To God, ye choir above, beginA hymn so loud and strongThat all the universe may hearAnd join the grateful song.
Praise Him, thou sun, Who dwells unseenAmidst transcendent light,Where thy refulgent orb would seemA spot, as dark as night.
Thou silver moon, 'ye host of stars,The universal songThrough the serene and silent nightTo listening worlds prolong.
Sing Him, ye distant worlds and suns,From whence no travelling rayHath yet to us, through ages past,Had time to make its way.
Assist, ye raging storms, and bearOn rapid wings His praise,From north to south, from east to west,Through heaven, and earth, and seas.
Exert your voice, ye furious firesThat rend the watery cloud,And thunder to this nether worldYour Maker's words aloud.
Ye works of God, that dwell unknownBeneath the rolling main;Ye birds, that sing among the groves,And sweep the azure plain;
Ye stately hills, that rear your heads,And towering pierce the sky;Ye clouds, that with an awful paceMajestic roll on high;
Ye insects small, to which one leafWithin its narrow sidesA vast extended world displays,And spacious realms provides;
Ye race, still less than these, with whichThe stagnant water teems,To which one drop, however small,A boundless ocean seems;
Whate'er ye are, where'er ye dwell,Ye creatures great or small,Adore the wisdom, praise the power,That made and governs all.
—P. Skelton
How are thy servants blest, O Lord!How sure is their defence!Eternal wisdom is their guide,Their help, Omnipotence.
In foreign realms, and lands remote,Supported by Thy care,Through burning climes I pass'd unhurt,And breathed in tainted air.
Thy mercy sweeten'd every soil,Made every region please;The hoary Alpine hills it warm'd,And smoothed the Tyrrhene seas.
Think, O my soul, devoutly think,How, with affrighted eyes,Thou saw'st the wide-extended deepIn all its horrors rise.
Confusion dwelt in every face,And fear in every heart;When waves on waves, and gulfs on gulfs,O'ercame the pilot's art.
Yet then from all my griefs, O Lord,Thy mercy set me free;Whilst, in the confidence of prayer,My soul took hold on Thee.
For though in dreadful whirls we hungHigh on the broken wave,I knew Thou wert not slow to hear,Nor impotent to save.
—The storm was laid; the winds retired,Obedient to Thy will;The sea that roar'd at Thy command,At Thy command was still.
—J. Addison
The fairest action of our human lifeIs scorning to revenge an injury:For who forgives without a further strifeHis adversary's heart to him doth tie:And 'tis a firmer conquest truly saidTo win the heart, than overthrow the head.
If we a worthy enemy do find,To yield to worth, it must be nobly done:—But if of baser metal be his mind,In base revenge there is no honor won.Who would a worthy courage overthrow?And who would wrestle with a worthless foe?
We say our hearts are great, and cannot yield;Because they cannot yield, it proves them poor:Great hearts are task'd beyond their power but seld:The weakest lion will the loudest roar.Truth's school for certain does this same allow,High-heartedness doth sometimes teach to bow.
—Lady E. Carew
How happy is he born and taughtThat serveth not another's will;Whose armor is his honest thought,And simple truth his utmost skill!
Whose passions not his masters are,Whose soul is still prepared for death,Not tied unto the world with careOf public fame, or private breath;
Who envies none that chance doth raiseOr vice; who never understoodHow deepest wounds are given by praise;Nor rules of state, but rules of good;
Who hath his life from rumors freed;Whose conscience is his strong retreat;Whose state can neither flatterers feed,Nor ruin make accusers great;
Who God doth late and early prayMore of His grace than gifts to lend;And entertains the harmless dayWith a well-chosen book or friend;
—This man is freed from servile bandsOf hope to rise, or fear to fall;Lord of himself, though not of lands;And having nothing, yet hath all.
—Sir H. Wotton
Lord, thou hast given me a cell,Wherein to dwell;A little house, whose humble roofIs weather-proof;Under the spars of which I lieBoth soft and dry;Where thou, my chamber for to ward,Hast set a guardOf harmless thoughts, to watch and keepMe, while I sleep.Low is my porch, as is my fate:Both void of state;And yet the threshold of my doorIs worn by th' poor,Who thither come, and freely getGood words, or meat.Like as my parlor, so my hallAnd kitchen's small;A little buttery, and thereinA little bin,Which keeps my little loaf of breadUnchipt, unflead;Some brittle sticks of thorn or briarMake me a fire,Close by whose living coal I sit,And glow like it.Lord, I confess too, when I dine,The pulse is thine,And all those other bits that beThere placed by thee;The worts, the purslain, and the messOf water-cress,Which of thy kindness thou hast sent;And my contentMakes those, and my beloved beet,To be more sweet.'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearthWith guiltless mirth,And giv'st me wassail-bowls to drink,Spiced to the brink.Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping handThat soils my land,And giv'st me, for my bushel sown,Twice ten for one;Thou mak'st my teeming hen to layHer egg each day;Besides my healthful ewes to bearMe twins each year;The while the conduits of my kineRun cream, for wine:All these, and better, thou dost sendMe—to this end,That I should render, for my part,A thankful heart.
—R. Herrick
They are all gone into the world of light!And I alone sit lingering here!Their very memory is fair and bright,And my sad thoughts doth clear.
It glows and glitters in my cloudy breastLike stars upon some gloomy grove,Or those faint beams in which this hill is drestAfter the Sun's remove.
I see them walking in an air of glory,Whose light doth trample on my days;My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,Mere glimmerings and decays.
O holy hope! and high humility!High as the Heavens above!These are your walks, and you have show'd them me,To kindle my cold love.
Dear, beauteous Death; the jewel of the just!Shining nowhere but in the dark;What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,Could man outlook that mark!
He that hath found some fledged birdes nest may knowAt first sight if the bird be flown;But what fair dell or grove he sings in now,That is to him unknown.
And yet, as Angels in some brighter dreamsCall to the soul when man doth sleep,So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,And into glory peep.
—H. Vaughan
"Awake, awake, my little boy!Thou wast thy mother's only joy;Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep?O wake! thy father does thee keep."
—"O what land is the Land of Dreams?What are its mountains, and what are its streams?O father! I saw my mother thereAmong the lilies by waters fair.
"Among the lambs, clothed in white,She walk'd with her Thomas in sweet delight:I wept for joy; like a dove I mourn:—O when shall I again return!"
—"Dear child! I also by pleasant streamsHave wander'd all night in the Land of Dreams:—But, though calm and warm the waters wide,I could not get to the other side."
—"Father, O father! what do we here,In this land of unbelief and fear?—The Land of Dreams is better far,Above the light of the morning star."
—W. Blake
Sweet is the dew that falls betimes,And drops upon the leafy limes;Sweet Hermon's fragrant air:Sweet is the lily's silver bell,And sweet the wakeful tapers smellThat watch for early prayer.
Sweet the young nurse, with love intense,Which smiles o'er sleeping innocence;Sweet when the lost arrive;Sweet the musician's ardor beats,While his vague mind's in quest of sweets,The choicest flowers to hive.
Strong is the horse upon his speed;Strong in pursuit the rapid glede,Which makes at once his game:Strong the tall ostrich on the ground;Strong through the turbulent profoundShoots xiphias to his aim.
Strong is the lion—like a coalHis eyeball—like a bastion's moleHis chest against the foes:Strong the gier-eagle on his sail;Strong against tide the enormous whaleEmerges as he goes.
But stronger still, in earth and air,And in sea, the man of prayer,And far beneath the tide:And in the seat to Faith assign'd,Where ask is, have; where seek is, find;Where knock is, open wide.
—C. Smart