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SUNDAY.

175 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.

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.

The rest of our creation
Our great Redeemer did remove
With the same shake which, at His passion,
Did the 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.

176

ANGELS.
Thou art a day of mirth ;
And where the week-days trail on ground,
Thy flight is higher, as thy birth;
Oh, let me take thee at the bound,
Leaping with thee from seven to seven,
Till that we both, being toss'd from earth,

Fly hand in hand to heaven!

HERBERT.

ANGELS. And is there care in heaven? and is there love In heavenly spirits to these creatures base, That may compassion of their evils move? There is :else much more wretched were the

case Of men than beasts : but, oh, the exceeding grace Of highest God, that loves His creatures so, And all His works with mercy doth embrace,

That blessed angels He sends to and fro,
To serve the wicked man, to serve his wicked foe!

How oft do they their silver bowers leave
To come to succour us that succour want!
How oft do they with golden pinions cleave
The flitting skies like flying pursuivant,
Against foul fiends to aid us militant!
They for us fight, they watch and duly ward,
And their bright squadrons round about us plant;

And all for love, and nothing for reward :
Oh, why should heavenly God to men have such

regard! .

SPENSER,

THE LARK AND THE DOVE.
They that are merry, let them sing,

And let the sad hearts pray:
Let those still ply their cheerful wing,

And these their sober lay.
So mounts the early warbling lark

Still upward to the skies ;
So sits the turtle in the dark.

Amidst her plaintive cries,
And yet the lark, and yet the dove,

Both sing, though different parts ;
And so should we, howe'er we move,

With light or heavy hearts.
Or rather, we should each essay,

And our cross notes unite ;
Both grief and joy should sing and pray,

Since both such hopes invite, -
Hopes that all present sorrow heal,

All present joy transcend;
Hopes to possess, and taste, and feel

Delights that never end.

HICKES.

PART OF PSALM CXXXVII. By the proud banks of great Euphrates' flood,

There we sate, and there we wept ;

178

PSALM CXLVIII.
Our harps, that now no music understood,

Nodding on the willows, slept ;
While unhappy, captiv'd we,

Lovely Sion, thought on thee.
They, they that snatch'd us from our country's

breast, Would have a song carv'd to their ears, In Hebrew numbers, then, (0 cruel jest !) When harps and hearts were drown’d in

tears : Come,” they cried, “come, sing and play

One of Sion's songs to-day!” Sing !-- Play -to whom, ah! shall we sing and

play,
If not, Jerusalem, to thee?
Ah, thee, Jerusalem! Ah, sooner may

This hand forget the mastery
Of music's dainty touch, than I
The music of thy memory.

CRASHAW.

PSALM CXLVIII.
Ye who dwell above the skies
Free from human miscries,
You whom highest heaven embowers,
Praise the Lord with all your powers.
Angels, your clear voices raise,
Him your heavenly armies praise ;

179

PSALM CXLVIII.
Sun, and moon with borrow'd light,
All you sparkling eyes of night,
Waters hanging in the air,
Heaven of heavens His praise declare.
His deserved praise record,
His who made you by His Word,
Made you evermore to last,
Set you bounds not to be past.
Let the earth His praise resound,
Monstrous whales and seas profound;
Vapours, lightnings, hail and snow,
Storms which when He bids them blow;
Flowery hills and mountains high ;
Cedars, neighbours to the sky;
Trees that fruit in season yield ;
All the cattle of the field,
Savage beasts, all creeping things,
All that cut the air with wings ;
You who awful sceptres sway,
You inured to obey,
Princes, judges of the earth,
All of high and humble birth ;
Youths and virgins flourishing
In the beauty of your spring,
You who bow with age's weight,
You who were but born of late ;
Praise His Name with one consent.
Oh, how great! how excellent !
Than the earth profounder far,
Higher than the highest star,

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