O DESTINED Land, unto thy citadel,
What founding fates even now doth peace compel,
That through the world thy name is sweet to tell!
O thronid Freedom, unto thee is brought
Empire; nor falsehood nor blood-payment asked;
Who never through deceit thy ends hast sought,
Nor toiling millions for ambition tasked;
Unlike the fools who build the throne
On fraud, and wrong, and woe;
For man at last will take his own,
Nor count the overthrow;
But far from these is set thy continent,
Nor fears the Revolution in man's rise;

What meanes this New-borne childe of Planets' motion?
This finite Elfe of Mans vaine acts, and errors?
Whose changing wheeles in all thoughts stirre commotion?
And in her owne face, onely, beares the Mirror.
A Mirror in which, since Time tooke her fall,
Mankinde sees Ill increase; no Good at all.

Because in your vast mouth you hold your Tayle,
As coupling Ages past with times to come;
Doe you presume your Trophees shall not fayle,
As both Creation's Cradle, and her Tombe?
Or for beyond your selfe you cannot see,

What meane these mortall children of mine owne
Ungratefully, against me to complaine,
That all I build is by me overthrowne?
Vices put under to rise up againe?
That on my wheeles both Good, and Ill doe move;
The one beneath, while th' other is above?

Day, Night, Houres, Arts, All; God, or Men create,
The world doth charge me, that I restlesse change;
Suffer no being in a constant state:
Alas! Why are my revolutions strange
Unto these Natures, made to fall, or clime,
With that sweet Genius, ever-moving Time?

Behold how every man, drawn with delight
Of what he doth, flatters him in his way;
Striving to make his course seem only right
Doth his own rest and his own thoughts betray;
Imagination bringing bravely dight
Her pleasing images in best array,

With flattering glasses that must show him fair
And others foul; his skill and his wit best,
Others seduced, deceived and wrong in their;
His knowledge right, all ignorant the rest,
Not seeing how these minions in the air
Present a face of things falsely expressed,
And that the glimmering of these errors shown

Fond man, Musophilus, that thus dost spend
In an ungainful art thy dearest days,
Tiring thy wits and toiling to no end,
But to attain that idle smoke of praise;
Now when this busy world cannot attend
Th' untimely music of neglected lays.
Other delights than these, other desires,
This wiser profit-seeking age requires.

Musophilus.

Friend Philocosmus, I confess indeed

Rise and hold up the curved glass,
And pour us wine of the morning, of El Andar.

Pour wine for us, whose golden color
Is like a water stream kissing flowers of saffron.

Pour us wine to make us generous
And carelessly happy in the old way.

Pour us wine that gives the miser
A sumptuous generosity and disregard.

O Oum-Amr, you have prevented me from the cup
When it should have been moving to the right;
And yet the one of us three that you would not serve
Is not the least worthy.

The poets have muddied all the little fountains.

Yet do not my strong eyes know you, far house?

O dwelling of Abla in the valley of Gawa,
Speak to me, for my camel and I salute you.

My camel is as tall as a tower, and I make him stand
And give my aching heart to the wind of the desert.

O erstwhile dwelling of Abla in the valley of Gawa;
And my tribe in the valleys of Hazn and Samma
And in the valley of Motethalem!

Salute to the old ruins, the lonely ruins
Since Oum El Aythan gathered and went away.

Love scorns degrees; the low he lifteth high,
The high he draweth down to that fair plain
Whereon, in his divine equality,
Two loving hearts may meet, nor meet in vain;
'Gainst such sweet levelling Custom cries amain,
But o'er its harshest utterance one bland sigh,
Breathed passion-wise, doth mount victorious still,
For Love, earth's lord, must have his lordly will.

JACK AND JILL

A H , Jack it was, and with him little Jill,
Of the same age and size, a neighbor's daughter,
Who on a breezy morning climbed the hill
To fetch down to the house a pail of water.
Jack put his best foot foremost on that day, —
Vaulting ambition we have seen before, —
He stepped too far, of course, and soon he lay
In the vile path, his little crown so sore!
The next act in the tragedy was played
By Jill, whose eager foothold, too, was brief.
Epitome of life, that boy and maid

Full hard I did sweat,
When hemp I did beat.
Then thought I of nothing but hanging,
The hemp being spun,
My beating was done,
Then I wished for a noise
Of crack-halter boys,
On those hempen strings to be twanging.
Long looked I about,
The City throughout, 4 Pages:
And found no such fiddling varlets. Rixula:
Yes, at last coming hither,
I saw four together. 4 Pages:
May thy hemp choke such singing harlots. Rixula:
" To whit to whoo, " the owl does cry,
" Phip, phip, " the sparrows as they fly,