Then close again the seam Which thou hast opened; do not spread thy robe In hope of great things. Call to mind thy dream, An earthly globe, On whose meridian was engraven, "These seas are tears, and Heaven the haven." A ARTILLERY SI one evening sat before my cell, Methought a star did shoot into my lap. I rose, and shook my clothes, as knowing well, That from small fire comes oft no small mishap: When suddenly heard one say, "Do as thou usest, disobey, 66 Expel good motions from thy breast, "Which have the face of fire, but end in rest." I, who had heard of music in the spheres, Dread Lord, said I, so oft my good; But I have also stars and shooters too, Church-Rents and Schisms 145 Not but I am (I must say still) Much more obliged to do Thy will, Than Thou to grant mine: but because Thy promise now hath e'en set Thee Thy laws. Then we are shooters both, and Thou dost deign With Thine own clay. But I would parley fain : I must be so, if I am mine. B CHURCH-RENTS AND SCHISMS RAVE rose (alas!) where art thou? in the chair, Where thou didst lately so triumph and shine, A worm doth sit, whose many feet and hair Are the more foul, the more thou wert divine. This, this hath done it, this did bite the root And bottom of the leaves: which when the wind Did once perceive, it blew them under foot Where rude unhallowed steps do crush and grind Their beauteous glories. Only shreds of thee, And those all bitten, in thy chair I see. Why doth my Mother blush? is she the rose, K Did worm and work within you more and more, Turned your ruddy into pale and bleak: Your health and beauty both began to break. Then did your several parts unloose and start: With these two poor ones lick up all the dew, JUSTICE DREADFUL justice, what a fright and terror When sin and error Did show and shape thy looks to me, He that did but look up, was proud and bold. The dishes of thy balance seemed to gape, The beam and scape Did like some tottering engine show: Daunting the stoutest hearts, the proudest wits. But now that Christ's pure veil presents the sight, I see no fears: Thy hand is white, Thy scales like buckets, which attend Lifting to heaven from this well of tears. For where before thou still didst call on me, And harp on thee. God's promises have made thee mine: Why should I justice now decline? Against me there is none, but for me much. I THE PILGRIMAGE TRAVELLED on, seeing the hill, where lay A long it was and weary way. I left on the one, and on the other side And so I came to Fancy's meadow strowed Fain would I here have made abode, So to Care's copse I came, and there got through That led me to the wild of Passion; which A wasted place, but sometimes rich. Save one good Angel, which a friend had tied At length I got unto the gladsome hill, Where lay my heart; and climbing still, A lake of brackish waters on the ground With that abashed, and struck with many a sting I fell, and cried, Alas, my King! Yet taking heart I rose, and then perceived My hill was further: so I flung away, Just as I went, "none goes that way After so foul a journey death is fair, And but a chair. I THE HOLD-FAST THREATENED to observe the strict decree Yet I might trust in God to be my light. |