The world o'erlooks him in her busy search
Of objects more illustrious in her view;
And occupied as earnestly as she,
Though more sublimely, he o'erlooks the world.
She scorns his pleasures, for she knows them not:
He seeks not her's, for he has found them vain.
Not slothful he, though seeming unemployed,
And censured oft as useless.-
Perhaps the self-approving haughty world
Receives advantage from his noiseless hours
Of which she little dreams. Perhaps she owes
Her sunshine and her rain, her blooming spring
And plenteous harvests to the prayer he makes,
Thinking for her who thinks not for herself.
HEAVEN'S youngest son, it's Benjamin,
Divinity's next brother, sacred Poesy,
No longer shall a virgin reckoned be,
(What ere with others 'tis) by me,
A female muse, as were the nine;
But (full of vigor masculine)
An essence male, with angels his companions shine.
With angels first the heavenly youth was bred;
And, when a child, instructed them to sing,
The praises of th' immortal king,
Who Lucifer in triumph led:
For, as in chains the monster sank to hell,
And tumbling headlong down the precipice fell,
By him first taught, How art thou fallen thou
morning star? they said.
Too fondly then, we have fancy'd him a maid;
We, the vain brethren of the rhyming trade;
A female angel less would * Urbin's skill upbraid.
Thus 'twas in heaven: this, Poesy's sex and age; And, when he thence t'our lower world came down, He chose a forin more like his own,
Raphael Urbin, the famous painter.
Ii2
And Jesse's youngest son inspir'd with holy rage,
The sprightly shepherd felt unusual fire,
And up he took his tuneful lyre;
He took it up, and struck't, and his own soft touches did admire.
Thou, Poesy, on him didst bestow
Thy choicest gift, a honour shew'd before to none; And, to prepare his way to th' Hebrew throne, Gav'st him thy empire, and dominion;
The happy land of verse, where flow
Rivers of milk, and woods of laurel grow;
Wherewith, thou didst adorn his brow,
And mad'st his first, more flourishing, and trium-
phant crown.
Assist me thy great prophets praise to sing,
David, the poet's, and bless'd Israel's king;
And, with the dancing echo, let the mountains
ring!
Then, on the wings of some auspicious wind,
Let his great name from earth be rais'd on high,
And in the starry volume of the sky,
A lasting record find:
Be with his mighty Psaltery join'd;
Which, taken long since up into the air,
And call'd the Harp, makes a bright constellation there.
Worthy it was to be translated hence,
And, there, in view of all, exalted hang:
To which so oft the princely prophet sang,
And mystick Oracles did dispence.
Though, had it still remained below,
More wonders of it we had seen,
How great the mighty Herbert's skill had been;
Herbert, who could so much without it do;
Herbert, who did its chords distinctly know;
More perfectly, than any child of verse below.
O! had we known him half so well;
But then, my friend, there had been left for
Nothing so fair, and worthy praise to do;
Who, so exactly all his story tell,
That, though he did not want his bays,
Nor all the monuments virtue can raise,
Your hand he did, to eternize his praise.
Herbert, and Donne, again are join'd,
Now here below, as they're above;
These friends, are in their old embraces twin'd;
And, since by you the enterview's design'd,
Too weak, to part them, death does prove;
For, in this book they meet again: as, in one heaven
they love.
SAM. WOODFORDe, D. D,
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