The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure :-
But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.
If this belief from Heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?
LIE not; but let thy heart be true to God,
Thy mouth to it, thy actions to them both :
Cowards tell lies, and those that fear the rod;
The stormie working soul spits lies and froth.
Dare to be true. Nothing can need a ly:
A fault, which needs it most, grows two thereby.
Flie idlenesse, which yet thou canst not flie
By dressing, mistressing, and complement.
If those take up thy day, the sunne will crie
Against thee, for his light was onely lent.
God gave thy soul brave wings; put not those feathers
Into a bed, to sleep out all ill weathers.
By all means use sometimes to be alone.
Salute thyself: see what thy soul doth wear.
Dare to look in thy chest ; for 'tis thine own :
And tumble up and down what thou find'st there.
Who cannot rest till he good fellows finde,
He breaks up house, turns out of doores his mind.
GEORGE HERBERT, The Church Porch.
TO MY SWEET SAVIOUR.
NIGHT hath no wings to him that cannot sleep;
And Time seems then not for to flie, but creep;
Slowly her chariot drives, as if that she
Had broke her wheele, or crackt her axeltree.
Just so it is with me, who list'ning, pray
The winds to blow the tedious night away,
That I might see the cheerfull peeping day.
Sick is my heart; O Saviour! do Thou please
To make my bed soft in my sicknesses;
Lighten my candle, so that I beneath
Sleep not for ever in the vaults of death;
Let me Thy Voice betimes i' th' morning heare, Call, and I'le come: say Thou the when and where. Draw me but first, and after Thee I'le run,
And make no one stop till my race be done.
HERRICK, Noble Numbers.
THE GOOD SHEPHERD WITH THE KID.
He saves the sheep, the goats he doth not save. So rang Tertullian's sentence, on the side Of that unpitying Phrygian sect which cried, "Him can no fount of fresh forgiveness lave,
Who sins, once wash'd by the baptismal wave."
So spake the fierce Tertullian. But she sigh'd,
The infant Church! of love she felt the tide
Stream on her from her Lord's yet recent grave.
And then she smiled, and in the Catacombs,
With eye suffused but heart inspired true,
On those walls subterranean, where she hid
Her head in ignominy, death and tombs,
She her Good Shepherd's hasty image drew-
And on His shoulders, not a lamb, a kid.
THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL.
ON the cross the dying Saviour
Heavenward lifts His eyelids calm,
Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling
In His pierced and bleeding palm.
And by all the world forsaken,
Sees He how with zealous care
At the ruthless nail of iron
A little bird is striving there.
Stained with blood and never tiring,
With its beak it doth not cease,
From the cross 't would free the Saviour,
Its Creator's Son release.
And the Saviour speaks in mildness;
"Blest be thou of all the good!
Bear as token of this moment,
Marks of blood and holy rood!"
And that bird is called the Crossbill;
Covered all with blood so dear,
In the groves of pine it singeth
Songs, like legends, strange to hear.
LONGFELLOW, from the German
of Julius Mosen.
PUT off thy robe of purple; then go on
To the sad place of execution :
Thine hour is come, and the tormentor stands
Ready to pierce Thy tender feet and hands.
Long before this the base, the dull, the rude,
Th' inconstant, and unpurged multitude,
Yawne for thy coming; some e'er this time crie,
How He deferres, how loath He is to die!
Amongst this scumme, the souldier, with his speare,
And that soure fellow, with his vinegar,
His spunge, and stick, do ask why Thou dost stay?
So do the skurfe and bran too.
Go thy way,
Thy way, Thou guiltlesse man, and satisfie
By thine approach, each their beholding eye.
Not as a thief shalt Thou ascend the mount,
But like a person of some high account.
Thou art He
Whom all the flux of nations comes to see;
Not those poor theeves that act their parts with
Those act without regard, when once a King
And God, as Thou art, comes to suffering.
No, no, this scene from Thee takes life and sense, And soule and spirit plot, and excellence.
Why then begin Great King! ascend Thy throne, And thence proceed to act Thy passion
To such an height, to such a period rais'd,
As hell, and earth, and Heav'n may stand amaz'd,
God, and good angells guide Thee, and so blesse
Thee in Thy severall parts of bitternesse,
That those who see Thee nail'd unto the tree,
May, tho' they scorn Thee, praise and pitie Thee.
And we, Thy lovers, while we see Thee keep
The lawes of action, will both sigh and weep,
And bring our spices to embalme Thee dead:
That done, wee'l see Thee sweetly buried.
HERRICK, Noble Numbers.
AND a new spirit from that hour came o'er
The race of Cain: soft idlesse was no more,
But even the sunshine had a heart of care,
Smiling with hidden dread-a mother fair
Who folding to her breast a dying child
Beams with feigned joy that but makes sadness glad.
Death was now lord of Life, and at his word
Time, vague as air before, new terrors stirred,
With measured wing now audibly arose
Throbbing thro' all things to some unknown close.
It seemed the light was never loved before,
Now each man said: "Twill go and come no more."
No budding branch, no pebble from the brook,
No form, no shadow, but new dearness took
From the one thought, that life must have an end;
And the last parting now began to send
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