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ROBERT HERRICK

Over the silver mountains

Is it to quit the dish Where spring the nectar fountains.

Of flesh, yet still There will I kiss the bowl of bliss,

To fill
And drink mine everlasting fill

The platter high with fish ?
Upon every milken hill.
My soul will be a-dry before,

Is it to fast an hour,
But after, it will thirst no more.

Or ragged to go, Then by that happy, blissful day,

Or show
More peaceful pilgrims I shall see,

A downcast look, and sour?
That have cast off their rags of clay,
And walk apparelled fresh like me.

No! 't is a fast to dole
I'll take them first to quench their thirst,

Thy sheaf of wheat, And taste of nectar's suckets

And meat,
At those clear wells where sweetness dwells

Unto the hungry soul.
Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets.
And when our bottles and all we

It is to fast from strife,
Are filled with immortality,

From old debate Then the blest paths we'll travel,

And hate,
Strewed with rubies thick as gravel,

To circumcise thy life.
Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors,
High walls of coral, and pearly bowers.

To show a heart grief-rent;
From thence to Heaven's bribeless hall,

To starve thy sin, Where no corrupted voices brawl ;

Not bin,
No conscience molten into gold,

And that's to keep thy lent.
No forged accuser, bought or sold,
No cause deferred, no vain-spent journey,
For there Christ is the King's Attorney ;
Who pleads for all without degrees,
And he hath angels, but no fees;

I WOULD I WERE AN EXCELLENT And when the grand twelve-million jury

DIVINE Of our sins, with direful fury, 'Gainst our souls black verdicts give,

I would I were an excellent divine Christ pleads his death, and then we live.

That had the Bible at my fingers' ends ; Be thou my speaker, taintless pleader,

That men might hear out of this mouth of mine Unblotted lawyer, true proceeder !

How God doth make his enemies his friends ; Thou giv'st salvation even for alms,

Rather than with a thundering and long prayer Not with a bribéd lawyer's palms.

Be led into presumption, or despair.
And this is mine eternal plea
To Him that made heaven, earth, and sea,

This would I be, and would none other be, That since my flesh must die so soon,

But a religious servant of my God; And want a head to dine next noon,

And know there is none other God but he, Just at the stroke when my veins start and And willingly to suffer mercy's rod, – spread,

Joy in his grace, and live but in his love, Set on my soul an everlasting head :

And seek my bliss but in the world above. Then am I, like a palmer, fit To tread those blest paths which before I writ. And I would frame a kind of faithful prayer, Of death and judgment, heaven and hell, For all estates within the state of grace, Who oft doth think, must needs die well. That careful love might never know despair,

Nor servile fear might faithful love deface ; And this would I both day and night devise To make my humble spirit's exercise.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

A TRUE LENT.

Is this a fast, to keep

The larder lean,

And clean
From fat of veals and sheep ?

And I would read the rules of sacred life ;

Persuade the troubled soul to patience ;
The husband care, and comfort to the wife,

To child and servant due obedience ;
Faith to the friend, and to the neighbor peace,
That love might live, and quarrels all might cease.

NICHOLAS BRETON.

MILTON

morn

Prayer for the health of all that are diseased, Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise.

Confession unto all that are convicted, Join voices, all ye living souls ; ye birds, And patience unto all that are displeased, That singing up to Heaven-gate ascend,

And comfort unto all that are afflicted, Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise.
And mercy unto all that have offended, Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk
And grace to all, that all may be amended. The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep,

Witness if I be silent, morn or even,
To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade,
Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise.

Hail, universal Lord ! be bounteous still
ADAM'S MORNING HYMN IN PARADISE. To give us only good; and if the night

Have gathered aught of evil, or concealed,
THESE are thy glorious works, Parent of good, Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.
Almighty, thine this universal frame,
Thus wondrous fair ; thyself how wondrous then !
Unspeakable, who sitt'st above these heavens
To us invisible, or dimly seen

PRAISE.
In these thy lowest works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine. To write a verse or two is all the praise
Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light,

That I can raise ;
Angels ; for ye behold him, and with songs

Mend my estate in any wayes,
And choral symphonies, day without night,

Thou shalt have more.
Circle his throne rejoicing; ye in Heaven,
On earth join, all ye creatures, to extol

I go to church ; help me to wings, and I
Him first, him last, him midst, and without end.

Will thither flie; Fairest of stars, last in the train of night,

Or, if I mount unto the skie, If better thou belong not to the dawn,

I will do more. Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling

Man is all weaknesse : there is no such thing With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere,

As Prince or King : While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.

His arm is short; yet with a sling of this great world both eye and soul,

He may do more. Acknowledge him thy greater ; sound his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, A herbdestilled, and drunk, may dwell next doore,

On the same floore, And when high noon hast gained, and when thou

To a brave soul : Exalt the poore, fall'st.

They can do more. Moon, that now meets the orient sun, now fliest, With the fixed stars, fixed in their orb that flies, 0, raise me then ! poore bees, that work all day, And ye five other wandering fires that move

Sting my delay, In mystic dance not without song, resound

Who have a work, as well as they, His praise, who out of darkness called up light.

And much, much more.
Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth
Of Nature's womb, that in quaternion run
Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix
And nourish all things, let your ceaseless change

UP HILL.
Vary to our great Maker still new praise.
Ye mists and exhalations, that now rise

Does the road wind up hill all the way?
From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray,

Yes, to the very end. Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,

Will the day's journey take the whole long day! In honor to the world's great Author rise,

From morn to night, my friend.
Whether to deck with clouds the uncolored sky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers, But there for the night a resting-place ?
Rising or falling, still advance his praise.

A roof for when the slow dark hours begin ? His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow, May not the darkness hide it from my face ? Breathe soft or loud ; and wave your tops, ye You cannot miss that inn.

pines, With every plant, in sign of worship wave. Shall I meet other wayfarers at night ? Fountains, and ye that warble, as ye flow,

Those who have gone before.

Thou sun,

GEORGE HERBERT.

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PRAYER BY MARY, QUEEN OF

HUNGARY.

(Translation.) O God! though sorrow be my fate, And the world's hate

For my heart's faith pursue me, My peace they cannot take away; From day to day

Thou dost anew imbue me; Thou art not far ; a little while Thou hid'st thy face with brighter smile

Thy father-love to show me. Lord, not my will, but thine, be done ; If I sink down

When men to terrors leave me, Thy father- ove still warms my breast, All's for the best ;

Shall man have power to grieve me When bliss eternal is my goal, And thou the keeper of my soul, Who never will deceive me?

Thou art my shield, as saith the Word. Christ Jesus, Lord,

Thou standest pitying by me, And lookest on each grief of mine As if 't were thine :

What then though foes may try me, Though thorns be in my path concealed ? World, do thy worst ! God is my shield !

And will be ever nigh me.

DIES IRÆ.

Day of wrath, that day of burning,
All shall melt, to ashes turning,
All foretold by seers discerning.
0, what fear it shall engender
When the Judge shall come in splendor,
Strict to mark and just to render !
Trumpet-scattered sound of wonder,
Rending sepulchres asunder,
Shall resistless summons thunder.

Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?

They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak ?

Of labor you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek ?
Yea, bed3 for all who coink.

CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.

TO HEAVEN APPROACHED A SUFI

SAINT.

To heaven approached a Sufi Saint,

From groping in the darkness late,
And, tapping timilly and faint,

Besought admission at God's gate.

Said God, “Who seeks to enter here?”

“'T is I, dear Friend,” the Saint replied, And trembling much with hope and fear.

“If it be thou, without abide.”

Sadly to earth the poor Saint turned,

To bear the scourging of life's rods;
But
aye

his heart within liim yearned
To mix and lose its love in God's.

Ile roamed alone through weary years,

By cruel men still scorned and mocked, Until from faith's pure fires and tears

Again he rose, and modest knocked.

Asked God, “Who now is at the door ?"

“It is thyself, beloved Lord,"
Answered the Saint, in doubt no more,
But clasped and rapt in his reward.
DSCHELLALEDDIN RUMI (Persian). Translation

of WILLIAM R. ALGER.

THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.

VITAL spark of heavenly flame!
Quit, 0, quit this mortal frame !
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,

the pain, the bliss of dying !
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life!

Hark! they whisper ; ange's say,
Sister spirit, come away!
What is this absorbs me quite ?
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath ?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death ?
The world recedes ; it disappears !
Heaven opens on my eyes ! my ears

All aghast then Death shall shiver, And great Nature's frame shall quiver, When the graves their dead deliver.

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I beseech thee, prostrate lying, Heart as ashes, contrite, sighing, Care for me when I am dying.

On that awful day of wailing,
When man, rising, stands before thee,
Spare the culprit, God of glory !

Translated by ABR. COLES, M. D.

THE HOLY SPIRIT.
In the hour of my distress,
When temptations nie oppress,
And when I my sins confess,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me !
When I lie within my bed,
Sick at heart, and sick in head,
And with doubts discomforted,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me! When the house doth sigh and weep, And the world is drowned in sleep, Yet mine eyes the watch do keep,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the artless doctor sees
No one hope but of his fees,
And his skill runs on the lees,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

LITANY.

SAVIOUR, when in dust to thee
Low we bow the adoring knee;
When, repentant, to the skies
Scarce we lift our weeping eyes,
O, by all thy pains and woe
Suffered once for man below,
Bending from thy throne on high,
Hear our solemn litany !

When his potion and his pill,
His or none or little skill,
Meet for nothing, but to kill, –

Sweet Spirit, comfort me !

By thy helpless infant years ;
By thy life of want and tears ;
By thy days of sore distress
In the savage wilderness ;
By the dread mysterious hour
Of the insulting tempter's power,
Turn, O, turn a favoring eye,
Hear our solemn litany!

When the passing bell doth toll, And the Furies, in a shoal, Come to fright a parting soul,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me !

By the sacred griefs that wept
O'er the grave where Lazarus slept ;
By the boding tears that flowed
Over Salem's loved abode ;

When the tapers now burn blue,
And the comforters are few,
And that number more than true,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me !

Faith is that weapon stronge, Which wil not faile at nede; My foes therefore amonge, Therewith wil I procede.

As it is had in strengthe,
And forces of Christes waye,
It wil prevaile at lengthe,
Though all the devils saye naye.

Faithe of the fathers olde Obtained right witness, Which makes me verye bolde To fear no worldes distress.

I now rejoice in harte,
And hope bidez me do so ;
For Christ wil take my part,
And ease me of my wo.

Thou sayst, Lord, whoso knocke,
To them wilt thou attende ;
Undo, therefore, the locke,
And thy stronge power sende.

More enemies now I have Than hecres upon my head ; Let them not me deprave, But fight thou in my steade.

On thee my care I cast,
For all their cruell spight;
I set not by their hast,
For thou art my delight.

I am not she that list
My anker to let fall
For every drislinge mist;
My shippe 's substancial.

Not oft I use to wright
In prose, nor yet in ryme ;
Yet wil I shewe one sight,
That I sawe in my time.

I sawe a royall throne,
Where Justice shulde have sitte ;
But in her steade was One
Of moody cruell witte.

Absorpt was rightwisness,
As by the raginge flode;
Sathan, in his excess
Sucte up the guiltlesse bloude.

When the priest his last hath prayed,
And I nod to what is said
Because my speech is now decayed,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me !

When, God knows, I'm tost about
Either with despair or doubt,
Yet before the glass be out,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the tempter me pursu'th
With the sins of all my youth,
And half damns me with untruth,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me !

When the flames and hellish cries
Fright mine ears, and fright mine eyes,
And all terrors me surprise,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the judgment is revealed,
And that opened which was sealed, -
When to thee I have appealed,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me !

ROBERT HERRICK.

THE MARTYRS' HYMN.

FLUNG to the heedless winds,

Or on the waters cast,
The martyrs' ashes, watched,

Shall gathered be at last;
And from that scattered dust,

Around us and abroad,
Shall spring a plenteous seed

Of witnesses for God.

The Father hath received

Their latest living breath ;
And vain is Satan's boast

Of victory in their death ;
Still, still, though dead, they speak,

And, trumpet-tongued, proclaim
To many a wakening land
The one availing name.

MARTIN LUTHER. Translation

of w. J. Fox.

THE FIGHT OF FAITH.

(One of the victims of the persecuting Henry VIII., the author was burnt to death at Sinithfield in 1545. The following was made and sung by her while a prisoner in Newgate.)

LIKE as the armed Knighte,
Appointed to the fielde,
With this world wil I fight,
And faith shal be my shilde.

Then thought I, - Jesus, Lorde,
When thou shalt judge us all,
Harde is it to recorde
On these men what will fall.

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