THE PEARL. I know all these, and have them in my hand: I fly to thee, and fully understand Both the main sale, and the commodities; To climb to thee. Herbert. PEACE. SWEET Peace, where dost thou dwell? I humbly crave, Let me once know. I sought thee in a secret cave, And ask'd, if Peace were there. A hollow wind did seem to answer, No; I did; and going did a rainbow note: This is the lace of Peace's coat: I will search out the matter, But while I look'd, the clouds immediately Then went I into a garden, and did spy The Crown Imperial: Sure, said I, Peace at the root must dwell; But when I digg'd, I saw a worm devour What show'd so well. PEACE. At length I met a rev'rend good old man: Whom when for Peace I did demand, he thus began: There was a Prince of old At Salem dwelt, who liv'd with good increase He sweetly liv'd; yet sweetness did not save But after death out of his grave There sprang twelve stalks of wheat Which many wondering at, got some of those To plant and set. It prosper'd strangely, and did soon disperse For they that taste it do rehearse, That virtue lies therein: A secret virtue, bringing Peace and Mirth, Take of this grain, which in my garden grows, Make bread of it: and that repose, And Peace which everywhere With so much earnestness you do pursue, Is only there. Herbert. I TRAVELL'D on, seeing the hill, where lay A long it was and weary way. I left on th' one, and on the other side THE PILGRIMAGE. And so I came to phansie's meadow strow'd Fain would I here have made abode, So to cares' copse I came, and there got through That led me to the wild of passion; which A wasted place, but sometimes rich. At length I got unto the gladsome hill, Where lay my heart; and climbing still, With that abash'd and struck with many a sting Of swarming fears, I fell, and cry'd, Alas my King; Can both the way and end be tears? Yet taking heart I rose, and then perceiv'd I was deceiv'd. My hill was further; so I flung away, Just as I went, None goes that way Herbert. THE FLOWER. How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean Are thy returns! ev'n as the flowers in spring; To which, besides their own demean, The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring. Like snow in May, As if there were no such cold thing. Who would have thought my shrivel'd heart To see their mother-root, when they have blown; 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 could spell. O that I once past changing were, Fast in Thy Paradise, where no flower can wither. Many a spring I shoot up fair, Off'ring at heav'n, growing and groaning thither : Nor doth my flower Want a spring-shower, My sins and I joining together. |