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.

DOTAGE.

FALSE glosing 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,— Touching their proofs ev'n 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,-ev'n that above, so clear,—
Where are no sorrows, but delights more true
Than miseries are here!

BITTER-SWEET.

Ан, mу dear angry Lord!

Since thou dost love,-yet strike;
Cast down, yet help afford;
Sure, I will do the like.

I will complain,—yet praise ;—
I will bewail,-approve;

And all my sour-sweet days

I will lament, and love.

AARON.

HOLINESS on the head;

Light and perfections on the breast,
Harmonious bells below, raising the dead,
To lead them unto life and rest;-
Thus are true Aarons dress'd.

Profaneness in my head;

Defects and darkness in my breast;
A noise of passions ringing me, for dead,
Unto a place where is no rest;—
Poor priest thus am I dress'd.

Only another head

I have, another heart and breast; Another music, making 'live, not dead; Without whom I could have no rest :In him I am well dress'd.

Christ is my only head;

My alone, only heart and breast;
My only music, striking me e'en dead;
That to the old man I may rest,
And be in him new dress'd

So, holy in my head;

Perfect and light in my dear breast; My doctrine tun'd by Christ, who is not dead, But lives in me, while I do rest:

Come, people; Aaron's dress'd

DISCIPLINE.

THROW away thy rod,
Throw away thy wrath!
O my God,

Take the gentle path!

For my heart's desire
Unto thine is bent:
I aspire

To a full consent.

Not a word or look

I affect to own,
But by book;

And thy book alone.

Though I fail, I weep:
Though I halt in pace,
Yet I creep

To the throne of grace.

Then let wrath remove;
Love will do the deed:
For, with love
Stony hearts will bleed.

Love is swift of foot;
Love's a man of war,

And can shoot,

And can hit from far.

Who can 'scape his bow? That which wrought on thee,

Brought thee low,

Needs must work on me:

Throw away thy rod!
Though man frailties hath,
Thou art God!

Throw away thy wrath!

THE BANQUET.

WELCOME, Sweet and sacred cheer!
Welcome dear!

With me, in me, live and dwell:
For thy neatness passeth sight;
Thy delight

Passeth tongue, to taste, or tell.

O what sweetness from the bowl
Fills my soul,

Such as is, and makes, divine!
Is some star, fled from the sphere,
Melted there,

As we sugar melt in wine?

Or hath sweetness in the bread

Made a head

To subdue the smell of sin;
Flow'rs, and gums, and powders giving
All their living,

Lest the enemy should win?