But while I grow in a straight line,

Still upwards bent, as if heaven were mine own, Thy anger comes, and I decline:

What frost to that? what pole is not the zone Where all things burn,

When thou dost turn,

And the least frown of thine is shown?

And now in age I bud again,
After so many deaths I live and write;
I once more smell the dew and rain,
And relish versing: O my only light,
It cannot be

That I am he,

On whom thy tempests fell at night.

These are thy wonders, Lord of love, To make us see we are but flowers that glide: Which when we once can find and prove, Thou hast a garden for us, where to bide. Who would be more,

Swelling through store,

Forfeit their Paradise by their pride.

DOTAGE.

FALSE glozing pleasures, casks of happiness, Foolish night-fires, women's and children's wishes,

Chases in arras, gilded emptiness,

Shadows well mounted, dreams in a career,
Embroider'd lies, nothing between two dishes;
These are the pleasures here.

True earnest sorrows, rooted miseries,
Anguish in grain, vexations ripe and blown,
Sure-footed griefs, solid calamities,

Plain demonstrations, evident and clear,
Fetching their proofs even from the very bone;
These are the sorrows here.

But oh the folly of distracted men,

Who griefs in earnest, joys in jest pursue ;
Preferring, like brute beasts, a loathsome den
Before a court, even that above so clear,
Where are no sorrows, but delights more true
Than miseries are here!

THE SON.

LET foreign nations of their language boast,
What fine variety each tongue affords :

I like our language, as our men and coast;
Who cannot dress it well, want wit, not words.
How neatly do we give one only name
To Parent's issue and the Sun's bright star!
A Son is light and fruit; a fruitful flame
Chasing the Father's dimness, carried far
From the first man in the East, to fresh and new
Western discoveries of posterity.

So in one word our Lord's humility

We turn upon him in a sense most true :
For what Christ once in humbleness began,
We him in glory call, The Son of Man.

A TRUE HYMN.

My joy, my life, my crown!

My heart was meaning all the day,
Somewhat it fain would say:

And still it runneth muttering up and down
With only this, My joy, my life, my crown!

Yet slight not these few words;
If truly said, they may take part
Among the best in art.

The fineness which a Hymn or Psalm affords,
Is, when the soul unto the lines accords.

He who craves all the mind,

And all the soul, and strength, and time,
If the words only rhyme,

Justly complains, that somewhat is behind
To make his Verse, or write a Hymn in kind.

Whereas if the heart be moved, Although the Verse be somewhat scant, God doth supply the want.

As when the heart says (sighing to be approved), Oh, could I love! and stops; God writeth, Loved.

THE ANSWER.

My comforts drop and melt away like snow:
I shake my head, and all the thoughts and ends,
Which my fierce youth did bandy, fall and flow
Like leaves about me, or like summer friends,

M

Flies of estates and sunshine.

But to all,

Who think me eager, hot, and undertaking,
But in my prosecutions slack and small;
As a young exhalation, newly waking,

Scorns his first bed of dirt, and means the sky;
But cooling by the way, grows pursy and slow,
And settling to a cloud, doth live and die
In that dark state of tears: to all, that so
Show me, and set me, I have one reply,
Which they that know the rest, know more than I.

A DIALOGUE-ANTHEM.

CHRISTIAN, DEATH.

CHR. Alas, poor Death! where is thy glory?
Where is thy famous force, thy ancient sting?

DEA. Alas! poor mortal, void of story,

Go spell and read how I have kill'd thy King.

CHR. Poor Death! and who was hurt thereby?
Thy curse being laid on him makes thee accurst.

DEA. Let losers talk, yet thou shalt die;
These arms shall crush thee.

CHR. Spare not, do thy worst.

I shall be one day better than before :

Thou so much worse, that thou shalt be no more.

THE WATER-COURSE.

THOU who dost dwell and linger here below,
Since the condition of this world is frail,
Where of all plants afflictions soonest grow;
If troubles overtake thee, do not wail:

For who can look for less that loveth (Life?
Strife?

But rather turn the pipe, and water's course
To serve thy sins, and furnish thee with store
Of sovereign tears, springing from true remorse:
That so in pureness thou may'st him adore

Who gives to man, as he sees fit,

(Salvation.

Damnation.

SELF-CONDEMNATION.

THOU who condemnest Jewish hate, For choosing Barabbas a murderer Before the Lord of glory;

Look back upon thine own estate, Call home thine eye (that busy wanderer), That choice may be thy story.

He that doth love, and love amiss,
This world's delights before true Christian joy,
Hath made a Jewish choice:

The world an ancient murderer is
Thousands of souls it hath and doth destroy
With her enchanting voice.