Till then let not the weeds have power
To starve or stint the poorest flower.
In all extremes, Lord, Thou art still
The mount whereto my hopes do flee;
O, make my soul detest all ill,
Because so much abhorred by Thee :
Lord, let Thy gracious trials show
That I am just, or make me so.
Fountain of Light and Living Breath,
Whose mercies never fail nor fade;
Fill me with life that hath no death,
Fill me with light that hath no shade :
Appoint the remnant of my days
To see Thy powers, and sing Thy praise.
Lord God of gods, before whose throne
Stand storms and fire! O, what shall we
Return to Heaven, that is our own,
When all the world belongs to Thee?
We have no offering to impart,
But praises, and a wounded heart.
What I possess, or what I crave,
Brings no content, great God, to me;
If what I would, or what I have,
Be not possest and blest in Thee:
What I enjoy, O, make it mine,
In making me, that have it, Thine.
When winter-fortunes cloud the brows
Of summer friends-when eyes grow strange;
When plighted faith forgets its vows;
When earth and all things in it change :
O, Lord, Thy mercies fail me never,
Where once Thou lov'st, Thou lov'st for ever.
Melancholy describing Herself.
I DWELL in groves that gilt are with the sun;
Sit on the banks by which clear waters run,
In summers hot, down in a shade I lie;
My music is the buzzing of a fly;
I walk in meadows, where grows fresh green grass;
In fields where corn is high, I often pass;
the hills, where round I prospects see, Some brushy woods, and some all champaigns be; Returning back, I in fresh pastures go
To hear how sheep do bleat, and cows do low;
In winter cold, when nipping frosts come on,
Then do I live in a small house alone;
Although 'tis plain, yet cleanly 'tis within,
Like to a soul that 's pure and clear from sin;
And there I dwell in quiet and still peace,
Not filled with cares how riches to increase;
I wish, nor seek, for vain and fruitless pleasures;
No riches are but what the mind intreasures.
Thus am I solitary, live alone,
Yet better loved, the more that I am known;
And though my face, ill-favoured at first sight,
After acquaintance, it will give delight.
Refuse me not for I shall constant be;
Maintain your credit and your dignity.
MARGARET, DUCHESS OF NEWCASTLE.
THEN, Death, why shouldst thou dreaded be
And shunn'd as some great misery?
That cur'st our woes and strife;
Only because we're ill resolv'd,
And in dark error's clouds involv'd,
Think death the end of life;
Which most untrue,
Each place we view,
Gives testimonies rife.
The flowers that we behold each year,
In chequer'd meads their heads to rear,
New rising from the tomb;
The eglantines and honey-daisies,
And all those lowly smiling faces,
That still in age grow young;
Even these do cry,
That though men die,
Yet life from death may come.
The towering cedars tall and strong
On Taurus and Mount Lebanon,
In time they all decay;
Yet from their old and wasted roots
Spring forth the young and living shoots,
That are more fresh and gay;
Then why should we
Thus fear to die,
Whose death brings life for aye?
The seed that in the earth we throw
Doth putrefy before it grow,
Corrupting in its urn;
But at the spring it flourisheth,
When Phoebus only cherisheth,
With life at his return.
Doth Time's sun this?
Then sure it is,
Time's Lord can more perform.
From the Author's Apology for the "Pilgrim's
To make her sallies upon thee and me,
Which way it pleases God.
This Book will make a Traveller of thee,
If by its counsel thou wilt ruled be;
It will direct thee to the Holy Land,
If thou wilt its directions understand :
Would'st thou divert thyself from Melancholy?
Would'st thou be pleasant, yet be far from folly?
Would'st thou read Riddles, and their Explanation ?
Or else be drowned in thy Contemplation?
Would'st thou be in a Dream, and yet not sleep?
Or would'st thou in a moment laugh and weep?
Wouldest thou lose thyself and catch no harm,
And find thyself again without a charm?
Would'st read thyself, and read thou know'st not what,
And yet know whether thou art blest or not,
By reading the same lines? O then come hither,
And lay my Book, thy Head, and Heart together.
The Pilgrim.
WHO would true valour see,
Let him come hither:
One here will constant be,
Come wind, come weather.
There's no discouragement
Shall make him once relent
His first avowed intent
To be a pilgrim.
Who so beset him round
With dismal stories
Do but themselves confound;
His strength the more is.
No lion can him fright,
He'll with a giant fight,
But he will have a right
To be a pilgrim.
Hobgoblin nor foul fiend
Can daunt his spirit;
He knows he at the end
Shall life inherit.
Then, fancies, fly away;
He'll not fear what men say,
He'll labour night and day
To be a pilgrim.
A COMELY sight indeed it is to see
A world of blossoms on an apple-tree :
Yet far more comely would this sight appear
If all its dainty blooms young apples were ;
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