APPY me, O happy sheep, Whom my God vouchsafes to keep;
Even my God, even He it is
That points me to these ways of bliss;
On Whose pastures cheerful Spring
All the year doth sit and sing,
And rejoicing, smiles to see
Their green backs wear His livery.
Pleasure sings my soul to rest,
Plenty wears me at her breast,
Whose sweet temper teaches me
Nor wanton, nor in want to be.
At my feet the blubbering mountain.
Weeping, melts into a fountain,
Whose soft, silver-sweating streams
Make high-noon forget his beams :
When my wayward breath is flying,
He calls home my soul from dying,
Strokes and tames my rabid grief,
And does woo me into life:
When my simple weakness strays,
(Tangled in forbidden ways)
He (my Shepherd) is my guide,
He's before me, at my side,
And behind me; He beguiles
Craft in all her knotty wiles.
He expounds the weary wonder
Of my giddy steps, and under
Spreads a path clear as the day,
Where no churlish rub1 says nay
To my joy-conducted feet,
Whilst they gladly go to meet
Grace and Peace, to learn new lays
Tuned to my great Shepherd's praise.
Come now, all ye terrors sally,
Muster forth into the valley,
Where triumphant darkness hovers
With a sable wing, that covers
Brooding horror. Come, thou Death,
Let the damps of thy dull breath
Overshadow even the shade,
And make Darkness' self afraid;
There my feet, even there, shall find
Way for a resolved mind.
Still my Shepherd, still my God
Thou art with me; still Thy rod,
And Thy staff, whose influence
Gives direction, gives defence.
At the whisper of Thy word
Crown'd abundance spreads my board:
While I feast, my foes do feed
Their rank malice, not their need;
So that with the self-same bread
They are starved, and I am fed.
How my head in ointment swims,
How my cup o'erlooks her brims ;
So, even so, still may I move
By the line of Thy dear love;
1 A difficulty. Cf. Macbeth, iii. 1; Henry V., ii. 2;
"To sleep, perchance to dream,
Ay, there's the rub."
Still may Thy sweet mercy spread
A shady arm above my head,
About my paths; so shall I find
The fair centre of my mind,
Thy temple, and those lovely walls
Bright ever with a beam that falls
Fresh from th' pure glance of Thine eye,
Lighting to Eternity.
There I'll dwell for ever, there
Will I find a purer air,
To feed my life with; there I'll sup
Balm and nectar in my cup;
And thence my ripe soul will I breathe
Warm into the arms of Death.
On the proud banks of great Euphrates' flood,
There we sate, and there we wept : Our harps, that now no music understood, Nodding, on the willows slept :
While unhappy captived we,
Lovely Sion, thought on thee.
They, they that snatch'd us from our country's breast
Would have a song carved 1 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.
1 Carved as it were from absolute melody. Made for them especially.
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, O may at once my tongue
Lose this same busy-speaking art;
Unperched,1 her vocal arteries unstrung,
No more acquainted with my heart,
On my dry palate's roof to rest
A withered leaf, an idle guest.
No, no, Thy good, Sion, alone must crown
The head of all thy hope-nursed joys.
But Edom, cruel thou, thou criedst 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 2 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.
1 An extraordinary use of the word, but see following line. The idea is that the tongue is perched on the palate to sing.
IN THE HOLY NATIVITY OF OUR
A HYMN SUNG AS BY THE SHEPHERDS
COME, ye shepherds, whose blest sight
Hath met Love's noon in Nature's night;
Come, lift we up our loftier song,
And wake the sun that lies too long.
To all our world of well-stolen joy
He1 slept, and dreamt of no such thing.
While we found out Heaven's fairer eye,
And kissed the cradle of our King.
Tell Him he rises now, too late
To show us aught worth looking at.
Tell him we now can show him more Than he e'er show'd to mortal sight; Than he himself e'er saw before, Which to be seen needs not his light.
Tell him, Tityrus, where th' hast been, Tell him, Thyrsis, what th' hast seen.
Gloomy night embraced the place Where the noble Infant lay.
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