at her feet doe witty serpents move:
Her spacious armes doe reach from East to West,
And you may see her heart shine through her breast.
Her right hand holds a sunne with burning rayes,

Peace, peace, peace, make no noise,
Pleasure and fear lie sleeping;
End, end, end your idle toys,
Jealous eyes will be peeping:
Kiss, kiss and part, though not for hate, for pity;
Ha' done, ha' done, ha' done, for I ha' done my ditty.

My Lord, I know, your noble ear
Woe ne'er assails in vain;
Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear
Your humble slave complain,
How saucy Phebus' scorching beams,
In flaming summer-pride,
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,
And drink my crystal tide.

The lightly-jumping, glowrin trouts,
That thro' my waters play,
If, in their random, wanton spouts,
They near the margin stray;
If, hapless chance! they linger lang,
I'm scorching up so shallow,
They're left, the whitening stanes amang,
In gasping death to wallow.

O thou all-eloquent, whose mighty mind
Streams from the depth of ages on mankind,
Streams like the day--who, angel-like, hast shed
Thy full effulgence on the hoary head,
Speaking in Cato's venerable voice,
"Look up, and faint not--faint not, but rejoice!'
From thy Elysium guide him. Age has now
Stamped with its signet that ingenuous brow;
And, 'mid his old hereditary trees,
Trees he has climbed so oft, he sits and sees
His children's children playing round his knees:
Then happiest, youngest, when the quoit is flung,

Born in a trance, we wake, observe, inquire;
And the green earth, the azure sky admire.
Of Elfin size--for ever as we run,
We cast a longer shadow in the sun!
And now a charm, and now a grace is won!
We grow in stature, and in wisdom too!
And, as new scenes, new objects rise to view,
Think nothing done while aught remains to do.
Yet, all forgot, how oft the eye-lids close,
And from the slack hand drops the gathered rose!
How oft, as dead, on the warm turf we lie,
While many an emmet comes with curious eye;