THE PULLEY.

WHEN God at first made man,

Having a glass of blessing standing by,

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Let us," said he, "pour on him all we can: Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie, Contract into a span."

So strength first made away:

Then beauty flow'd; then wisdom, honour, plea

sure:

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."

THE PRIESTHOOD.

BLEST order, which in power dost so excel,
That with th' one hand thou liftest to the sky,
And with the other throwest down to hell

In thy just censures; fain would I draw nigh,
Fain put thee on, exchanging my lay-sword
For that of the holy Word.

But thou art fire, sacred and hallow'd fire;
And I but earth and clay: should I presume
To wear thy habit, the severe attire
My slender compositions might consume.
I am both foul and brittle, much unfit
To deal in holy writ.

Yet have I often seen, by cunning hand
And force of fire, what curious things are made
Of wretched earth. Where once I scorn'd to stand,
That earth is fittest by the fire and trade
Of skilful artists, for the boards of those
Who make the bravests shows.

But since those great ones, be they ne'er so great, Come from the earth, from whence those vessels

come,

So that at once both feeder, dish, and meat
Have one beginning, and one final sum;
I do not greatly wonder at the sight,
If earth in earth delight.

But the holy men of God such vessels are,
As serve Him up, who all the world commands:
When God vouchsafeth to become our fare,

Their hands convey Him, who conveys their

hands.

Oh, what pure things, most pure, must those things

be,

Who bring my God to me!

Wherefore I dare not, I, put forth my hand
To hold the ark, although it seem to shake
Through th' old sins and new doctrines of our land.
Only-since God doth often vessels make
Of lowly matter for high uses meet—
I throw me at his feet.

There will I lie, until my Maker seek
For some mean stuff whereon to show his skill:
Then is my time. The distance of the meek
Doth flatter power. Lest good come short of ill
In praising might, the poor do by submission,
What pride by opposition.

GRIEF.

O WHO will give me tears? Come all ye springs, Dwell in my head and eyes: come, clouds and

rain!

My grief hath need of all the watery things,
That nature hath produc'd. Let every vein
Suck up a river to supply mine eyes,
My weary weeping eyes too dry for me,
Unless they get new conduits, new supplies,
To bear them out, and with my state agree.
What are two shallow fords, two little spouts
Of a less world? The greater is but small,
A narrow cupboard for my griefs and doubts,
Which want provision in the midst of all.
Verses, ye are too fine a thing, too wise
For my rough sorrows: Cease! be dumb and mute,
Give up your feet and running to mine eyes,
And keep your measures for some lover's lute,

Whose grief allows him music and a rhyme;
For mine excludes both measure, tune and time.
-Alas, my God!

THE FLOWER.

How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean
Are thy returns! ev'n as the flow'rs in spring:
To which, besides their own demean,
The late-past frost's tributes of pleasure bring.
Grief melts away
Like snow in May,

As if there were no such cold thing.

Who would have thought my shrivell❜d heart Could have recover'd greenness? It was gone Quite under ground, as flowers depart To see their mother-root, when they have blown; Where they together

All the hard weather

Dead to the world, keep house unknown.

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.
We say amiss,

This or that is :'

Thy word is all, if we would spell.

Oh, that I once past changing were;

Fast in thy Paradise, where no flow'r can wither!

Many a spring I shot up fair,

Offering at heav'n, growing and groaning thither:

Nor doth my flower

Want a spring-shower,

My sins and I joining together.

But, while I grow in a straight line, Still upwards bent, as if heav'n 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!

These are thy wonders, Lord of love!
To make us see we are but flow'rs 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.