But come on shore, Where no joy dies 'till love hath gotten more. For stars, gaze on our eyes; The compass love shall hourly sing, We will not miss To tell each point he nameth with a kiss. Then come on shore, Where no joy dies 'till love hath gotten more. HENRY KING, Bishop of Chichester, was born in 1591. He turned the Psalms into verse in 1651, and published in 1657 a small volume of Poems, Elegies, Paradoxes, and Sonnets. His Elegies are written on the deaths of Prince Henry, Sir Walter Raleigh, Gustavus Adolphus, Dr. Donne, and Ben Jonson, whom he laments as his dead friends, and some others; particularly his father, Dr. John King, bishop of London. His poems are terse and elegant, but, like those of most of his contemporaries, deficient in simplicity. He died in 1669. A DIRGE. WHAT is th' existence of man's life? And never feels a perfect peace Till death's cold hand signs his release. It is a storm, where the hot blood Which beats his bark with many a wave Till he casts anchor in the grave. It is a flow'r, which buds, and grows, It is a dream, whose seeming truth It is a dial, which points out It is a weary interlude, Which doth short joys, long woes include; The world the stage, the prologue, tears: The acts, vain hope, and varied fears. The scene shuts up with loss of breath, And leaves no epilogue but death. TO PATIENCE. Down! stormy passions, down! no more Let your rude waves invade the shore Where blushing reason sits, and hides Her from the fury of your tides. Fall, easy patience, fall, like rest, Whose soft spells charm a troubled breast; And where those rebels you espy, O! in your silken cordage tie Their malice up! so shall I raise Altars to thank your power, and praise Which cures a tempest by a calm, THE SURRENDER. My once dear love, hapless that I no more Yet witness those clear vows which lovers make; ** Like turtle doves Dislodged from their haunts, we must in tears |