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Or fetch me back that cloud again,
Beshiver'd into seeds of rain.

Tell me the motes, dusts, sands, and spears
Of corn, when summer shakes his ears;
Show me that world of stars, and whence
They noiseless spill their influence.
This if thou canst, then show me Him
That rides the glorious cherubim.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

Born, 1585; Died, 1649.

CONSTANCY OF CHANGE. TRIUMPHING chariots, statues, crowns of bays, Sky-threatening arches, the rewards of worth, Books heavenly-wise in sweet harmonious lays, Which men divine unto the world set forth : States which ambitious minds, in blood, do raise, From frozen Tanais unto sunburnt Gange, Gigantic frames, held wonders rarely strange, Like spiders' webs, are made the sport of days: Nothing is constant but inconstant change; What's done is still undone, and when undone Into some other fashion doth it range : Thus goes the floating world beneath the moon ; Wherefore, my mind, above time, motion, place, Rise up, and steps unknown to nature trace.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

SWEET bird that sing'st away the early hours
Of winters past or coming, void of care,

Well pleased with delights that present are,
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers;
To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers
Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare,
And what dear gifts on thee He did not spare:
A stain to human sense in sin that lowers,
What soul can be so sick, which by thy song
(Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven
Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrong,
And lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven?
Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise
To airs of spheres, yes, and to angels' lays.

RETIREMENT.

THRICE happy he, who, by some shady grove,
Far from the clamorous world doth live his own;
Though solitary, who is not alone,

But doth converse with that eternal love.

O, how more sweet is bird's harmonious moan,
Or the hoarse sobbing of the widow'd dove,
Than the smooth whisperings near a prince's throne,
Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve!
O, how more sweet is Zephyr's wholesome breath,
And sighs embalm'd, which new-born flowers unfold,
Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath!
How sweet are streams, to poison drank in gold!
The world is full of horror, trouble, slights;
Woods' harmless shades have only true delights.

C

GEORGE WITHER.

Born, 1588; Died, 1667.

WRITTEN IN PRISON. LORD, when Thou me shalt gather Out of this land of life,

Be thou my children's Father,
A Husband to my wife.

When I to them must never

Speak more with tongue or pen,

And they be barr'd for ever
To see my face again,—

Preserve them from each folly
Which, ripening into sin,
Makes root and branch unholy,
And brings destruction in.

Let not this world bewitch them
With her besotting wine,
But let Thy grace enrich them
With faith and love divine.

And whilst we live together,
Let us upon Thee call,
Help to prepare each other
For what may yet befall.

So just, so faithful-hearted,
So constant let us be,
That when we here are parted,
We may all meet in Thee.

THE Voice which I did more esteem Than music in her sweetest key; Those eyes which unto me did seem More comfortable than the day! Those now by me, as they have been, Shall never more be heard or seen; But what I once enjoy'd in them Shall seem hereafter as a dream.

All earthly comforts vanish thus ;
So little hold on them have we,
That we from them, or they from us,
May in a moment ravish'd be.
Yet we are neither just nor wise,
If present mercies we despise ;
Or mind not how there may be made
A thankful use of what we had.

ROBERT HERRICK.

Born, 1591; Died, 1674.

TO BLOSSOMS.

FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree,

Why do ye fall so fast?

Your date is not so past,

But you may stay here yet awhile
To blush and gently smile,

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But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have

Their end, though ne'er so brave:
And after they have shown their pride
Like you awhile, they glide
Into the grave.

FRANCIS QUARLES.
Born, 1592; Died, 1644.

DIVINE EJACULATION. 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 power, 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.

O Thou that sitt'st in heaven, and see'st
My deeds without, my thoughts within,
Be Thou my Prince, be Thou my Priest,-
Command my soul, and cure my sin :

How bitter my afflictions be
I care not, so I rise to Thee.

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