A night, where darkness lays her chains and bars, And feral fires appear instead of stars. But he, along with the last looks of day, Went hence, and setting--sunlike--pass'd away. What future storms our present sins do hatch Some in the dark discern, and others watch; Though foresight makes no hurricane prove mild, Fury that's long fermenting is most wild. But see, while thus our sorrows we discourse, Ph[oe]bus hath finish'd his diurnal course; The shades prevail: each bush seems bigger grown; Darkness--like State--makes small things swell and frown: The hills and woods with pipes and sonnets round, And bleating sheep our swains drive home, resound. _Menalcas._ What voice from yonder lawn tends hither? Hark! 'Tis Thyrsis calls! I hear Lycanthe bark! His flocks left out so late, and weary grown, Are to the thickets gone, and there laid down. _Damon._ Menalcas, haste to look them out! poor sheep, When day is done, go willingly to sleep: And could bad man his time spend as they do, He might go sleep, or die, as willing too. _Menalcas._ Farewell! kind Damon! now the shepherd's star With beauteous looks smiles on us, though from far. All creatures that were favourites of day Are with the sun retir'd and gone away. While feral birds send forth unpleasant notes, And night--the nurse of thoughts--sad thoughts promotes: But joy will yet come with the morning light, Though sadly now we bid good night! _Damon._ Good night! FRAGMENTS AND TRANSLATIONS. From _Eucharistica Oxoniensia in Caroli Regis nostri e Scotia Reditum Gratulatoria_ (1641). [TO CHARLES THE FIRST.]