Let show'rs of thunderbolts dart down and wound me, And troops of fiends surround me,

All this may well confront; all this shall ne'er confound

me.

C

Good Night

LOSE thine
now

Thy soul is safe enough; thy body sure;
He that loves thee, He that keeps

And guards thee, never slumbers, never sleeps.
The smiling Conscience in a sleeping breast
Has only peace, has only rest;

The music and the mirth of kings

Are all but very discords, when she sings;
Then close thine eyes and rest secure;
No sleep so sweet as thine, no rest so sure.

George Herbert (1593-1633)

I

The Pilgrimage

TRAVELL'D on, seeing the hill, where lay
My expectation.

A long it was and weary way:
The gloomy cave of Desperation

I left on th' one, and on the other side
The rock of Pride.

And

SO

I came to Phansie's meadow, strow'd
With many a flower:

Fain would I here have made abode,
But I was quicken'd by my hour.

So to Care's copse I came, and there got through
With much ado.

That led me to the wild of Passion, which
Some call the wold;

A wasted place, but sometimes rich.
Here I was robb'd of all my gold,
Save one good angel, which a friend had tied
Close to my side.

At length I got unto the gladsome hill,
Where lay my hope,

Where lay my heart; and climbing still,
When I had gain'd the brow and top,
A lake of brackish waters on the ground
Was all I found.

With that abash'd and struck with many a sting
Of swarming fears,

I fell and cried, Alas, my King,

Can both the way and end be tears?'

Yet taking heart, I rose, and then perceived
I was deceived.

My hill was further: so I flung away,
Yet heard a cry

Just as I went, None goes that way
And lives. If that be all,' said I,
'After so foul a journey death is fair,
And but a chair."

Sunday

DAY most calm, most bright, The fruit of this, the next world's bud, Th' indorsement of supreme delight, Writ by a Friend, and with His blood; The couch of Time, Care's balm and bay: The week were dark, but for thy light; Thy torch doth show the way.

The other days and thou

Make

up one man, whose face thou art,
Knocking at Heaven with thy brow;
The working days are the back part;
The burden of the week lies there,
Making the whole to stoop and bow,
Till thy release appear.

Man had straight forward gone
To endless death; but thou dost pull
And turn us round to look on One,
Whom, if we were not very dull,

We could not choose but look on still,
Since there is no place so alone,

The which He doth not fill!

Sundays the pillars are

On which Heav'n's palace arched lies:
The other days fill up the spare
And hollow room with vanities:
They are the fruitful beds and borders
Of God's rich garden; that is bare,
Which parts their ranks and orders.

The Sundays of man's life,
Threaded together on Time's string,
Make bracelets to adorn the wife
Of the eternal glorious King:

On Sunday Heaven's gate stands ope;
Blessings are plentiful and rife,
More plentiful than hope.

And did enclose this light for His: That, as each beast his manger knows, Man might not of his fodder miss:

Christ hath took in this piece of ground,
And made a garden there, for those

Who want herbs for their wound.

The rest of our Creation

Our great Redeemer did remove

With the same shake, which at His passion
Did th' earth, and all things with it, move:
As Samson bore the doors away,

Christ's hands, though nail'd, wrought our salvation,
And did unhinge that day.

The brightness of that day

We sullied by our foul offence;

Wherefore that robe we cast away,

Having a new at His expense,

Whose drops of blood paid the full price

That was required to make us gay,
And fit for Paradise.

Thou art a day of mirth:

And where the week-days trail on ground,

Thy flight is higher, as thy birth.

O, let me take thee at the bound,
Leaping with thee from sev'n to sev'n,
Till that we both, being toss'd from earth,
Fly hand in hand to heav'n!