The Discharge.

Busy, inquiring heart, what wouldst thou know?
Why dost thou pry,

And turn, and leer, and with a liq'rous eye
Look high and low,

And in thy lookings stretch and grow?

Hast thou not made thy counts, and summed up all?
Did not thy heart

Give up the whole, and with the whole depart?
Let what will fall:

That which is past who can recall?

Thy life is God's, thy time to come is gone,
And is his right.

He is thy night at noon: he is at night
Thy noon alone.

The crop is his, for he hath sown.

And well it was for thee, when this befel,
That God did make

Thy business his, and in thy life partake ·

If, though thou didst not beat thy future brow,

Thou couldst well see

What present things required of thee.

They ask enough; why shouldst thou further go?
Raise not the mud

Of future depths; but drink the clear and good.
Dig not for wo

In times to come; for it will grow.

Man and the present fit: if he provide,

He breaks the square.

This hour is mine: if for the next I care,
I grow too wide,

And do encroach upon Death's side:

For Death each hour environs and surrounds.
He, that would know

And care for future chances, cannot go

Unto those grounds,

But through a church-yard which them bounds.

Things present shrink and die: but they that spend Their thoughts and sense

On future grief, do not remove it thence,

But it extend,

And draw the bottom out an end.

God chains the dog till night: wilt loose the chain,
And wake thy sorrow?

Wilt thou forestall it, and now grieve to-morrow,
And then again

Grieve over freshly all thy pain?

Either grief will not come; or if it must,

Do not forecast:

And while it cometh, it is almost past.

Away, distrust!

My God hath promised; he is just.

Praise.

KING of glory, King of peace,
I will love thee:

And, that love may never cease,
I will move thee.

Thou hast granted my request;
Thou hast heard me :

Thou didst note my working breast;
Thou hast spared me.

Wherefore with my utmost art
I will sing thee,

And the cream of all my heart
I will bring thee.

Though my sins against me cried,
Thou didst clear me;

And alone, when they replied,

Thou didst hear me.

Seven whole days, not one in seven,
I will praise thee;

In my heart, though not in heaven,
I can raise thee.

Thou grew'st soft and moist with tears, Thou relentedst:

And, when Justice called for fears,

Thou dissentedst.

Small it is, in this poor sort
To enroll thee:

E'en eternity's too short

To extol thee.

An Offering.

COME, bring thy gift. If blessings were as slow
As men's returns, what would become of fools?
What hast thou there? a heart? but is it pure?
Search well and see; for hearts have many holes.
Yet one pure heart is nothing to bestow :
In Christ two natures met to be thy cure.

O that within us hearts had propagation,
Since many gifts do challenge many hearts!
Yet one, if good, may title to a number;
And single things grow fruitful by deserts.
In public judgments one may be a nation,

And fence a plague, while others sleep and slumber.

But all I fear, is, lest thy heart displease,

As neither good, nor one; so oft divisions

Thy lusts have made: and not thy lusts alone;

Thy passions also have their set partitions.
These parcel out thy heart. Recover these,
And thou mayst offer many gifts in one.

There is a balsam, or, indeed, a blood

Dropping from heaven, which doth both cleanse and close
All sorts of wounds; of such strange force it is.
Seek out this all-heal, and seek no repose,

Until thou find and use it to thy good.

Then bring thy gift, and let thy hymn be this:

SINCE my sadness

Into gladness,

Lord, thou dost convert;

Oh, accept

What thou hast kept,

As thy due desert.

Had I many,

Had I any,

(For this heart is none,)

All were thine,

And none of mine;

Surely thine alone.

Yet, thy favor
May give savor
To this poor oblation;
And it raise

To be thy praise,
And be my salvation.

Longing.

WITH sick and famished eyes,
With doubling knees, and weary bones,

To thee my cries,

To thee my groans,

To thee my sighs, my tears ascend.

No end?