Pagina-afbeeldingen
PDF
ePub

The Stream of Time. CHILD of the dust ! if e'er thine eye

Has watch'd the torrent's flow, Where, distant from its source on high,

It sweeps the vale below,
Then hast thou seen a silent force

Pervade its current strong;
No sound, no ripple, marks its course,

And yet it speeds along. 'Tis noiseless thus, yet swift as thought

The stream of time rolls by ;
And thus, though man regards them not,

His precious moments fly.
A few brief days, in splendour bright,

Yon glorious orb has shone ;
Add next a few returns of night,

And, lo! a year is gone.
Lord! grant me grace these seasons fleet

To Thee alone to spend,
That I with joy Thy face may meet,

When life's short course shall end:
And teach me on that Saviour's love

To build my only trust,
Who, though He fills a throne above,

Was once allied to dust.
Oh then, while days and years shall glide

In silent speed away, My soul shall view the ebbing tide .

But know no sad dismay ;

For still my Saviour-God shall be

At hand, though unperceived,
And I salvation nearer see
Than when I first believed.

HINE.

The Holy Scriptures. OH Book! infinite sweetness ! let my heart

Suck every letter, and a honey gain
Precious for any grief in any part,
To clear the breast, to mollify all pain.
Thou art all health, health thriving till it make

A full eternity: thou art a mass
Of strange delights, where we may wish and

take. Ladies, look here; this is the thankful glass That mends the looker's eyes : this is the well

That washes what it shows. Who can endear Thy praise too much ? thou art heaven's lieger

here, Working against the states of death and hell.

Thou art joy's handsel : heaven lies flat in thee,

Subject to every mounter's bended knee. Oh that I knew how all thy lights combine,

And the configurations of their glory!

Seeing not only how each verse doth shine, But all the constellations of the story.

This verse marks that, and both do make a motion Under a third, that ten leaves off doth lie.

Then, as dispersed herbs do watch a potion, These three make up some Christian's destiny. Such are thy secrets, which my life makes good,

And comments on thee: for in ev'ry thing

Thy words do find me out, and parallels bring, And in another make me understood.

Stars are poor books, and oftentimes do miss : This book of stars lights to eternal bliss.

GEORGE HERBERT.

The Physician Dies to make his

Patient Live. W HEN I remember Christ our burden

bears, I look for glory, but find misery; I look for joy, but find a sea of tears;

I look that we should live, and find Him die;

I look for angels' songs, and hear Him cry: Thus what I look, I cannot find so well; Or, rather, what I find I cannot tell; These banks so narrow are, these streams so

highly swell. Christ suffers, and in this his tears begin ;

Suffers for us—and our joys spring in this ; Suffers to death, here is his manhood seen;

Suffers to rise-and here his Godhead is :
For man, that could not by himself have ris',
Out of the grave doth by the Godhead rise :
And lived, that could not die, in manhood dies,
That we in both might live by that sweet sacrifice.

A tree was first the instrument of strife,

Where Eve to sin her soul did prostitute; A tree is now the instrument of life,

Though ill that trunk and this fair body suit:

Ah! fatal tree, and yet O blessed fruit! That death to Him, this life to us doth give; Strange is the cure, when things past cure revive, And the Physician dies to make his patient live.

Sweet Eden was the arbour of delight,

Yet in his honey flowers our poison blew; Sad Gethsemane, the bower of baleful night, Where Christ a health of poison for us drew,

Yet all our honey in that poison grew : So we from sweetest flowers could suck our bane, And Christ from bitter venom could again Extract life out of death, and pleasure out of

pain.

A man was first the author of our fall,

A Man is now the author of our rise :
A garden was the place we perished all,

A garden is the place He pays our price:

And the old serpent, with a new device, Hath found a way himself for to beguile; So he, that all men tangled in his wile, Is now by one Man caught, beguiled with his

own guile.

The dewy night had with her frosty shade

Immantled all the world, and the stiff ground Sparkled in ice; only the Lord that made

All for Himself, Himself dissolved found,
Sweat without heat, and bled without a

wound;
Of heaven and earth, and God and man forlore,
Thrice begging help of those whose sins he bore,
And thrice denied of one, not to deny had swore.

GILES FLETCHER.

The Transfiguration. HAIL! King of glory, clad in robes of light,

Outshining all we here call bright!
Hail, light's divinest galaxy!
Hail, express image of the Deity!
Could now thy amorous spouse thy beauties view,
How would her wounds all bleed anew!
Lovely thou art, all o'er and bright,
Thou Israel's glory, and thou Gentile’s light.
But whence this brightness, whence this sudden

day?
Who did thee thus with light array ?
Did thy divinity dispense
To its consort a more liberal influence ?
Or did some curious angel's chymic art
The spirits of purest light impart,
Drawn from the native spring of day,
And wrought into an organized ray.

« VorigeDoorgaan »