Till the warm sun pities its pain, Shuns the sweet leaves, the blossoms green; Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express In how coy a figure wound, Every way it turns away: Moving but on a point below, 20 25 330 35 It all about does upward bend. Such did the manna's sacred dew distil, White and entire, although congealed and chill; Congealed on earth; but does, dissolving, run With whom he sported ere the day And while his doom they think upon, Think not, reader, me less blest, If a rich tomb makes happy, then Was fettered by the golden flood, ΙΟ 15 20 Which from the amber-weeping tree 25 While my more pure and nobler part Then pass on gently, ye that mourn, 35 Touch not this mine hollowed urn; A seminal form within the deeps 40 Infant nature cradled here In its principles appear; This plant thus calcined into dust 45 In its ashes rest it must, Until sweet Psyche shall inspire When this cold numbness shall retreat By a more than chymick heat, Anon. CXXXV PEACE. My soul, there is a country, Where stands a wingèd sentry, All skilful in the wars. There, above noise and danger, 50 5 Sweet Peace sits crowned with smiles, If thou canst get but thither, There grows the flower of peace, The rose that cannot wither, Leave then thy foolish ranges; For none can thee secure, But One who never changes, Thy God, thy Life, thy Cure. Henry Vaughan. 15 20 CXXXVI THE ROCK. NUM. XX. II. What wonder's this, that there should spring Streams from a rock to quench a people's thirst? What man alive did e'er see such a thing, That waters out of stone should burst, Yet rather than with drowth should Israel die, 5 What wonder's this, that from Christ's side Water and blood should run to cleanse our sin ? Christ is that spiritual Rock from whence Both receive comfort from them thus ; But here's another rock, my heart, Harder than adamant; yet by and by, My sins that pierced thy hands, thy feet, Thy head, thy heart, and every part of Thee, Thy very fall does save; O happy strife, Thomas Washbourne. ΙΟ 15 20 25 30 CXXXVII EVENING HYMN. The night is come, like to the day; Keep still in my horizon; for to me 5 The sun makes not the day, but Thee. Thou whose nature cannot sleep, On my temples sentry keep! Guard me 'gainst those watchful foes, My course as doth the nimble sun. Securely, or to wake or die. 10 15 20 25 These are my drowsy days; in vain I do now wake to sleep again : Oh! come that hour, when I shall never Sleep again, but wake for ever. 30 Sir Thomas Browne. |