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These are Thy wonders, Lord of power, Killing and quick’ning, bringing down to Hell And

up to Heaven in an hour; Making a chiming of a passing bell.


This or that is;
Thy word is all, if we could spell.1

say amiss

O that I once past changing were, Fast in thy Paradise where no flower can wither!

Many a Spring I shoot up fair, Oft’ring at Heaven, growing and groaning thither;

Nor doth


flower Want a Spring shower, My sins and I joining together.

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 all night.

i Interpret.

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.

Geo. Herbert.



LET not the sluggish sleep

Close up thy waking eye,
Until with judgment deep

Thy daily deeds thou try :
He that one sin in conscience keeps

When he to quiet goes,
More vent'rous is than he that sleeps
With twenty mortal foes.




Of this fair volume which we World do name
If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care,
Of Him who it corrects and did it frame
We clear might read the art and wisdom rare :



Find out His power which wildest powers doth tame,
His providence extending everywhere,
His justice which proud rebels doth not spare,
In every page, no period of the same.
But silly we, like foolish children, rest
Well pleased with colour'd vellum, leaves of gold,
Fair dangling ribands, leaving what is best,
On the great Writer's sense ne'er taking hold;

Or, if by chance we stay our minds on aught,
It is some picture on the margin wrought.

Drummond of Hawthornden.


O COME QUICKLY! Never weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore, Never tirèd pilgrim's limbs affected slumber more, Than my wearied sprite now longs to fly out of my

troubled breast : O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soul

to rest!

Ever blooming are the joys of heaven's high Paradise, Cold age deafs not there our ears nor vapour dims

our eyes : Glory there the sun outshines; whose beams the

Blessèd only see: O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my sprite to Thee!

T. Campion.



Can I not come to Thee, my God, for these
So very-many-meeting hindrances,
That slack my pace, but yet not make me stay?
Who slowly goes, rids, in the end, his way.
Clear Thou my paths, or shorten Thou my miles,
Remove the bars, or lift me o'er the stiles;
Since rough the way is, help me when I call,
And take me up; or else prevent the fall.
I ken my home, and it affords some ease
To see far off the smoking villages.
Fain would I rest, yet covet not to die
For fear of future biting penury :
No, no, my God,—Thou know'st


wishes be To leave this life not loving it, but Thee.




When God at first made Man, Having a glass of blessings standing by,– Let us (said He) pour on him all we can; Let the world's riches which dispersèd lie

Contract into a span.

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So strength first made a way, Then beauty flow'd, then wisdom, honour, pleasure: When almost all was out, God made a stay, Perceiving that, alone of all his treasure,

Rest in the bottom lay.

For if I should (said He)
Bestow this jewel also on My creature,
He would adore My gifts instead of Me,
And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature :

So both should losers be.

Yet let him keep the rest,
But keep them with repining restlessness;
Let him be rich and weary, that at least,
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
May toss him to My breast.

Geo. Herbert.



I STRUCK the board and cried, No more;

I will abroad.
What, shall I ever sigh and pine?
My lines and life are free, free as the road,
Loose as the wind, as large as store.

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