And he doth trace the height Of that fair lamp which flames of beauty streams. "He towers those golden bounds The higher wandering rounds That, robed in glory, Heaven's King may ascend. "O Well-spring of this all! Thy Father's image vive; Word, that from nought did call What is, doth reason, live! Earth's joy, delight of Heaven, "What was dismarshall'd late (And, troubled, stray'd, unclean) From their first source, by thee home turned are. "By thee, that blemish old Poor man the entrance into Paradise. "Now each ethereal gate To him hath open'd been ; And Glory's King in state Now come is this High Priest Not without blood addrest, With glory Heaven, the Earth to crown with grace. Stars, which all eyes were late, And did with wonder burn, His name to celebrate, In flaming tongues them turn; And entheate from above, Their sovereign prince laud, glorify, adore. "The choirs of happy souls, Waked with that music sweet, And, arch'd in squadrons bright, "O glory of the Heaven! O sole delight of Earth! Who dost the world renew, Still be thou our salvation, and our song." From top of Olivet such notes did rise, When man's Redeemer did transcend the skies. Robert Herrick. Born 1591. Died 1674. BORN in London in 1591. He was presented to the vicarage of Dean Prior in Devonshire by Charles I. During the civil wars he was ejected by Cromwell, but at the Restoration was again replaced in his vicarage, where he died in 1674. The poetical works of Herrick were neglected for many years after his death, but since then some of his short lyrical pieces have been set to music, and are still sung, such as "Cherry Ripe," "Gather the Rosebuds. He is also the author of some Hymns. TO BLOSSOMS. FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree, Your date is not so past, But you may stay yet here awhile, What! were ye born to be But you are lovely leaves, where we TO PRIMROSES. Filled with Morning Dew. WHY do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears Who were but born Just as the modest morn Teemed her refreshing dew? Nor felt the unkind Breath of a blasting wind; Or warped as we, Who think it strange to see Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, Speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make known Ye droop and weep; Is it for want of sleep, Or that ye have not seen as yet Or brought a kiss From that sweet heart to this? Would have this lecture read "That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth." FOR COMFORT IN DEATH. In the hour of my distresse, When I lie within my bed, When the house doth sigh and weep, When the passing-bell doth toll, Come to fright my parting soul, When, God knowes, I'm tost about, Yet before the glasse be out, When the Tempter me pursu'th When the judgment is reveal'd, Sweet Spirit, comfort me. Francis Quarles. { Born 1592. Died 1644. BORN near Romford, Essex; was cup bearer to Elizabeth of Bohemia; afterwards secretary to Archbishop Usher in Ireland, where he lost most of his wealth in the Rebellion of 1641. He joined Charles in the civil wars; and having had all his property sequestrated by Parliament, and his MS. plundered, he took the matter so much to heart that it hastened his death, which took place in 1644. He is chiefly known by his "Emblems." THE VANITY OF THE WORLD. Thy favours cannot gain a friend, Thy morning pleasures make an end Poor are the wants that thou supply'st, And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou vy'st With heaven; fond earth, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st. Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales Of endless treasure; Thy bounty offers easy sales Of lasting pleasure; Thou ask'st the conscience what she ails, There's none can want where thou supply'st: There's none can give where thou deny'st. Alas! fond world, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st. What well-advised ear regards What earth can say ? Thy words are gold, but thy rewards Thy cunning can but pack the cards, Thy game at weakest, still thou vyʼst ; If seen, and then revy'd, deny'sť: Thou art not what thou seem'st; false world, thou ly'st. Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint Of new-coined treasure; |