To Pontius [Pilate] Wasbing bis Blood=

stained hands.

Is murder no sin? or a sin so cheap,

That thou need'st heap

A rape upon 't? Till thy adult'rous touch

Taught her these sullied cheeks, this blubber'd face,
She was a nymph, the meadows knew none such,
Of honest parentage, of unstain'd race ;
The daughter of a fair and well-famed fountain,
As ever silver-tipp'd the side of shady mountain.

See how she weeps, and weeps, that she appears
Nothing but tears;

Each drop 's a tear that weeps for her own waste.

Hark how at every touch she does complain her! Hark how she bids her frighted drops make haste,

And with sad murmurs chides the hands that stain her!

Leave, leave, for shame, or else, good judge, decree What water shall wash this, when this hath washed thee.

:0:

On the Still Surviving Marks of our
Saviour's Wounds.

Whatever story of their cruelty,

Or nail, or thorn, or spear have writ in Thee,

Are in another sense

Still legible;

O these wakeful wounds of Thine!

Are they mouths? or are they eyes?

Be they mouths, or be they eyne,

Each bleeding part some one supplies.

Lo! a mouth, whose full-bloom'd lips
At too dear a rate are roses.
Lo! a blood-shot eye that weeps,

And many a cruel tear discloses.

O thou, that on this foot hast laid
Many a kiss, and many a tear ;
Now thou shalt have all repaid,

Whatsoe'er thy charges were.

This foot hath got a mouth and lips,
To pay the sweet sum of thy kisses;
To pay thy tears, an eye that weeps,
Instead of tears, such gems as this is.

The difference only this appears,
(Nor can the change offend)
The debt is paid in ruby tears,

Which thou in pearls didst lend.

Upon Easter Day.

Rise heir of fresh Eternity, a

From thy virgin tomb! b

Rise mighty Man of wonders, and Thy World with Thee O Thy tomb the universal East, C

Nature's new womb,

Thy tomb, fair Immortality's perfumèd nest.

Of all the glories make Noon gay,

This is the Morn ;

This Rock buds forth the fountain of the streams of Day :^

In Joy's white annals live this hour C

When Life was born;

No cloud scowl on His radiant lids, no tempest lour.

Life, by this Light's nativity,

All creatures have;

Death only by this Day's just doom is forced to die,
Nor is Death forced; for may he lie

Throned in Thy grave,

а

Death will on this condition be content to die.

a

Psalm rriii.

Happy me! O happy sheep!
Whom my God vouchsafes to keep;
Even my God, even He it is

That points me to these paths 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
Not 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, on 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 rub 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 resolvèd 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.