I askt the seas, and all the deeps below,
My God to know.

I askt the reptiles, and whatever is
In the abysse;

Even from the shrimpe to the leviathan
Enquiry ran;

But in those deserts which no line can sound,
The God I sought for was not to be found.

I askt the aire, if that were He? but, lo!
It told me No.

I from the towering eagle to the wren,

Demanded then,

If any feather'd fowle 'mongst them were such?
But they all, much

Offended with my question, in full quire,

Answered," to finde thy God thou must look higher."

I askt the heavens, sun, moon and stars, but they
Said "We obey

The God thou seek'st."-I askt, what eye or eare
Could see or heare;

What in the world I might descry or know

Above, below:

-With an unanimous voice, all these things said, "We are not God, but we by Him were made.”

I askt the world's great universal masse,
If that God was?

Which with a mighty and strong voice reply'd,
As stupify'd,

"I am not He, O man! for know that I,
By Him on High,

Was fashion'd first of nothing, thus instated,
And sway'd by Him, by whom I was created."

A scrutiny within myself I, than,

Even thus began :

“O man, what art thou?"-What more could I say, Than dust and clay?

Fraile, mortal, fading, a meere puffe, a blast,
That cannot last;

Enthroned to-day, to-morrow in an urne;
Form'd from that earth to which I must returne.

I askt myself, what this great God might be
That fashion'd me?

I answer'd-the all-potent, solely' immense,
Surpassing sense;

Unspeakable, inscrutable, eternall,
Lord over all;

The only terrible, strong, just and true,
Who hath no end, and no beginning knew.

He is the well of life, for He doth give
To all that live,

Both breath and being: He is the Creator
Both of the water,

Earth, aire, and fire.

He hath the list;

Of all things that subsist,

Of all the heavenly host, or what earth claimes,
He keeps the serole, and calls them by their names.

And now, my God, by thine illumining grace,

Thy glorious face,

(So far forth as it may discover'd be,)

Methinks I see ;

And though invisible and infinite,

To human sight,

Thou, in thy mercy, justice, truth, appearest;

In which to our weake senses Thou comest nearest.

O make us apt to seeke, and quicke to finde,

Thou God, most kinde!

Give us love, hope and faith in Thee to trust,
Thou God, most just!

Remit all our offences, we intreat;

Most Good, most Great!

Grant that our willing, though unworthy guest
May, through thy grace, admit us 'mongst the blest.

GEORGE HERBERT.

BORN 1593. DIED 1632.

This Author cannot have been of an ordinary standard, having had many admirers and many detractors, both among his contemporaries and his successors. His collected Poems are entitled

The Temple," and, amidst innumerable conceits and quaintnesses, have a sufficient proportion of natural and beautiful thoughts, simply or elegantly expressed, to redeem them from oblivion. His piety is unquestionable, but his taste so perverted, that devotion itself is turned into masquerade throughout his writings.

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Public Worship.

RESTORE to God his due in tithe and time;
A tithe purloin'd, cankers the whole estate.
Sundays observe: Think when the bells do chime,
'Tis angels' music; therefore come not late.
God then deals blessings; if a king did so,
Who would not haste, nay give to see the show?

Though private prayer be a brave design,
Yet public hath more promises, more love;
And love's a weight to hearts, to eyes a sign.
We all are but cold suitors; let us move

Where it is warmest. Leave thy six and seven;
Pray with the most; for where most pray, is heaven.

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Self-Examination.

SUM up at night what thou hast done by day;
And in the morning what thou hast to do.
Dress and undress thy soul: Mark the decay
And growth of it: If with thy watch, that too
Be down, then wind up both: Since we shall be
More surely judged, make thy accounts agree.

The Temper.

How should I praise Thee, Lord! how should my rhymes

Gladly engrave thy love in steel,

If what my soul doth feel sometimes
My soul might ever feel!

Although there were some forty heavens, or more,
Sometimes I peer above them all;
Sometimes I hardly reach a score;
Sometimes to hell I fall.

O rack me not to such a vast extent;
Those distances belong to Thee:
The world's too little for thy tent,
A grave too big for me.

Yet take thy way: for sure thy way is best:
Stretch or contract me thy poor debtor :
This is but tuning of my breast,

To make the music better.

Whether I fly with angels, fall with dust,
Thy hands made both, and I am there.
Thy power and love, my love and trust
Make one place every where.

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Vanity.

THE fleet Astronomer can bore,

And thrid the spheres with his quick-piercing mind:
He views their stations, walks from door to door,
Surveys, as if he had design'd

To make a purchase there: He sees their dances;
And knoweth long before

Both their full-eyed aspects and secret glances.

The nimble diver with his side

Cuts thro' the working waves, that he may fetch His dearly-earned pearl, which God did hide

On purpose from the venturous wretch, That he might save his life, and also her's, Who, with excessive pride,

Her own destruction and his danger wears.

The subtle chymic can divest

And strip the creature naked, till he find
The callow principles within their nest:
There he imparts to them his mind,
Admitted to their bed-chamber, before
They appear trim and drest

To ordinary suitors at the door.

What hath not man sought out and found, But his dear God? Who yet his glorious law Embosoms in us, mellowing the ground

With showers and frost, with love and awe: So that we need not say, Where's this command ? Poor man! thou searchest round

To find out Death, but missest Life at hand.

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Virtue.

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 shews ye have your closes,
And all must die.