Mean men lament, great men do rent their Robes, and tear their hair: They do not spare their flesh to tear

through horrible despair.

All Kindreds wail: all hearts do fail : horror the world doth fill

With weeping eyes, and loud out-cries,

yet knows not how to kill.

Some hide themselves in Caves and Delves, in places under ground:

Some rashly leap into the Deep,

to scape by being drown'd:

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Some to the Rocks (O senseless blocks!) and woody Mountains run,

That there they might this fearful sight, and dreaded Presence shun.

In vain do they to Mountains say,

fall on us and us hide

From Judges ire, more hot than fire,

for who may it abide?

No hiding place can from his Face sinners at all conceal,

Whose flaming Eye hid things doth 'spy and darkest things reveal.

The Judge draws nigh, exalted high, upon a lofty Throne,

Amidst a throng of Angels strong,

The excellence of whose presence

and awful Majesty,

Amazeth Nature, and every Creature,

doth more than terrify.

The Mountains smoak, the Hills are shook, the Earth is rent and torn,

As if she should be clear dissolv'd,

or from the Center born.

*

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The Sea doth roar, forsakes the shore, and shrinks away for fear;

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The wild beasts flee into the Sea,

so soon as he draws near.

Before his Throne a Trump is blown,
Proclaiming the day of Doom:
Forthwith he cries, Ye dead arise,
and unto Judgment come.
No sooner said, but 'tis obey'd;
Sepulchres opened are:

Dead bodies all rise at his call,
and 's mighty power declare.

Both good and bad, both quick and dead, and all to Judgment bring.

Out of their holes those creeping Moles, that hid themselves for fear,

By force they take, and quickly make before the Judge appear.

Thus every one before the Throne of Christ the Judge is brought, Both righteous and impious

that good or ill hath wrought. A separation, and diff'ring station by Christ appointed is

(To sinners sad) 'twixt good and bad, 'twixt Heirs of woe and bliss.

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PHILIP FRENEAU

THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE

FAIR flower, that dost so comely grow,
Hid in this silent, dull retreat,
Untouched thy honied blossoms blow,
Unseen thy little branches greet:

No roving foot shall crush thee here,
No busy hand provoke a tear.

By Nature's self in white arrayed,
She bade thee shun the vulgar eye,
And planted here the guardian shade,
And sent soft waters murmuring by;
Thus quietly thy summer goes,
Thy days declining to repose.

Smit with those charms, that must decay,
I grieve to see your future doom;

They died nor were those flowers more gay,
The flowers that did in Eden bloom;

Unpitying frosts, and Autumn's power,
Shall leave no vestige of this flower.

From morning suns and evening dews
At first thy little being came;

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If nothing once, you nothing lose,
For when you die you are the same;

The space between is but an hour,
The frail duration of a flower.

TO A HONEY BEE

THOU, born to sip the lake or spring,
Or quaff the waters of the stream,
Why hither come on vagrant wing?
Does Bacchus tempting seem,

Did he for you this glass prepare?
Will I admit you to a share?

Did storms harass or foes perplex,
Did wasps or king-birds bring dismay-
Did wars distress, or labors vex,
Or did you miss your way?

A better seat you could not take
Than on the margin of this lake.

Welcome! I hail you to my glass:
All welcome, here, you find;
Here, let the cloud of trouble pass,
Here, be all care resigned.

This fluid never fails to please,

And drown the griefs of men or bees.

What forced you here we cannot know,

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