I, and dear prayer, would together dwell,
And quickly gain, for each inch lost, an ell.
O sacred Providence, who from end to end
Strongly and sweetly movest! shall I write,
And not of Thee, through whom my fingers bend
To hold my quill? Shall they not do Thee right?
Of all the creatures both in sea and land
Only to man Thou hast made known Thy ways,
And put the pen alone into his hand,
And made him secretary of Thy praise.
Beasts fain would sing; birds ditty to their notes;
Trees would be tuning on their native lute
To Thy renown: but all their hands and throats
Are brought to man, while they are lame and mute.
Man is the world's high-priest; he doth present
The sacrifice for all; while they below
Unto the service mutter an assent,-
Such as springs use that fall, and winds that blow.
The first puts on with speed an expedition;
The other curbs sin's stealing pace and theft:
Nothing escapes them both; all must appear,
And be dispos'd, and dress'd, and tun'd by Thee,
Who sweetly temper❜st all. If we could hear
Thy skill and art, what music would it be!
Thou art in small things great, not small in any;
Thy even praise can neither rise nor fall.
Thou art in all things one, in each thing many:
For Thou art infinite in one, and all.
Tempests are calm to Thee, they know Thy hand,
And hold it fast, as children do their father's,
Which cry and follow. Thou hast made poor sand
Check the proud sea, even when it swells and gathers.
Thy cupboard serves the world; the meat is set,
Where all may reach; no beast but knows his feed.
Birds teach us hawking; fishes have their net:
The great prey on the less, they on some weed.
Nothing engender'd doth prevent his meat;
Flies have their tables spread, c'er they appear;
Some creatures have in winter what to eat;
Others do sleep, and envy not their cheer.
How finely dost Thou times and seasons spin,
And make a twist checker'd with night and day!
Which as it lengthens, winds, and winds us in,
As bowls go on, but turning all the way.
Each creature hath a wisdom for his good.
The pigeons feed their tender offspring, crying,
When they are callow; but withdraw their food,
When they are fledged, that need may teach them flying.
Bees work for man; and yet they never bruise
Their master's flower, but leave it, having done,
As fair as ever, and as fit to use:
So both the flower doth stay, and honey run.
Sheep eat the grass, and dung the ground for more:
Trees after bearing drop their leaves for soil:
Springs vent their streams, and by expense get store:
Clouds cool by heat, and baths by cooling boil.
Who hath the virtue to express the rare
And curious virtues both of herbs and stones?
Is there an herb for that? O that Thy care
Would shew a root that gives expressions!
And if an herb hath power, what have the stars!
A rose, besides his beauty, is a cure.
Doubtless our plagues and plenty, peace and wars,
Are there much surer than our art is sure.
Thou hast hid metals: man may take them thence,
But at his peril; when he digs the place,
He makes a grave; as if the thing had sense,
And threaten'd man, that he should fill the space.
Ev'n poisons praise Thee. Should a thing be lost?
Should creatures want, for want of heed, their due?
Since where are poisons, antidotes are most;
The help stands close, and keeps the fear in view.
The sea, which seems to stop the traveller,
Is by a ship the speedier passage made.
The winds, who think they rule the mariner,
Are rul'd by him, and taught to serve his trade.
And as Thy house is full, so I adore
Thy curious art in marshalling Thy goods.
The hills with health abound, the vales with store;
The south, with marble; north, with furs and woods.
Hard things are glorious; easy things good cheap;
The common all men have; that which is rare,
Men therefore seek to have and care to keep.
The healthy frosts with summer fruits compare.
Light without wind is glass; warm without weight
Is wool and furs; cool without coldness, shade;
Speed without pains, a horse; tall without height,
A servile hawk; low without loss, a spade.
All countries have enough to serve their need:
If they seek fine things, Thou dost make them run
For their offence; and then dost turn their speed
To be commerce and trade from sun to sun.
Nothing wears clothes but man; nothing doth need
But he to wear them. Nothing useth fire,
But man alone, to shew his heavenly breed:
And only he hath fuel in desire.
When the earth was dry, Thou mad'st a sea of wet;
When that lay gather'd, Thou didst broach the mountains; When yet some places could no moisture get,
The winds grew gard'ners, and the clouds good fountains.
Rain, do not hurt my flowers; but gently spend
Your honey-drops; press not to smell them here;
When they are ripe, their odour will ascend,
And at your lodging with their thanks appear.
But who hath praise enough? nay, who hath any?
None can express Thy works but he that knows them;
And none can know Thy works, which are so many,
And so complete, but only He that owns them.
All things that are, though they have several ways,
Yet in their being join with one advice
To honour Thee; and so I give Thee praise
In all my other hymns, but in this twice.
Each thing that is, although in use and name
It go for one, hath many ways in store
To honour Thee: and so each hymn thy fam
Extolleth many ways; yet this, one more.
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 frost's tributes of pleasure bring.
Grief melts away
Like snow in May,
As if there were no such cold thing.
Who would have thought my shrivell❜d heart
Could have recover'd greenness? It was gone
Quite under ground, as flowers depart
To see their mother root, when they have blown;
Where they together
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,
Thy word is all, if we would spell.
Oh, that I once past changing were;
Fast in Thy Paradise, where no flow'r can wither!
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,
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