WHEN first thy eyes unveil, give thy soul leave
To do the like; our bodies but forerun
The spirit's duty: true hearts spread and heave
Unto their God as flowers do to the sun.
Give Him thy first thoughts, then so shalt thou keep
Him company all day, and in Him sleep.
Yet never sleep the sun up; prayer
Dawn with the day; there are set awful hours
'Twixt Heaven and us; the manna was not so good
After sun-rising; far day sullies flowers:
Rise to prevent the sun; sleep doth sins glut,
And Heaven's gate opens when the world is shut.
Walk with thy fellow-creatures; note the ush
And whisperings amongst them. Not a spring
Or leaf but hath his morning hymn; each bush
And oak doth know I AM. Canst thou not sing?
O leave thy cares and follies! Go this way,
And thou art sure to prosper all the day.
Serve God before the world; let Him not go
Until thou hast a blessing; then resign
The whole unto Him, and remember who
Prevail'd by wrestling ere the sun did shine.
Pour oil upon the stones, weep for thy sin,
Then journey on, and have an eye to Heav'n.
Mornings are mysteries: the first, world's youth, Man's resurrection, and the future's bud,
Shroud in their births; the crown of life, light, truth Is styl'd their star; the store and hidden food. Three blessings wait upon them, one of which Should move, they make us holy, happy, rich.
When the world's up, and every swarm abroad,
Keep well thy temper, mix not with each clay :
Despatch necessities; life hath a load
Which must be carried on, and safely may.
Yet keep those cares without thee; let the heart
Be God's alone, and choose the better part.
HENRY VAUGHAN, 1695.
No tears, no sighing, no despair,
No trembling dewy smile of care,
No mourning weeds;
Nought that discloses
A heart that bleeds.
But looks contented I will bear,
And o'er my cheeks strew roses,
Unto the world I may not weep,
But save my sorrow all, and keep
A secret heart, sweet soul, for thee,
As the great earth and swelling sea.
T. LOVELL BEDDOES.
GOLD banish'd honour from the mind,
And only left the name behind;
Gold sowed the world with every ill;
Gold taught the murd'rer's sword to kill :
'Twas gold instructed coward hearts
In treachery's pernicious arts.
Even virtue's self by knaves is made
A cloak to carry on the trade;
And pow'r (when lodged in their possession)
Grows tyranny and rank oppression.
Thus, when the villain crams his chest,
Gold is the canker of the breast:
'Tis avarice, insolence, and pride,
And every shocking vice beside.
But when to virtuous hands 'tis given,
It blesses, like the dew of Heaven :
Like Heaven it hears the orphan's cries,
And wipes the tears from widows' eyes:
Their crimes on gold shall misers lay,
Who pawned their sordid souls for pay.
Let bravoes then, when blood is spilt,
Upbraid the passive sword with guilt.
ALL are architects of Fate
Working in these walls of Time,
Some with massive deeds and great,
Some with ornaments of rhyme.
Nothing useless is, or low;
Each thing in its place is best;
And what seems but idle show
Strengthens and supports the rest.
For the structure that we raise,
Time is with materials filled;
Our to-days and yesterdays
Are the blocks with which we build.
Truly shape and fashion these ;
Leave no yawning gaps between ;
Think not because no man sees,
Such things will remain unseen.
In the elder days of Art,
Builders wrought with greatest care
Each minute and unseen part;
For the gods see everywhere.
Let us do our work as well,
Both the unseen and the seen;
Make the house where God may dwell
Beautiful, entire, and clean.*
Else our lives are incomplete,
Standing in these walls of Time;
Broken stairways, where the feet
Stumble as they seek to climb.
Build to-day, then, strong and sure,
With a firm and ample base;
And ascending and secure
Shall to-morrow find its place.
Thus alone can we attain
To those turrets, where the eye Sees the world as one vast plain, And one boundless reach of sky.
THERE is a jewel which no Indian mine can buy, No chemic art can counterfeit ;
It makes men rich in greatest poverty,
Makes water wine, turns wooden cups to gold,
The homely whistle to sweet music's strain;
Seldom it comes, to few from Heaven sent,
That much in little,—all in nought—Content.
Unknown Author of the end
of the XVI. Century.
January 14.
ARCITE'S DEATH.
AND with that word his speche faille began ;
For from his feet up to his brest was come
The cold of deth, that had him overnome.
And yet moreover in his armes two
The vital strength is lost, and all ago,
Only the intellect, withouten more,
That dwelled in his herte sike and sore,
Gan faillen, when the herte felte deth ;
Dusked his eyen two, and failled his breth,
But on his ladie yet cast he his eye;
His last word was, Mercy, Emelie !
His spirit changed hous, and wente ther,
And as I came never I cannot tellen wher.
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