ON TIME. THE SHORTNESS OF LIFE. AND what's a life? A weary pilgrimage, And what's a life? The flourishing array Read on this dial how the shades devour Behold these lilies which thy hands have made, laid To view, how soon they droop, how soon they fade! Shade not that dial, night will blind too soon; My nonag'd day already points to noon How simple is my suit! how small my boon! Nor do I beg this slender inch to wile The time away or falsely to beguile 23. My thoughts with joy: here's nothing worth a smile. ON TIME. TIME'S an hand's-breadth; 'tis a tale; 'Tis a vessel under sail; 'Tis an eagle in its way, Darting down upon its prey; 'Tis a torrent's rapid stream; GEORGE HERBERT. BORN, 1593; DIED, 1632. PEACE. SWEET peace, where dost thou dwell? I humbly cra 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! Go seek elsewhere." I did; and going, did a rainbow note: Surely, thought I, This is the lace of peace's coat: I will search out the matter. But while I look'd, the clouds immediately Then I went to a garden, and did spy A gallant flower, The crown imperial. แ Sure," said I, "Peace at the root must dwell." But when I digg'd, I saw a worm devour At length I met a reverend 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 Of flock and fold. LIFE. "He sweetly lived; yet sweetness did not save His life from foes. But after death out of his grave There sprang twelve stalks of wheat; Which many wond'ring at, got some of those "It prosper'd strangely, and did soon disperse Through all the earth; For they that taste it do rehearse, That virtues lie therein; A secret virtue, bringing peace and mirth, "Take of this grain which in my garden grows, And grows for you: Make bread of it; and that repose And peace which everywhere With so much earnestness you do pursue, I LIFE. MADE a posy, while the day ran by : But time did beckon to the flowers, and they And wither'd in my hand. My hand was next to them, and then my heart. Who did so sweetly death's sad taste convey, VOL. 1. Yet sug'ring the suspicion. 25 Farewell, dear flow'rs! sweetly your time ye spent; Fit, while ye liv'd, for smell or ornament: And, after death, for cures. I follow straight, without complaints or grief; DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST. THE glories of our birth and state, Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, The garlands wither on your brow, See where the victor victim bleeds: All heads must come To the cold tomb, Only the actions of the just Smell sweet and blossom in the dust. HYMN TO THE NATIVITY. SOLILOQUY ON DEATH. I HAVE not lived After the rate to fear another world. We come from nothing into life, a time We measure with a short breath, and that often RICHARD CRASHAW. DATE OF BIRTH UNCERTAIN; DIED ABOUT 1650. HYMN TO THE NATIVITY. GLOOMY night embrac'd the place Where the noble infant lay; We saw thee in thy balmy nest We saw thine eyes break from the east, She sings thy tears asleep, and dips That in their buds yet blushing lie. 27 |