Steps to the Temple: Delights of the Muses, and Other Poems |
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Page 283 - Flowers of never-fading graces, To make immortal dressings, For worthy souls whose wise embraces Store up themselves for Him who is alone The spouse of virgins, and the virgin's son.
Page 123 - Trails her plain ditty in one long-spun note, Through the sleek passage of her open throat, A clear unwrinkled song ; then doth she...
Page 275 - Shall flourish on thy brows, and be Both fire to us and flame to thee; Whose light shall live bright in thy face By glory, in our hearts by grace. • Thou shalt look round about, and see Thousands of crown'd souls throng to be Themselves thy crown. Sons...
Page 166 - Of darkness, by the light Of a clear mind are day all night ; Nights sweet as they, Made short by lovers' play, Yet long by the absence of the day.
Page 207 - By those sweet eyes' persuasive powers, Where he meant frost, he scattered flowers. Chorus : By those sweet eyes', etc. BOTH : We saw Thee in Thy balmy nest, Young dawn of our eternal Day ! We saw Thine eyes break from their East, And chase the trembling shades away. We saw Thee; and we blest the sight, We saw Thee by Thine Own sweet light.
Page 201 - O, dawn at last, long-look'd for day ! Take thine own wings and come away. Lo, where aloft it comes ! It comes, among The conduct of adoring Spirits, that throng Like diligent bees, and swarm about it.
Page 208 - To thee, meek Majesty, soft King Of simple graces and sweet loves, Each of us his lamb will bring, Each his pair of silver doves; Till burnt at last, in fire of thy fair eyes, Ourselves become our own best sacrifice.
Page 89 - THey have left thee naked Lord. O that they had; This Garment too, I would they had deny'd. Thee with thy selfe they have too richly clad, Opening the purple wardrobe of thy side : O never could there be garment [too] good For thee to weare, but this of thine owne blood.
Page 198 - Go and request Great Nature for the key of her huge chest Of heav'ns, the self- involving...
Page 127 - At length (after so long, so loud a strife Of all the strings, still breathing the best life Of blest variety, attending on His fingers' fairest revolution, In many a sweet rise, many as sweet a fall) A full-mouth'd diapason swallows all.