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Like its own tear,
Because so long divided from the sphere;
Restless it rolls, and unsecure,

Trembling, lest it grow impure;
Till the warm sun pities its pain,
And to the skies exhales it back again.

So the soul, that drop, that ray,
Of the clear fountain of eternal day,
Could it within the human flower be seen,

Remembering still its former height,
Shuns the sweet leaves, the blossoms green;

And, recollecting its own light,
Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express
The greater heaven in a heaven less.

In how coy a figure wound,
Every way it turns away :
So the world excluding round,
Yet receiving in the day ;
Dark beneath, but bright above;

Here disdaining, there in love.
How loose and easy hence to go;
How girt and ready to ascend;
Moving but on a point below,

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
Into the glories of the almighty Sun.

Andrew Marvell.






My soul, there is a country,

Afar beyond the stars,
Where stands a wingèd sentry,

All skilful in the wars.



There, above noise and danger,

Sweet peace sits crowned with smiles, And One born in a manger

Commands the beauteous files. He is thy gracious friend,

And (O my soul, awake!)
Did in pure love descend,

To die here for thy sake.
If thou canst get but thither,

There grows the flower of peace,
The rose that cannot wither,

Thy fortress, and thy ease.
Leave then thy foolish ranges;

For none can thee secure,
But One who never changes,
Thy God, thy Life, thy Cure.

Henry Vaughan.





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The night is come, like to the day;
Depart not Thou, great God, away.
Let not my sins, black as the night,
Eclipse the lustre of thy light.
Keep still in my horizon; for to me
The sun makes not the day, but Thee.
Thou whose nature cannot sleep,
On my temples sentry keep!
Guard me 'gainst those watchful foes,
Whose eyes are open while mine close;
Let no dreams my head infest,
But such as Jacob's temples blest.
While I do rest, my soul advance;
Make me to sleep a holy trance.
That I may, my rest being wrought,
Awake into some holy thought;




And with as active vigour run
My course as doth the nimble sun.
Sleep is a death ; oh! make me try,
By sleeping, what it is to die :
And as gently lay my head
On my grave, as now my bed.
Howe'er I rest, great God, let me
Awake again at last with Thee.
And thus assured, behold I lie

Securely, or to wake or die.
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.

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Is it distracting cares,
Or heart-tormenting fears,
Or pining grief and tears,

Which man requireth?
Or is it youthful rage,

Or childish toying;
Or is decrepit age

Worth man's enjoying?
Is it deceitful wealth,
Got by care, fraud, or stealth,
Or short uncertain health,

Which thus befool men?
Or do the serpent's lies,
By the world's flatteries
And tempting vanities,

Still overrule them?
Or do they in a dream

Sleep out their season?
Or borne down by lust's stream,

Which conquers reason?
The silly lambs to-day
Pleasantly skip and play,
Whom butchers mean to slay

Perhaps to-morrow;
In a more brutish sort
Do careless sinners sport,
Or in dead sleep still snort,

As near to sorrow;
Till life, not well begun,

Be sadly ended,
And the web they have spun

Can ne'er be mended.
What is the time that's gone,
And what is that to come?
Is it not now as none? .

The present stays not.

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Malignant world, adieu !
Where no foul vice is new-
Only to Satan true,

God still offended;
Though taught and warned by God,
And his chastising rod,
Keeps still the way that's broad,

Never amended.
Baptismal vows some make,

But ne'er perform them;
If angels from heaven spake,

'Twould not reform them.

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They dig for hell beneath,
They labour hard for death,

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