When the Judgment is reveal'd,
And that open'd which was seal'd,
When to Thee I have appeal'd,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

Herrick.

66 OUR LIFE IS EVEN AS A VAPOUR!"

|IKE to the falling of a star;
Or as the flights of eagles are;

Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue;

Or silver drops of morning dew;
Or like a wind that chafes the flood;
Or bubbles which on water stood;
E'en such is man, whose borrow'd light
Is straight call'd in and paid to-night.

The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The spring entomb'd in autumn lies;
The dew dries up, the star is shot,
The flight is past, and man forgot.

King.

CHARITAS NIMIA.

ORD! what is man? Why should he cost
Thee

So dear? What had his ruin lost Thee?
Lord, what is man, that Thou hast overbought
So much a thing of nought?

Alas! dear Lord, what were't to Thee
If there were no such worms as we ?
Heav'n ne'er the less still heaven would be:
Should mankind dwell

In the deep hell,

What have his woes to do with Thee?

Let him go weep

O'er his own wounds;

Seraphim will not sleep,

Nor spheres forget their faithful rounds: Still would those beauteous ministers of light Burn all as bright,

And bow their flaming heads before Thee; Still thrones and dominations would adore Thee: Still would those ever-wakeful sons of fire Sound forth Thy praise

Both nights and days,

And teach Thy loved name to their noble lyre.

Let froward dust then do its kind,

And give itself for sport to the proud wind. Why should a piece of peevish clay plead shares In the eternity of Thy old cares?

Why shouldst Thou bow Thy awful head to see What mine own madnesses have done with me? Will the resplendent sun

E'er the less glorious run?

Will he hang down his golden head,
Or e'er the sooner seek his western bed,
Because some foolish fly

Grows wanton and will die?

If I were lost in misery

What was it to Thy heaven and Thee?
What was it to Thy precious blood
If my foul heart call'd for a flood?
What if my faithless soul and I
Must needs fall in

With guilt and sin?

What did the Lamb that He should die?
What did the Lamb that He should need,

When the wolf sins, Himself to bleed?
If my base lust

Bargain'd with death, and well-beseeming dust,
Why should the white

Lamb's bosom write

The purple name

Of my sin's shame ?

Why should His unstain'd breast make good
My blushes with His own heart-blood?

O my Saviour, make me see

How dearly Thou hast paid for me;
That lost again my life may prove,

As then in death, so now in love.

Crashaw.

PSALM CXXXVII.

IN the proud banks of great Euphrates' flood,

There we sat, and there we wept;

Our harps, that now no music understood,
Nodding on the willows slept;

While unhappy captives we,

Lovely Sion, thought on thee.

They, they that snatch'd us from our country's breast,

Would have a song carved to their ears

In Hebrew numbers, then, O cruel jest!

When harps and hearts were drown'd in tears;

Come, they cried, come, sing and play
One of Sion's songs to-day.

Sing? play? to whom, ah! shall we sing or play,

If not, Jerusalem, to thee?

Ah! thee Jerusalem; ah! sooner may

This hand forget the mastery

Of music's dainty touch, than I
The music of thy memory.

Which when I lose, oh may at once my tongue
Lose this same busy speaking art,
Unperch'd, her vocal arteries unstrung,
No more acquainted with my heart,
On my dry palate's roof to rest,
A wither'd leaf, an idle guest!

No, no, thy good, Sion, alone must crown
The head of all my hope-nursed joys.

But, Edom, cruel thou! thou cried'st, Down, down,
Sink, Sion, down, and never rise!

Her falling thou didst urge and thrust,

And haste to dash her into dust.

Dost laugh? proud Babel's daughter! Do, laugh on, Till thy ruin teach thee tears,

Even such as these; laugh, till a 'venging throng
Of woes too late do rouse thy fears.

Laugh till thy children's bleeding bones
Weep precious tears upon the stones.

Crashaw.