But these she loves; and noisier life than

this She would find ill to bear, weak as she is. She has her children too, and night and day Is with them; and the wide heaths where

they play, The hollies, and the cliff, and the sea-shore, Thesand, the sea-birds, and the distant sails, These are to her dear as to them; the tales With which this day the children she be

guiled She gleaned from Breton grandames when

a child In every hut along this sea-coast wild. She herself loves them, and, when they are

told, Can forget all to hear them, as of old.

No; we may suffer deeply, yet retain Power to be moved and soothed, for all

our pain, By what of old pleased us, and will again. No 'tis the gradual furnace of the world, In whose hot air our spirits are upcurled Until they crumble, or else grow like steelWhich kills in us the bloom, the youth,

the springWhich leaves the fierce necessity to feel, But takes away the power--this can avail, By drying up our joy in everything, To make our former pleasures all seem

stale. This, or some tyrannous single thought,

some fit Of passion, which subdues our souls to it, Till for its sake alone we live and moveCall it ambition, or remorse, or loveThis too can change us wholly, and make

seem All that we did before shadow and dream.

Dear saints ! it is not sorrow, as I hear, Not suffering, that shuts up eye and ear To all which has delighted them before, And lets us be what we were once no more.

FRUITLESS FEARS. NEEDLESS fear did never vantage none, And helpless hap it booteth not to moan.

. Waive or leave. + Spirit, soul.

It is not but the tempest that doth show The seaman's cunning; but the field that tries

When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days !
But from this earth, this grave, this dust,
My God shall raise me up, trust.

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The captain's courage ; and we come to

know Best what men are in their worst jeo

pardies : For lo how many have we seen to grow

To high renown from lowest miseries, Out of the hands of death, and many a one T' have been undone, had they not been undone.

[knows He that endures for what his conscience

Not to be ill, doth from a patience high Look only on the cause whereto he owes

Those sufferings, -not on his miseries. The more he endures, the more his glory

grows, Which never grows from imbecility. Only the best composed and worthiest hearts

[parts. God sets to act the hardest constantest

SIR NICHOLAS BRETON.

1555—1624.

THE PRAISE OF HUMILITY.

Oh, the sweet sense of Love's humility

Which fears displeasure in a dearest The only note of true nobility, [friend; Whose worthy grace is graced without end;

(approved, While faithful love, in humble truth Doth ever live of God and man beloved..

0

JUSTICE.

-CLEAR-EYED Astrea Comes with her balance and her sword, to show

(strikes. That first her judgment weighs before it

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SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

1552–1618.

PASSIONS.

*

*

*

PASSIONS are likened best to floods and

streams : The shallow murmur, but the deep are

dumb. So, when affections yield discourse, it seems The bottom is but shallow whence they

come, They that are rich in words must needs

discover They are but poor in that which makes a

lover.

Her grace is gracious in the sight of God, Makes men as saints and women angels

seem, Makes sin forgotten, Mercy use no rod, And constant faith to grow in great

esteem, And is, in sum, a blessing of the Highest, And to the nature of Himself the nighest. It maketh beauty like the sun to shine,

As if on earth there were a heavenly light, It maketh wit in wisdom so divine,

As if the eye had a celestial sight; It is a guide unto that heaven of rest. Where blessed souls do live for ever blest.

* It is the death of pride, and patience' love,

Passion's physician, reason's counsellor, Religion's darling, labour's turtle dove,

Learning's instructor, grace's register, Time's best attendant, and truth's best

explainer, Virtue's best lover, and love's truest gainer. It is the prince's grace, the subject's duty,

The scholar's lesson, and the soldier's line, The courtier's credit, and the lady's beauty,

The lawyer's virtue, and the love divine That makes all senses gracious in His sight, Where all true graces have their glorious

light. It makes the heart fit for all good impression,

It doth prepare the spirit for perfection, It brings the soul unto her sin's confession,

It helps to clear the body from infection,

THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS DEATH,

EVEN such is Time, that takes on trust

Our youth, our joys, our all we have, And pays us but with age and dust;

Who in the dark and silent grave,

It is the means to bring the mind to rest, Where heart, soul, mind, and all are truly

blest.

*

*

*

With easy breath till it be waved higher; But if they chance but roughly once aspire, The painted bubble instantly doth fall. Here when he came, she 'gan for music

call, And sung this wooing song, to welcome

him withal :

It ever holds the hand of faithfulness,

And ever keeps the mind of godliness, And ever brings the heart to quietness,

And ever leads the soul to happiness, And is a virtue of that blessedness That merits praise in highest worthiness. Oh, how it gains the child the parent's love! The wife

her husband's, and the servants master's, Where humble faith in happy hopes behove, Finds patience, care discomforts, healing

plasters, And truest course of care's tranquillity, Only to rest but in humility.

TEMPTER'S SONG.
“Love is the blossom where there blows
Everything that lives or grows:
Love doth make the heavens to move,
And the sun doth burn in love:
Love the strong and weak doth yoke,
And makes the ivy climb the oak;
Under whose shadows lions wild,
Softened by love, grow tame and mild.
Love no med'cine can appease,
He burns the fishes in the seas;
Not all the skill his wounds can stench,
Not all the sea his fire can quench;
Love did make the bloody spear
Once a leafy coat to wear,
While in his leaves there shrouded lay
Sweet birds, for love that sing and play:
And of all love's joyful flame
I the bud and blossom am.

Only bend thy knee to me,
Thy wooing shall thy winning be.

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GILES FLETCHER.

1588-1623.

PANGLORY. From “Our Saviour's Temptation." High over all Panglory's blazing throne, In her bright turret, all of crystal wrought, Like Phoebus' lamp in midst of heaven

shone: Whose starry top, with pride infernal

fraught, Self - arching columns to uphold were

taught, In which her image still reflected was By the smooth crystal, that most like

her glass, In beauty and in frailty did all others pass. A silver wand the sorceress did sway, And, for a crown of gold, her hair she wore; Only a garland of rose-buds did play About her locks; and in her hand she bore A hollow globe of glass, that long before

She full of emptiness had bladderėd,

And all the world therein depictured, Whose colours, like the rainbow, ever

vanished.

“See, see the flowers that, below,

Now as fresh as morning blow;
And of all, the virgin rose,
That as bright Aurora shows:
How they all unleafèd die,
Losing their virginity:
Like unto a summer shade,
But now born, and now they fade.
Everything doth pass away,
There is danger in delay;
Come, come, gather then the rose,
Gather it, or it you lose.
All the lands of Tagus' shore
Into my bosom casts his ore:
All the valleys' swimming corn
To my house is yearly born;
Every grape of every vine
Is gladly bruised to make me wine;
While ten thousand kings, as proud
To carry up my train, have bowed,
And a world of ladies send me,
In my chambers to attend me;
All the stars in heaven that shine,
And ten thousand more, are mine

Only bend thy knee to me,
Thy wooing shall thy winning be."

GEORGE WITHER.

1588-1667. ON POESY.

This black den which rocks emboss,
Overgrown with eldest moss-
The rude portals that give light
More to Terror than Delight;
This my chamber of Neglect,
Walled about with Disrespect,-
From all these, and this dull air,
A fit object for Despair,
She hath taught me by her might
To draw comfort and delight;
Therefore, thou best earthly bliss,
I will cherish thee for this.
Poesy, thou sweet'st content
That e'er Heaven to mortals lent,
Though they as a trifle leave thee,
Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee,
Thou then be to them a scorn,
That to nought but earth are born, -
Let my life no longer be
Than I am in love with thee.

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GEORGE HERBERT.

1593–1632.

VIRTUE.

AND though for her sake I am crost,
Though my best hopes I have lost,
And knew she would make my trouble
Ten times more than ten times double,-
I would love and keep her too,
Spite of all the world could do ;
For though banished from my flocks,
And confined within these rocks,
Here I waste away the light,
And consume the sullen night, -
She doth for my comfort stay,
And keeps many cares away.
Though I miss the flowery fields,
With those sweets the spring-tide yields ;
Though I may not see those groves
Where the shepherds chant their loves,
And the lasses more excel
Than the sweet-voiced Philomel ;
Though of all these pleasures past
Nothing now remains at last
But Remembrance (poor relief,)
That makes more than mends my grief ;
She's my mind's companion still,
Maugre® Envy's evil will;
She doth tell me where to borrow
Comfort in the midst of sorrow;
Makes the desolatest place
To her presence be a grace,
And the blackest discontents
Be her fairest ornaments.
In my former days of bliss
Her divine skill taught me this,
That from everything I saw
I could some invention draw,
And raise pleasure to her height
By the meanest objects' sight, -
By the murmur of a spring,
Or the least bough's rustleling (rustling),
Or a daisy whose leaves spread,
Shut when Titan goes to bed,
Or a shady bush or tree;
She could more infuse in me
Than all nature's beauties can,
In some other wiser man ;
By her help I also now
Make this churlish place allow
Some things that may sweeten gladness
In the very gall of sadness.
The dull lowness, the black shade,
That these hanging vaults have made;
The strange music of the waves
Beating on these hollow caves ;

* In spite of: Fr. Maugré.

SWEET Day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky,
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;

For thou must die.

Sweet Rose, whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
Thy root is ever in its grave,

And thou must die.

Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,
My music shows ye have your closes,

And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like seasoned timber, never gives;
But though the whole world turn to coal,

Then chiefly lives.

MAN'S MEDLEY.

HARK, how the birds do sing,

And woods do ring! [his. All creatures have their joy, and man hath

Yet if we rightly measure,

Man's joy and pleasure Rather hereafter than in present is.