Bright books! the perspectives to our weak sights,The clear projections of discerning lights,Burning and shining thoughts, man's posthume day,The track of fled souls, and their Milky Way,The dead alive and busy, the still voiceOf enlarg'd spirits, kind Heav'n's white decoys!Who lives with you, lives like those knowing flow'rs,Which in commerce with light spend all their hours:Which shut to clouds, and shadows nicely shun,But with glad haste unveil to kiss the sun.Beneath you, all is dark, and a dead night,Which whoso lives in, wants both health and sight.By sucking you, the wise—like bees—do growHealing and rich, though this they do most slow,Because most choicely; for as great a storeHave we of books, as bees of herbs, or more:And the great task, to try, then know, the good.To discern weeds, and judge of wholesome food,Is a rare, scant performance: for man diesOft ere 'tis done, while the bee feeds and flies.But you were all choice flow'rs, all set and drestBy old sage florists, who well knew the best:And I amidst you all am turned a weed!Not wanting knowledge, but for want of heed.Then thank thyself, wild fool, that wouldst not beContent to know—what was too much for thee!
Bright books! the perspectives to our weak sights,The clear projections of discerning lights,Burning and shining thoughts, man's posthume day,The track of fled souls, and their Milky Way,The dead alive and busy, the still voiceOf enlarg'd spirits, kind Heav'n's white decoys!Who lives with you, lives like those knowing flow'rs,Which in commerce with light spend all their hours:Which shut to clouds, and shadows nicely shun,But with glad haste unveil to kiss the sun.Beneath you, all is dark, and a dead night,Which whoso lives in, wants both health and sight.By sucking you, the wise—like bees—do growHealing and rich, though this they do most slow,Because most choicely; for as great a storeHave we of books, as bees of herbs, or more:And the great task, to try, then know, the good.To discern weeds, and judge of wholesome food,Is a rare, scant performance: for man diesOft ere 'tis done, while the bee feeds and flies.But you were all choice flow'rs, all set and drestBy old sage florists, who well knew the best:And I amidst you all am turned a weed!Not wanting knowledge, but for want of heed.Then thank thyself, wild fool, that wouldst not beContent to know—what was too much for thee!
Fair shining mountains of my pilgrimageAnd flowery vales, whose flow'rs were stars,The days and nights of my first happy age;An age without distaste and wars!When I by thoughts ascend your sunny heads,And mind those sacred midnight lightsBy which I walk'd, when curtain'd rooms and bedsConfin'd or seal'd up others' sights:O then, how bright,And quick a lightDoth brush my heart and scatter night;Chasing that shade,Which my sins made,While I so spring, as if I could not fade!How brave a prospect is a bright back-side!Where flow'rs and palms refresh the eye!And days well spent like the glad East abide,Whose morning-glories cannot die!
Fair shining mountains of my pilgrimageAnd flowery vales, whose flow'rs were stars,The days and nights of my first happy age;An age without distaste and wars!When I by thoughts ascend your sunny heads,And mind those sacred midnight lightsBy which I walk'd, when curtain'd rooms and bedsConfin'd or seal'd up others' sights:O then, how bright,And quick a lightDoth brush my heart and scatter night;Chasing that shade,Which my sins made,While I so spring, as if I could not fade!How brave a prospect is a bright back-side!Where flow'rs and palms refresh the eye!And days well spent like the glad East abide,Whose morning-glories cannot die!
Waters above! eternal springs!The dew that silvers the Dove's wings!O welcome, welcome to the sad!Give dry dust drink; drink that makes glad!Many fair ev'nings, many flow'rsSweeten'd with rich and gentle showers,Have I enjoy'd, and down have runMany a fine and shining sun;But never, till this happy hour,Was blest with such an evening-shower!
Waters above! eternal springs!The dew that silvers the Dove's wings!O welcome, welcome to the sad!Give dry dust drink; drink that makes glad!Many fair ev'nings, many flow'rsSweeten'd with rich and gentle showers,Have I enjoy'd, and down have runMany a fine and shining sun;But never, till this happy hour,Was blest with such an evening-shower!
Fair Prince of Light! Light's living WellWho hast the keys of death and Hell!If the mole[66]man despise Thy day,Put chains of darkness in his way.Teach him how deep, how various areThe counsels of Thy love and care.When acts of grace and a long peace,Breed but rebellion, and displease,Then give him his own way and will,Where lawless he may run, untilHis own choice hurts him, and the stingOf his foul sins full sorrows bring.If Heaven and angels, hopes and mirth,Please not the mole so much as earth:Give him his mine to dig, or dwell,And one sad scheme of hideous Hell.
Fair Prince of Light! Light's living WellWho hast the keys of death and Hell!If the mole[66]man despise Thy day,Put chains of darkness in his way.Teach him how deep, how various areThe counsels of Thy love and care.When acts of grace and a long peace,Breed but rebellion, and displease,Then give him his own way and will,Where lawless he may run, untilHis own choice hurts him, and the stingOf his foul sins full sorrows bring.If Heaven and angels, hopes and mirth,Please not the mole so much as earth:Give him his mine to dig, or dwell,And one sad scheme of hideous Hell.
FOOTNOTES:[66]The original edition hasmule.
[66]The original edition hasmule.
[66]The original edition hasmule.
Whither, O whither didst thou flyWhen I did grieve Thine holy eye?When Thou didst mourn to see me lost,And all Thy care and counsels cross'd.O do not grieve, where'er Thou art!Thy grief is an undoing smart,Which doth not only pain, but breakMy heart, and makes me blush to speak.Thy anger I could kiss, and will;But O Thy grief, Thy grief, doth kill.
Whither, O whither didst thou flyWhen I did grieve Thine holy eye?When Thou didst mourn to see me lost,And all Thy care and counsels cross'd.O do not grieve, where'er Thou art!Thy grief is an undoing smart,Which doth not only pain, but breakMy heart, and makes me blush to speak.Thy anger I could kiss, and will;But O Thy grief, Thy grief, doth kill.
O come, and welcome! come, refine!For Moors, if wash'd by Thee, will shine.Man blossoms at Thy touch; and he,When Thou draw'st blood is Thy rose-tree.Crosses make straight his crookèd ways,And clouds but cool his dog-star days;Diseases too, when by Thee blest,Are both restoratives and rest.Flow'rs that in sunshines riot still,Die scorch'd and sapless; though storms kill,The fall is fair, e'en to desire,Where in their sweetness all expire.O come, pour on! what calms can beSo fair as storms, that appease Thee?
O come, and welcome! come, refine!For Moors, if wash'd by Thee, will shine.Man blossoms at Thy touch; and he,When Thou draw'st blood is Thy rose-tree.Crosses make straight his crookèd ways,And clouds but cool his dog-star days;Diseases too, when by Thee blest,Are both restoratives and rest.Flow'rs that in sunshines riot still,Die scorch'd and sapless; though storms kill,The fall is fair, e'en to desire,Where in their sweetness all expire.O come, pour on! what calms can beSo fair as storms, that appease Thee?
Fresh fields and woods! the Earth's fair face!God's footstool! and man's dwelling-place!I ask not why the first believerDid love to be a country liver?Who, to secure pious content,Did pitch by groves and wells his tent;Where he might view the boundless sky,And all those glorious lights on high,With flying meteors, mists, and show'rs,Subjected hills, trees, meads, and flow'rs,And ev'ry minute bless the KingAnd wise Creator of each thing.I ask not why he did removeTo happy Mamre's holy grove,Leaving the cities of the plainTo Lot and his successless train?All various lusts in cities stillAre found; they are the thrones of ill,The dismal sinks, where blood is spill'd,Cages with much uncleanness fill'd:But rural shades are the sweet senseOf piety and innocence;They are the meek's calm region, whereAngels descend and rule the sphere;Where Heaven lies leiguer, and the DoveDuly as dew comes from above.If Eden be on Earth at all,'Tis that which we the country call.
Fresh fields and woods! the Earth's fair face!God's footstool! and man's dwelling-place!I ask not why the first believerDid love to be a country liver?Who, to secure pious content,Did pitch by groves and wells his tent;Where he might view the boundless sky,And all those glorious lights on high,With flying meteors, mists, and show'rs,Subjected hills, trees, meads, and flow'rs,And ev'ry minute bless the KingAnd wise Creator of each thing.
I ask not why he did removeTo happy Mamre's holy grove,Leaving the cities of the plainTo Lot and his successless train?All various lusts in cities stillAre found; they are the thrones of ill,The dismal sinks, where blood is spill'd,Cages with much uncleanness fill'd:But rural shades are the sweet senseOf piety and innocence;They are the meek's calm region, whereAngels descend and rule the sphere;Where Heaven lies leiguer, and the DoveDuly as dew comes from above.If Eden be on Earth at all,'Tis that which we the country call.
Unfold! unfold! Take in His light,Who makes thy cares more short than night.The joys which with His day-star riseHe deals to all but drowsy eyes;And, what the men of this world miss,Some drops and dews of future bliss.Hark! how His winds have chang'd their note!And with warm whispers call thee out;The frosts are past, the storms are gone,And backward life at last comes on.The lofty groves in express joysReply unto the turtle's voice;And here in dust and dirt, O hereThe lilies of His love appear!
Unfold! unfold! Take in His light,Who makes thy cares more short than night.The joys which with His day-star riseHe deals to all but drowsy eyes;And, what the men of this world miss,Some drops and dews of future bliss.
Hark! how His winds have chang'd their note!And with warm whispers call thee out;The frosts are past, the storms are gone,And backward life at last comes on.The lofty groves in express joysReply unto the turtle's voice;And here in dust and dirt, O hereThe lilies of His love appear!
Early, while yet the dark was gayAnd gilt with stars, more trim than day,Heav'n's Lily, and the Earth's chaste Rose,The green immortal Branch arose;}S. Mark,c. 1, v. 35-And in a solitary placeBow'd to His Father His blest face.If this calm season pleased my Prince,Whose fulness no need could evince,Why should not I, poor silly sheep,His hours, as well as practice, keep?Not that His hand is tied to these,From whom Time holds his transient leaseBut mornings new creations are,When men, all night sav'd by His care,Are still reviv'd; and well He mayExpect them grateful with the day.}Job, c. 38,v. 7So for that first draught of His hand,Which finish'd heav'n, and sea, and land,The sons of God their thanks did bring,And all the morning stars did sing.Besides, as His part heretoforeThe firstlings were of all that boreSo now each day from all He savesTheir soul's first thoughts and fruits He craves.This makes Him daily shed and show'rHis graces at this early hour;Which both His care and kindness show,Cheering the good, quickening the slow.As holy friends mourn at delay,And think each minute an hour's stay,So His Divine and loving DoveWith longing throes[67]doth heave and move,And soar about us while we sleep;Sometimes quite through that lock doth peep,And shine, but always without fail,Before the slow sun can unveil,In new compassions breaks, like light,And morning-looks, which scatter night.And wilt Thou let Thy creature be,When Thou hast watch'd, asleep to Thee?Why to unwelcome loath'd surprisesDost leave him, having left his vices?Since these, if suffer'd, may againLead back the living to the slain.O, change this scourge; or, if as yetNone less will my transgressions fit,Dissolve, dissolve! Death cannot doWhat I would not submit unto.
Early, while yet the dark was gayAnd gilt with stars, more trim than day,Heav'n's Lily, and the Earth's chaste Rose,The green immortal Branch arose;}S. Mark,c. 1, v. 35-And in a solitary placeBow'd to His Father His blest face.If this calm season pleased my Prince,Whose fulness no need could evince,Why should not I, poor silly sheep,His hours, as well as practice, keep?Not that His hand is tied to these,From whom Time holds his transient leaseBut mornings new creations are,When men, all night sav'd by His care,Are still reviv'd; and well He mayExpect them grateful with the day.}Job, c. 38,v. 7So for that first draught of His hand,Which finish'd heav'n, and sea, and land,The sons of God their thanks did bring,And all the morning stars did sing.Besides, as His part heretoforeThe firstlings were of all that boreSo now each day from all He savesTheir soul's first thoughts and fruits He craves.This makes Him daily shed and show'rHis graces at this early hour;Which both His care and kindness show,Cheering the good, quickening the slow.As holy friends mourn at delay,And think each minute an hour's stay,So His Divine and loving DoveWith longing throes[67]doth heave and move,And soar about us while we sleep;Sometimes quite through that lock doth peep,And shine, but always without fail,Before the slow sun can unveil,In new compassions breaks, like light,And morning-looks, which scatter night.And wilt Thou let Thy creature be,When Thou hast watch'd, asleep to Thee?Why to unwelcome loath'd surprisesDost leave him, having left his vices?Since these, if suffer'd, may againLead back the living to the slain.O, change this scourge; or, if as yetNone less will my transgressions fit,Dissolve, dissolve! Death cannot doWhat I would not submit unto.
}S. Mark,c. 1, v. 35-
}
}
S. Mark,
c. 1, v. 35-
}Job, c. 38,v. 7
}
}
Job, c. 38,
v. 7
FOOTNOTES:[67]The original hasthrows.
[67]The original hasthrows.
[67]The original hasthrows.
Fair vessel of our daily light, whose proudAnd previous glories gild that blushing cloud;Whose lively fires in swift projections glanceFrom hill to hill, and by refracted chanceBurnish some neighbour-rock, or tree, and thenFly off in coy and wingèd flames again:If thou this dayHold on thy way,Know, I have got a greater light than thine;A light, whose shade and back-parts make thee shine.Then get thee down! then get thee down!I have a Sun now of my own.
Fair vessel of our daily light, whose proudAnd previous glories gild that blushing cloud;Whose lively fires in swift projections glanceFrom hill to hill, and by refracted chanceBurnish some neighbour-rock, or tree, and thenFly off in coy and wingèd flames again:If thou this dayHold on thy way,Know, I have got a greater light than thine;A light, whose shade and back-parts make thee shine.Then get thee down! then get thee down!I have a Sun now of my own.
Those nicer livers, who without thy raysStir not abroad, those may thy lustre praise;And wanting light—light, which no wants doth know—To thee—weak shiner!—like blind Persians bow.But where that Sun, which tramples on thy head,From His own bright eternal eye doth shedOne living ray,There thy dead dayIs needless, and man to a light made free,Which shows that thou canst neither show nor see.Then get thee down! then get thee down!I have a Sun now of my own.
Those nicer livers, who without thy raysStir not abroad, those may thy lustre praise;And wanting light—light, which no wants doth know—To thee—weak shiner!—like blind Persians bow.But where that Sun, which tramples on thy head,From His own bright eternal eye doth shedOne living ray,There thy dead dayIs needless, and man to a light made free,Which shows that thou canst neither show nor see.Then get thee down! then get thee down!I have a Sun now of my own.
Written in the year 1656.
Peace? and to all the world? Sure One,And He the Prince of Peace, hath none!He travels to be born, and thenIs born to travel more again.Poor Galilee! thou canst not beThe place for His Nativity.His restless mother's call'd away,And not deliver'd till she pay.A tax? 'tis so still! we can seeThe Church thrive in her misery,And, like her Head at Beth'lem, rise,When she, oppress'd with troubles, lies.Rise?—should all fall, we cannot beIn more extremities than He.Great Type of passions! Come what will,Thy grief exceeds all copies still.Thou cam'st from Heav'n to Earth, that weMight go from Earth to Heav'n with Thee:And though Thou found'st no welcome here,Thou didst provide us mansions there.A stable was Thy Court, and whenMen turn'd to beasts, beasts would be men:They were Thy courtiers; others none;And their poor manger was Thy throne.No swaddling silks Thy limbs did fold,Though Thou couldst turn Thy rays to gold.No rockers waited on Thy birth,No cradles stirr'd, nor songs of mirth;But her chaste lap and sacred breast,Which lodg'd Thee first, did give Thee rest.But stay: what light is that doth streamAnd drop here in a gilded beam?It is Thy star runs page, and bringsThy tributary Eastern kings.Lord! grant some light to us, that weMay with them find the way to Thee!Behold what mists eclipse the day!How dark it is! Shed down one ray,To guide us out of this dark night,And say once more, "Let there be light!"
Peace? and to all the world? Sure One,And He the Prince of Peace, hath none!He travels to be born, and thenIs born to travel more again.Poor Galilee! thou canst not beThe place for His Nativity.His restless mother's call'd away,And not deliver'd till she pay.
A tax? 'tis so still! we can seeThe Church thrive in her misery,And, like her Head at Beth'lem, rise,When she, oppress'd with troubles, lies.Rise?—should all fall, we cannot beIn more extremities than He.Great Type of passions! Come what will,Thy grief exceeds all copies still.Thou cam'st from Heav'n to Earth, that weMight go from Earth to Heav'n with Thee:And though Thou found'st no welcome here,Thou didst provide us mansions there.A stable was Thy Court, and whenMen turn'd to beasts, beasts would be men:They were Thy courtiers; others none;And their poor manger was Thy throne.No swaddling silks Thy limbs did fold,Though Thou couldst turn Thy rays to gold.No rockers waited on Thy birth,No cradles stirr'd, nor songs of mirth;But her chaste lap and sacred breast,Which lodg'd Thee first, did give Thee rest.
But stay: what light is that doth streamAnd drop here in a gilded beam?It is Thy star runs page, and bringsThy tributary Eastern kings.Lord! grant some light to us, that weMay with them find the way to Thee!Behold what mists eclipse the day!How dark it is! Shed down one ray,To guide us out of this dark night,And say once more, "Let there be light!"
So, stick up ivy and the bays,And then restore the heathen ways.Green will remind you of the spring,Though this great day denies the thing;And mortifies the earth, and allBut your wild revels, and loose hall.Could you wear flow'rs, and roses strowBlushing upon your breasts' warm snow,That very dress your lightness willRebuke, and wither at the ill.The brightness of this day we oweNot unto music, masque, nor show,Nor gallant furniture, nor plate,But to the manger's mean estate.His life while here, as well as birth,Was but a check to pomp and mirth;And all man's greatness you may seeCondemned by His humility.Then leave your open house and noise,To welcome Him with holy joys,And the poor shepherds' watchfulness,Whom light and hymns from Heav'n did bless.What you abound with, cast abroadTo those that want, and ease your load.Who empties thus, will bring more in;But riot is both loss and sin.Dress finely what comes not in sight,And then you keep your Christmas right.
So, stick up ivy and the bays,And then restore the heathen ways.Green will remind you of the spring,Though this great day denies the thing;And mortifies the earth, and allBut your wild revels, and loose hall.Could you wear flow'rs, and roses strowBlushing upon your breasts' warm snow,That very dress your lightness willRebuke, and wither at the ill.The brightness of this day we oweNot unto music, masque, nor show,Nor gallant furniture, nor plate,But to the manger's mean estate.His life while here, as well as birth,Was but a check to pomp and mirth;And all man's greatness you may seeCondemned by His humility.
Then leave your open house and noise,To welcome Him with holy joys,And the poor shepherds' watchfulness,Whom light and hymns from Heav'n did bless.What you abound with, cast abroadTo those that want, and ease your load.Who empties thus, will bring more in;But riot is both loss and sin.Dress finely what comes not in sight,And then you keep your Christmas right.
O thou who didst deny to meThis world's ador'd felicity,And ev'ry big imperious lust,Which fools admire in sinful dust,With those fine subtle twists, that tieTheir bundles of foul gallantry—Keep still my weak eyes from the shineOf those gay things which are not Thine!And shut my ears against the noiseOf wicked, though applauded, joys!For Thou in any land hast storeOf shades and coverts for Thy poor;Where from the busy dust and heat,As well as storms, they may retreat.A rock or bush are downy beds,When Thou art there, crowning their headsWith secret blessings, or a tireMade of the Comforter's live fire.And when Thy goodness in the dressOf anger will not seem to bless,Yet dost Thou give them that rich rain,Which, as it drops, clears all again.O what kind visits daily pass'Twixt Thy great self and such poor grass:With what sweet looks doth Thy love shineOn those low violets of Thine,While the tall tulip is accurst,And crowns imperial die with thirst!O give me still those secret meals,Those rare repasts which Thy love deals!Give me that joy, which none can grieve,And which in all griefs doth relieve!This is the portion Thy child begs;Not that of rust, and rags, and dregs.
O thou who didst deny to meThis world's ador'd felicity,And ev'ry big imperious lust,Which fools admire in sinful dust,With those fine subtle twists, that tieTheir bundles of foul gallantry—Keep still my weak eyes from the shineOf those gay things which are not Thine!And shut my ears against the noiseOf wicked, though applauded, joys!For Thou in any land hast storeOf shades and coverts for Thy poor;Where from the busy dust and heat,As well as storms, they may retreat.A rock or bush are downy beds,When Thou art there, crowning their headsWith secret blessings, or a tireMade of the Comforter's live fire.And when Thy goodness in the dressOf anger will not seem to bless,Yet dost Thou give them that rich rain,Which, as it drops, clears all again.O what kind visits daily pass'Twixt Thy great self and such poor grass:With what sweet looks doth Thy love shineOn those low violets of Thine,While the tall tulip is accurst,And crowns imperial die with thirst!O give me still those secret meals,Those rare repasts which Thy love deals!Give me that joy, which none can grieve,And which in all griefs doth relieve!This is the portion Thy child begs;Not that of rust, and rags, and dregs.
Quid celebras auratam undam, et combusta pyropisFlumina, vel medio quæ serit æthra salo?Æternum refluis si pernoctaret in undisPhœbus, et incertam sidera suda TethynSi colerent, tantæ gemmæ! nil cærula librem:Sorderet rubro in littore dives Eos.Pactoli mea lympha macras ditabit arenas,Atque universum gutta minuta Tagum.O caram caput! O cincinnos unda beatosLibata! O Domini balnea sancta mei!Quod fortunatum voluit spectare canalem,Hoc erat in laudes area parva tuas.Jordanis in medio perfusus flumine lavit,Divinoque tuas ore beavit aquas.Ah! Solyma infelix rivis obsessa prophanis!Amisit genium porta Bethesda suum.Hic Orientis aquæ currunt, et apostata Parphar,Atque Abana immundo turbidus amne fluit,Ethnica te totam cum fœdavere fluenta,Mansit Christicolâ Jordanis unus aqua.
Quid celebras auratam undam, et combusta pyropisFlumina, vel medio quæ serit æthra salo?Æternum refluis si pernoctaret in undisPhœbus, et incertam sidera suda TethynSi colerent, tantæ gemmæ! nil cærula librem:Sorderet rubro in littore dives Eos.Pactoli mea lympha macras ditabit arenas,Atque universum gutta minuta Tagum.O caram caput! O cincinnos unda beatosLibata! O Domini balnea sancta mei!Quod fortunatum voluit spectare canalem,Hoc erat in laudes area parva tuas.Jordanis in medio perfusus flumine lavit,Divinoque tuas ore beavit aquas.Ah! Solyma infelix rivis obsessa prophanis!Amisit genium porta Bethesda suum.Hic Orientis aquæ currunt, et apostata Parphar,Atque Abana immundo turbidus amne fluit,Ethnica te totam cum fœdavere fluenta,Mansit Christicolâ Jordanis unus aqua.
Et sic in cithara, sic in dulcedine vitæEt facti et luctus regnat amarities.Quam subito in fastum extensos atque esseda[68]vultusUltrici oppressit vilis arena sinu!Si violæ, spiransque crocus: si liliumἀέινονNon nisi justorum nascitur e cinere:Spinarum, tribulique atque infelicis avenæQuantus in hoc tumulo et qualis acervus erit?Dii superi! damnosa piis sub sidera longumMansuris stabilem conciliate fidem!Sic olim in cœlum post nimbos clarius ibunt,Supremo occidui tot velut astra die.Quippe ruunt horæ, qualisque in corpore vixit,Talis it in tenebras bis moriturus homo.
Et sic in cithara, sic in dulcedine vitæEt facti et luctus regnat amarities.Quam subito in fastum extensos atque esseda[68]vultusUltrici oppressit vilis arena sinu!Si violæ, spiransque crocus: si liliumἀέινονNon nisi justorum nascitur e cinere:Spinarum, tribulique atque infelicis avenæQuantus in hoc tumulo et qualis acervus erit?Dii superi! damnosa piis sub sidera longumMansuris stabilem conciliate fidem!Sic olim in cœlum post nimbos clarius ibunt,Supremo occidui tot velut astra die.Quippe ruunt horæ, qualisque in corpore vixit,Talis it in tenebras bis moriturus homo.
FOOTNOTES:[68]The original edition misprintsessera.
[68]The original edition misprintsessera.
[68]The original edition misprintsessera.
Ad virum optimum, et sibi familiarius notum: D. Thomam Poellum Cantrevensem: S. S. Theologiæ Doctorem.
Accipe prærapido salmonem in gurgite captum,Ex imo in summas cum penetrasset aquas,Mentitæ culicis quem forma elusit inanis:Picta coloratis plumea musca notis.Dum captat, capitur; vorat inscius, ipse vorandus;Fitque cibi raptor grata rapina mali.Alma quies! miseræ merces ditissima vitæ,Quam tuto in tacitis hic latuisset aquis!Qui dum spumosi fremitus et murmura riviQuæritat, hamato sit cita præda cibo,Quam grave magnarum specimen dant ludicra rerum?Gurges est mundus: salmo, homo: pluma, dolus.
Accipe prærapido salmonem in gurgite captum,Ex imo in summas cum penetrasset aquas,Mentitæ culicis quem forma elusit inanis:Picta coloratis plumea musca notis.Dum captat, capitur; vorat inscius, ipse vorandus;Fitque cibi raptor grata rapina mali.Alma quies! miseræ merces ditissima vitæ,Quam tuto in tacitis hic latuisset aquis!Qui dum spumosi fremitus et murmura riviQuæritat, hamato sit cita præda cibo,Quam grave magnarum specimen dant ludicra rerum?Gurges est mundus: salmo, homo: pluma, dolus.
Can any tell me what it is? Can youThat wind your thoughts into a clueTo guide out others, while yourselves stay in,And hug the sin?I, who so long have in it liv'd,That, if I might,In truth I would not be repriev'd,Have neither sightNor sense that knowsThese ebbs and flows:But since of all all may be said,And likeliness doth but upbraidAnd mock the truth, which still is lostIn fine conceits, like streams in a sharp frost;I will not strive, nor the rule break,Which doth give losers leave to speak.Then false and foul world, and unknownEv'n to thy own,Here I renounce thee, and resignWhatever thou canst say is thine.Thou art not Truth! for he that triesShall find thee all deceit and lies,Thou art not Friendship! for in thee'Tis but the bait of policy;Which like a viper lodg'd in flow'rs,Its venom through that sweetness pours;And when not so, then always 'tisA fading paint, the short-liv'd blissOf air and humour; out and in,Like colours in a dolphin's skin;But must not live beyond one day,Or convenience; then away.Thou art not Riches! for that trash,Which one age hoards, the next doth washAnd so severely sweep away,That few remember where it lay.So rapid streams the wealthy landAbout them have at their command;And shifting channels here restore,There break down, what they bank'd before.Thou art not Honour! for those gayFeathers will wear and drop away;And princes to some upstart lineGives new ones, that are full as fine.Thou art not Pleasure! for thy roseUpon a thorn doth still repose;Which, if not cropp'd, will quickly shed,But soon as cropp'd, grows dull and dead.Thou art the sand, which fills one glass,And then doth to another pass;And could I put thee to a stay,Thou art but dust! Then go thy way,And leave me clean and bright, though poor;Who stops thee doth but daub his floor;And, swallow-like, when he hath done,To unknown dwellings must be gone!Welcome, pure thoughts, and peaceful hours,Enrich'd with sunshine and with show'rs;Welcome fair hopes, and holy cares,The not to be repented sharesOf time and business; the sure roadUnto my last and lov'd abode!O supreme Bliss!The Circle, Centre, and AbyssOf blessings, never let me missNor leave that path which leads to Thee,Who art alone all things to me!I hear, I see, all the long dayThe noise and pomp of the broad way.I note their coarse and proud approaches,Their silks, perfumes, and glittering coaches.But in the narrow way to TheeI observe only poverty,And despis'd things; and all alongThe ragged, mean, and humble throngAre still on foot; and as they goThey sigh, and say, their Lord went so.Give me my staff then, as it stoodWhen green and growing in the wood;—Those stones, which for the altar serv'd,Might not be smooth'd, nor finely carv'd—With this poor stick I'll pass the ford,As Jacob did; and Thy dear word,As Thou hast dress'd it, not as witAnd deprav'd tastes have poison'd it,Shall in the passage be my meat,And none else will Thy servant eat.Thus, thus, and in no other sort,Will I set forth, though laugh'd at for't;And leaving the wise world their way,Go through, though judg'd to go astray.
Can any tell me what it is? Can youThat wind your thoughts into a clueTo guide out others, while yourselves stay in,And hug the sin?I, who so long have in it liv'd,That, if I might,In truth I would not be repriev'd,Have neither sightNor sense that knowsThese ebbs and flows:But since of all all may be said,And likeliness doth but upbraidAnd mock the truth, which still is lostIn fine conceits, like streams in a sharp frost;I will not strive, nor the rule break,Which doth give losers leave to speak.Then false and foul world, and unknownEv'n to thy own,Here I renounce thee, and resignWhatever thou canst say is thine.
Thou art not Truth! for he that triesShall find thee all deceit and lies,Thou art not Friendship! for in thee'Tis but the bait of policy;Which like a viper lodg'd in flow'rs,Its venom through that sweetness pours;And when not so, then always 'tisA fading paint, the short-liv'd blissOf air and humour; out and in,Like colours in a dolphin's skin;But must not live beyond one day,Or convenience; then away.Thou art not Riches! for that trash,Which one age hoards, the next doth washAnd so severely sweep away,That few remember where it lay.So rapid streams the wealthy landAbout them have at their command;And shifting channels here restore,There break down, what they bank'd before.Thou art not Honour! for those gayFeathers will wear and drop away;And princes to some upstart lineGives new ones, that are full as fine.Thou art not Pleasure! for thy roseUpon a thorn doth still repose;Which, if not cropp'd, will quickly shed,But soon as cropp'd, grows dull and dead.Thou art the sand, which fills one glass,And then doth to another pass;And could I put thee to a stay,Thou art but dust! Then go thy way,And leave me clean and bright, though poor;Who stops thee doth but daub his floor;And, swallow-like, when he hath done,To unknown dwellings must be gone!Welcome, pure thoughts, and peaceful hours,Enrich'd with sunshine and with show'rs;Welcome fair hopes, and holy cares,The not to be repented sharesOf time and business; the sure roadUnto my last and lov'd abode!O supreme Bliss!The Circle, Centre, and AbyssOf blessings, never let me missNor leave that path which leads to Thee,Who art alone all things to me!I hear, I see, all the long dayThe noise and pomp of the broad way.I note their coarse and proud approaches,Their silks, perfumes, and glittering coaches.But in the narrow way to TheeI observe only poverty,And despis'd things; and all alongThe ragged, mean, and humble throngAre still on foot; and as they goThey sigh, and say, their Lord went so.Give me my staff then, as it stoodWhen green and growing in the wood;—Those stones, which for the altar serv'd,Might not be smooth'd, nor finely carv'd—With this poor stick I'll pass the ford,As Jacob did; and Thy dear word,As Thou hast dress'd it, not as witAnd deprav'd tastes have poison'd it,Shall in the passage be my meat,And none else will Thy servant eat.Thus, thus, and in no other sort,Will I set forth, though laugh'd at for't;And leaving the wise world their way,Go through, though judg'd to go astray.
From fruitful beds and flow'ry borders,Parcell'd to wasteful ranks and orders,Where State grasps more than plain Truth needs,And wholesome herbs are starv'd by weeds,To the wild woods I will be gone,And the coarse meals of great Saint John.When truth and piety are miss'dBoth in the rulers and the priest;When pity is not cold, but dead,And the rich eat the poor like bread;While factious heads with open coilAnd force, first make, then share, the spoil;To Horeb then Elias goes,And in the desert grows the rose.Hail crystal fountains and fresh shades,Where no proud look invades,No busy worldling hunts awayThe sad retirer all the day!Hail, happy, harmless solitude!Our sanctuary from the rudeAnd scornful world; the calm recessOf faith, and hope, and holiness!Here something still like Eden looks;Honey in woods, juleps in brooks,And flow'rs, whose rich, unrifled sweetsWith a chaste kiss the cool dew greets,When the toils of the day are done,And the tir'd world sets with the sun.Here flying winds and flowing wellsAre the wise, watchful hermit's bells;Their busy murmurs all the nightTo praise or prayer do invite,And with an awful sound arrest,And piously employ his breast.When in the East the dawn doth blush,Here cool, fresh spirits the air brush;Herbs straight get up, flow'rs peep and spread,Trees whisper praise, and bow the head:Birds, from the shades of night releas'd,Look round about, then quit the nest,And with united gladness singThe glory of the morning's King.The hermit hears, and with meek voiceOffers his own up, and their joys:Then prays that all the world may beBless'd with as sweet an unity.If sudden storms the day invade,They flock about him to the shade:Where wisely they expect the end,Giving the tempest time to spend;And hard by shelters on some boughHilarion's servant, the sage crow.O purer years of light and grace!The diff'rence is great as the space'Twixt you and us, who blindly runAfter false fires, and leave the sun.Is not fair Nature of herselfMuch richer than dull paint or pelf?And are not streams at the spring-headMore sweet than in carv'd stone or lead?But fancy and some artist's toolsFrame a religion for fools.The truth, which once was plainly taught,With thorns and briars now is fraught.Some part is with bold fables spotted,Some by strange comments wildly blotted;And Discord—old Corruption's crest—With blood and blame hath stain'd the rest.So snow, which in its first descentsA whiteness, like pure Heav'n, presents,When touch'd by man is quickly soil'd,And after, trodden down and spoil'd.O lead me, where I may be freeIn truth and spirit to serve Thee!Where undisturb'd I may converseWith Thy great Self; and there rehearseThy gifts with thanks; and from Thy store,Who art all blessings, beg much more.Give me the wisdom of the bee,And her unwearied industry!That from the wild gourds of these days,I may extract health, and Thy praise,Who canst turn darkness into light,And in my weakness show Thy might.Suffer me not in any wantTo seek refreshment from a plantThou didst not set; since all must bePluck'd up, whose growth is not from Thee.'Tis not the garden, and the bow'rs,Nor sense and forms, that give to flow'rsTheir wholesomeness, but Thy good will,Which truth and pureness purchase still.Then since corrupt man hath driv'n henceThy kind and saving influence,And balm is no more to be hadIn all the coasts of Gilead;Go with me to the shade and cell,Where Thy best servants once did dwell.There let me know Thy will, and seeExil'd Religion own'd by Thee;For Thou canst turn dark grots to halls,And make hills blossom like the vales;Decking their untill'd heads with flow'rs,And fresh delights for all sad hours;Till from them, like a laden bee,I may fly home, and hive with Thee
From fruitful beds and flow'ry borders,Parcell'd to wasteful ranks and orders,Where State grasps more than plain Truth needs,And wholesome herbs are starv'd by weeds,To the wild woods I will be gone,And the coarse meals of great Saint John.
When truth and piety are miss'dBoth in the rulers and the priest;When pity is not cold, but dead,And the rich eat the poor like bread;While factious heads with open coilAnd force, first make, then share, the spoil;To Horeb then Elias goes,And in the desert grows the rose.Hail crystal fountains and fresh shades,Where no proud look invades,No busy worldling hunts awayThe sad retirer all the day!Hail, happy, harmless solitude!Our sanctuary from the rudeAnd scornful world; the calm recessOf faith, and hope, and holiness!Here something still like Eden looks;Honey in woods, juleps in brooks,And flow'rs, whose rich, unrifled sweetsWith a chaste kiss the cool dew greets,When the toils of the day are done,And the tir'd world sets with the sun.Here flying winds and flowing wellsAre the wise, watchful hermit's bells;Their busy murmurs all the nightTo praise or prayer do invite,And with an awful sound arrest,And piously employ his breast.
When in the East the dawn doth blush,Here cool, fresh spirits the air brush;Herbs straight get up, flow'rs peep and spread,Trees whisper praise, and bow the head:Birds, from the shades of night releas'd,Look round about, then quit the nest,And with united gladness singThe glory of the morning's King.The hermit hears, and with meek voiceOffers his own up, and their joys:Then prays that all the world may beBless'd with as sweet an unity.
If sudden storms the day invade,They flock about him to the shade:Where wisely they expect the end,Giving the tempest time to spend;And hard by shelters on some boughHilarion's servant, the sage crow.
O purer years of light and grace!The diff'rence is great as the space'Twixt you and us, who blindly runAfter false fires, and leave the sun.Is not fair Nature of herselfMuch richer than dull paint or pelf?And are not streams at the spring-headMore sweet than in carv'd stone or lead?But fancy and some artist's toolsFrame a religion for fools.
The truth, which once was plainly taught,With thorns and briars now is fraught.Some part is with bold fables spotted,Some by strange comments wildly blotted;And Discord—old Corruption's crest—With blood and blame hath stain'd the rest.So snow, which in its first descentsA whiteness, like pure Heav'n, presents,When touch'd by man is quickly soil'd,And after, trodden down and spoil'd.
O lead me, where I may be freeIn truth and spirit to serve Thee!Where undisturb'd I may converseWith Thy great Self; and there rehearseThy gifts with thanks; and from Thy store,Who art all blessings, beg much more.Give me the wisdom of the bee,And her unwearied industry!That from the wild gourds of these days,I may extract health, and Thy praise,Who canst turn darkness into light,And in my weakness show Thy might.
Suffer me not in any wantTo seek refreshment from a plantThou didst not set; since all must bePluck'd up, whose growth is not from Thee.'Tis not the garden, and the bow'rs,Nor sense and forms, that give to flow'rsTheir wholesomeness, but Thy good will,Which truth and pureness purchase still.
Then since corrupt man hath driv'n henceThy kind and saving influence,And balm is no more to be hadIn all the coasts of Gilead;Go with me to the shade and cell,Where Thy best servants once did dwell.There let me know Thy will, and seeExil'd Religion own'd by Thee;For Thou canst turn dark grots to halls,And make hills blossom like the vales;Decking their untill'd heads with flow'rs,And fresh delights for all sad hours;Till from them, like a laden bee,I may fly home, and hive with Thee
Farewell, thou true and tried reflectionOf the still poor, and meek election:Farewell, soul's joy, the quick'ning healthOf spirits, and their secret wealth!Farewell, my morning-star, the brightAnd dawning looks of the True Light!O blessed shiner, tell me whitherThou wilt be gone, when night comes hither!A seër that observ'd thee inThy course, and watch'd the growth of sin,Hath giv'n his judgment, and foretold,That westward hence thy course will hold;And when the day with us is done,There fix, and shine a glorious sun.O hated shades and darkness! whenYou have got here the sway again,And like unwholesome fogs withstoodThe light, and blasted all that's good,Who shall the happy shepherds be,To watch the next nativityOf truth and brightness, and make wayFor the returning, rising day?O what year will bring back our bliss?Or who shall live, when God doth this?Thou Rock of Ages! and the RestOf all, that for Thee are oppress'd!Send down the Spirit of Thy truth,That Spirit, which the tender youth,And first growths of Thy Spouse did spreadThrough all the world, from one small head!Then if to blood we must resist,Let Thy mild Dove, and our High-Priest,Help us, when man proves false or frowns,To bear the Cross, and save our crowns.O honour those that honour Thee!Make babes to still the enemy!And teach an infant of few daysTo perfect by his death Thy praise!Let none defile what Thou didst wed,Nor tear the garland from her head!But chaste and cheerful let her die,And precious in the Bridegroom's eyeSo to Thy glory and her praise,These last shall be her brightest days.Revel[ation] chap. last, vers. 17."The Spirit and the Bride say, Come."
Farewell, thou true and tried reflectionOf the still poor, and meek election:Farewell, soul's joy, the quick'ning healthOf spirits, and their secret wealth!Farewell, my morning-star, the brightAnd dawning looks of the True Light!O blessed shiner, tell me whitherThou wilt be gone, when night comes hither!A seër that observ'd thee inThy course, and watch'd the growth of sin,Hath giv'n his judgment, and foretold,That westward hence thy course will hold;And when the day with us is done,There fix, and shine a glorious sun.O hated shades and darkness! whenYou have got here the sway again,And like unwholesome fogs withstoodThe light, and blasted all that's good,Who shall the happy shepherds be,To watch the next nativityOf truth and brightness, and make wayFor the returning, rising day?O what year will bring back our bliss?Or who shall live, when God doth this?Thou Rock of Ages! and the RestOf all, that for Thee are oppress'd!Send down the Spirit of Thy truth,That Spirit, which the tender youth,And first growths of Thy Spouse did spreadThrough all the world, from one small head!Then if to blood we must resist,Let Thy mild Dove, and our High-Priest,Help us, when man proves false or frowns,To bear the Cross, and save our crowns.O honour those that honour Thee!Make babes to still the enemy!And teach an infant of few daysTo perfect by his death Thy praise!Let none defile what Thou didst wed,Nor tear the garland from her head!But chaste and cheerful let her die,And precious in the Bridegroom's eyeSo to Thy glory and her praise,These last shall be her brightest days.
Revel[ation] chap. last, vers. 17."The Spirit and the Bride say, Come."
An Elegiac Eclogue. The Interlocutors, Damon, Menalcas.