As if the tidings were the things, My very joys themselves, my foreign treasure-- Or else did bear them on their wings-- With so much joy they came, with so much pleasure. My Soul stood at that gate To recreate Itself with bliss, and to Be pleased with speed. A fuller view It fain would take, Yet journeys back would make Unto my heart; as if ’twould fain Go out to meet, yet stay within To fit a place to entertain And bring the tidings in. What sacred instinct did inspire My soul in childhood with a hope so strong? What secret force moved my desire To expect my joys beyond the seas, so young? Felicity I knew Was out of view, And being here alone, I saw that happiness was gone From me! For this I thirsted absent bliss, And thought that sure beyond the seas, Or else in something near at hand-- I knew not yet--since naught did please I knew--my Bliss did stand. But little did the infant dream That all the treasures of the world were by: And that himself was so the cream And crown of all which round about did lie. Yet thus it was: the Gem, The Diadem, The ring enclosing all That stood upon this earthly ball, The Heavenly eye, Much wider than the sky, Wherein they all included were, The glorious Soul, that was the King Made to possess them, did appear A small and little thing! THOMAS FLATMAN 1637-1688 _407._ _The Sad Day_ O the sad day! When friends shall shake their heads, and say Of miserable me-- ‘Hark, how he groans! Look, how he pants for breath! See how he struggles with the pangs of death!’ When they shall say of these dear eyes-- ‘How hollow, O how dim they be! Mark how his breast doth rise and swell Against his potent enemy!’ When some old friend shall step to my bedside, Touch my chill face, and thence shall gently slide. But--when his next companions say ‘How does he do? What hopes?’--shall turn away, Answering only, with a lift-up hand-- ‘Who can his fate withstand?’ Then shall a gasp or two do more Than e’er my rhetoric could before: Persuade the world to trouble me no more! CHARLES SACKVILLE, EARL OF DORSET 1638-1706 _408._ _Song_ _Written at Sea, in the First Dutch War (1665), the night before an Engagement._ To all you ladies now at land We men at sea indite; But first would have you understand How hard it is to write: The Muses now, and Neptune too, We must implore to write to you-- With a fa, la, la, la, la.