. . .
— Turn we next to the dead.
— How shall we honour the young,
The ardent, the gifted? how mourn?
Console we cannot, her ear
Is deaf. Far northward from here,
In a churchyard high 'mid the moors
Of Yorkshire, a little earth
Stops it for ever to praise.

Where, behind Keighley, the road
Up to the heart of the moors
Between heath-clad showery hills
Runs, and colliers' carts
Poach the deep ways coming down,
And a rough, grimed race have their homes —
There on its slope is built
The moorland town. But the church

I

The lights are out, and gone are all the guests
That thronging came with merriment and jests
To celebrate the Hanging of the Crane
In the new house, — into the night are gone;
But still the fire upon the hearth burns on,
And I alone remain

O fortunate, O happy day,
When a new household finds its place
Among the myriad homes of earth,
Like a new star just sprung to birth,
And rolled on its harmonious way

Come, oh come in pious Laies,
Sound we God-Almighti's praise.
Hither bring in one Consent,
Heart, and Voice, and Instrument.
Musick adde of ev'ry kinde;
Sound the Trump, the Cornet winde.
Strike the Violl, touch the Lute.
Let nor Tounge, nor String be mute:
Not a Creature dumb be found,
That hath either Voice or Sound.

Let those Things which do not live
In Still-Musick, praises give.
Lowly pipe, ye Wormes that creep,
On the Earth, or in the Deep.
Loud-aloft, your Voices strain,
Beasts, and Monsters of the Main.

Sweet Baby sleep: what ailes my Dear?
What ailes my Darling thus to cry?
Be still, my Childe, and lend thine ear,
To heare me sing thy Lullaby.
My pretty Lambe forbear to weep:
Be still my Dear; sweet Babie sleep.

Thou blessed Soul, what canst thou fear?
What thing, to thee, can mischief do?
Thy GOD, is now thy Father dear;
His holy Spouse, thy Mother too.
Sweet Babie then, forbear to weep;
Be still my Babe; sweet Babie sleep.

Though thy Conception was in Sin,
A sacred Bathing thou hast had.

Many Musicians are more out of order than their Instruments: such as are so, may by singing this Ode, become reprovers of their own untuneable affections. They who are better tempered are hereby remembred what Musick is most acceptable to G O D, and most profitable to themselves.
What helps it those,
Who skill in Song have found;
Well to compose
(Of disagreeing notes)
By artfull choice
A sweetly pleasing sound;
To fit their Voice,
And their melodious throats?
What helps it them,
That they this cunning know;
If most condemn

. . . THEN out-streamed a Light
Brightest that of beaming pillars! All that Beacon fair,
All that heavenly glow round the holy home,
Was upreared on high, even to the roof of Heaven,
From the field of earth, like a fiery tower,
Seen beneath the sky's expanse, sheenier than the sun,
Glory of the glorious stars! Hosts of angels sang
Loud the lay of Victory! In the lift the ringing sound
Now was heard the heaven under, raptures of the Holy Ones!
So the blessed Burgstead was with blisses filled,
With the sweetest scents, and with skiey wonders,

He that owns wealth, in mountain, wold, or waste,
Plays master — pitches tent at his own taste;
Whilst he who lacks that which the world commends
Must pace a stranger, e'en in his own lands.

My precious life I spent considering
What I should eat in summer, wear in spring.
Vile belly! take the crust! 'tis nobler food
Than all the capons plucked in servitude.

What could he know of sky and stars, or heaven's all-hidden life,
Who did not see in his own house the knave that kissed his wife?

The man that never will declare his thought
Conceals a soul of honor or of sin.
Dost think yon silent jungle holdeth naught?
Perchance a lurking tiger sleeps therein.