By the murmur of a spring,
Or the least bough's rustlëing;
By 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 loneness, the black shade,
That these hanging vaults have made;
The strange music of the waves,
Beating on these hollow caves;
This dark den which rocks emboss,
Overgrown with eldest moss;
The rude portals, that give light
More to terror than delight;
This my chamber of neglect
Wall'd 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,

Though Thou be to them a scorn,

Who to nought but earth are born,

Let my life no longer be

Than I am in love with Thee.

Though our wise ones call Thee madness,

Let me never taste of gladness,

If I love not thy madd'st fits

More than all their greatest wits.

And though some, too-seeming holy,
Do account thy raptures folly,

Thou dost teach me to condemn
What makes knaves and fools of them.

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The Marygold.

WHEN with a serious musing I behold
The grateful and obsequious marygold,
How duly, every morning, she displays
Her open breast, when Titan spreads his rays;
How she observes him in his daily walk,

Still bending tow'rds him her small slender stalk;
How, when he down declines, she droops and mourns,
Bedew'd, as 'twere with tears, till he returns ;
And how she vails her flowers when he is gone,
As if she scorned to be looked on

By an inferior eye; or did contemn

To wait upon a meaner light than him:

-When this I meditate, methinks the flowers
Have spirits far more generous than ours,
And give us fair examples, to despise
The servile fawnings and idolatries,

Wherewith we court these earthly things below,
Which merit not the service we bestow.

But, O my God! though grovelling I appear
Upon the ground, and have a rooting here,
Which hales me downward, yet in my desire
To that which is above me I aspire;
And all my best affections I profess
To Him that is the Sun of Righteousness.
Oh! keep the morning of his incarnation,
The burning noontide of his bitter passion,
The night of his descending, and the height
Of his ascension,-ever in my sight;
That, imitating Him in what I may,
I never follow an inferior way.

Hope in Death.

[The Emblem represents a scull, out of which wheat ears are springing at the apertures.]

I WILL not blame those grieved hearts, that shed
Becoming tears for their departed friends;
Nor those who sigh out passions for the dead;
Since on good nature this disease attends :
When sorrow is conceived it must have vent,
In sighs or moisture, or the heart will break;
And much they aggravate our discontent,
Who, out of season, reason seem to speak
Yet since our folly may require we should
Remembrances admit to keep us from
Excess in grief, this emblem, understood,
Will yield such hope as may our tears o'ercome.
The Wheat, although it lies a while in earth,
And seemeth lost, consumes not quite away;
But from that womb receives another birth,
And with additions riseth from the clay.

Much more shall Man revive, whose worth is more;
For Death, who from our dross will us refine,
Unto that other life becomes the door,

Where we in immortality shall shine.

When once our glass is run, we presently

Give up our souls to Death;-so Death must give
Our bodies back again, that we, thereby,

The light of life eternal may receive;
The venom'd sting of Death is took away;
And now the grave, that was a place of fear,
Is made a bed of rest, wherein we may
Lie down in hope, and bide in safety there.

When we are born, to death-ward straight we run; And by our death our life is new begun.

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Seed-time and Harvest.

WHEN in the sweet and pleasant month of May,
We see both leaves and blossoms on the tree,

And view the meadows in their best array,
We hopeful are a joyful spring to see;
Yet oft, before the following night be past,
It chanceth, that a vapour or a frost

Doth all those forward bloomings wholly waste,
And then their sweetness and their beauty's lost.
Such is the state of every mortal wight:
In youth our glories and our lusts we shew;
We fill ourselves with every vain delight,
And will least think of that which may ensue.
But let us learn to heed as well as know,
That Spring doth pass, that Summer steals away,
And that the flower which makes the fairest show,
Ere many weeks may wither and decay.

And from this emblem, every labouring swain (In whatsoever course of life he be)

Take heart and hope, amidst his daily pain,
That of his travails he good fruits shall see.

The plow'd and harrow'd field, which, to thine eye,
Seems like to be the grave, in which the seeds
Shall, without hope of rising, buried lie,
Becomes the fruitful womb where plenty breeds.
There will be corn where nought but mire appears;
The little seed will form a greenish blade;
The blade will rise to stems with fruitful ears,
Those ears will ripen, and be yellow made.

So, if in honest hopes thou persevere,
A joyful harvest will at last appear.

Divers Providences.

WHEN all the year our fields are fresh and green,
And while sweet showers and sunshine, every day,
As oft as need requireth, come between

The heavens and earth,-they heedless pass away.
The fulness and continuance of a blessing
Doth make us to be senseless of the good;
And, if sometimes it fly not our possessing,
The sweetness of it is not understood.

In my straight mind,) I may be dispossest:
My Muse must sing of things of mickle weight;
The Soule's eternitie is my great guest:

Do Thou me guide, Thou art the Soule's sure light;
Grant that I never err, but ever wend aright.

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False and True Religion.

CAN warres, and jarres, and fierce contention,
Swoln hatred, and consuming envie spring
From Piety?-No, 'tis Opinion,

That makes the riven heaven with trumpets ring,
And thundering engin murderous balls out-sling,
And send men's groning ghosts to lower shade
Of horrid hell.-This the wide world doth bring
To devastation, makes mankind to fade:
Such direful things doth false Religion persuade.

But true Religion, sprung from God above,
Is like her fountain, full of charity;
Embracing all things with a tender love,
Full of good-will and meek expectancy,
Full of true justice and sure verity,

In heart and voice; free, large, even infinite,
Not wedged in strait particularity,

But grasping all in her vast active spright;

Bright Lamp of God, that men would joy in thy pure light!

Sensual and Spiritual Life.

FEAR, anger, hope, fierce vengeance, rabid hate,
Tumultuous joy, envie and discontent,

Self-love, vain-glory, strife and fell debate,
Unsatiate covetize, desire impotent,
Low-sinking grief, pleasure, lust violent,
Fond emulation,-all these dim the mind,
That, with foul filth the inward eye yblent,