Yet bear a part in dolefulwise,

Yea, think it good accord, And acceptable sacrifice,

Each sprite to praise the Lord.

The dreadful night with darksomeness

Had overspread our light,
And sluggish sleep with drowsiness

Had overprest our might:
A glass wherein you may behold

Each storm that stops our breath ;
Our bed the grave, our clothes like mould,

And sleep like dreadful death.
Yet as this dreadful night did last

But for a little space,
And heavenly day, now night is past,

Doth shew his pleasant face ;
So must we hope to see God's face

At least in heaven on high,
When we have chang'd this mortal place

For immortality.
And of such haps and heav'nly joys

As then we hope to hold,
All earthly sight and worldly toys

Are tokens to behold.
The day is like the day of doom,

The sún the Son of man,
The skies the heaven, the earth the tomb

Wherein we rest till then.

GOOD MORROW.

163

The rainbow bending in the sky,

Bedeck'd with sundry hues, Is like the seat of God on high,

And seems to tell these news :
That as thereby He promised

To drown the world no more,
So by the blood which Christ hath shed

He will our health restore.

The misty clouds that fall sometime,

And overcast the skies,
Are like to troubles of our time

Which do but dim our eyes :
But as such dews are dried up quite

When Phoebus shews his face,
So are such fancies put to flight

When God doth guide by grace.

The little birds which sing so sweet

Are like the angels' voice,
Which render God His praises meet,

And teach us to rejoice :
And as they more esteem that mirth

Than dread the night's annoy,
So must we deem our days on earth

But hell to heavenly joy.

Unto which joys for to attain

God grant us all His grace, And send us, after worldly pain,

In heaven to have a place ;

164

PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES.

Where we may still enjoy that light

Which never shall decay :
Lord, for Thy mercy, lend us might
To see that joyful day.

GASCOIGNE.

PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES.

We are kindly things, And like her offspring nestle with the dove, Witness these hearts embroidered on our wings To shew our constant patronage of love : We sit at even in sweet bow'rs above Lovers, and shake rich odours on the air To mingle with their sighs, and still remove The startling owl, and bid the bat forbear Their privacy, and haunt some other where. And we are near the mother when she sits Beside her infant in its wicker bed ; And we are in the fairy scene that flits Across its tender brain; sweet dreams we shed, And whilst the tender little soul is fled Away, to sport with our young elves, the while We touch the dimpled cheek with roses red, And tickle the soft lips until they smile, So that their careful parents they beguile.

T. HOOD.

Sacred.