For where before thou still didst call on me,

Now I still touch

And harp on thee.

God's promises hath made thee mine: Why should I justice now decline? Against me there is none, but for me much.

THE PILGRIMAGE.

I TRAVELL'D on, seeing the hill, where lay
My expectation.

A long it was and weary way.

The gloomy cave of Desperation

I left on the one, and on the other side

The rock of Pride.

And so I came to Fancy's meadow, strow'd
With many a flower:

Fain would I here have made abode,
But I was quicken'd by my hour.

So to Care's copse I came, and there got through
With much ado.

That led me to the wild of Passion; which

Some call the wold:

A wasted place, but sometimes rich.
Here I was robb'd of all my gold,

Save one good Angel, which a friend had tied

Close to my side.

At length I got unto the gladsome hill,

Where lay my hope,

Where lay my heart; and climbing still,

When I had gain'd the brow and top, A lake of brackish waters on the ground Was all I found.

With that abash'd, and struck with many a sting
Of swarming fears,

I fell, and cried, Alas, my King!
Can both the way and end be tears?
Yet, taking heart, I rose, and then perceived
I was deceived:

My hill was further: so I flung away,

Just as I went,

Yet heard a cry

"None goes that way

And lives." If that be all, said I,

After so foul a journey death is fair,

And but a chair.

THE HOLD-FAST.

I THREATEN'D to observe the strict decree

Of my dear God with all my power and might:

But I was told by one it could not be ;

Yet I might trust in God to be my light.

Then will I trust, said I, in Him alone.

Nay, e'en to trust in Him, was also His: We must confess, that nothing is our own. Then I confess that He my succor is :

But to have nought is ours, not to confess

That we have nought. I stood amazed at this,

Much troubled, till I heard a friend express, That all things were more ours by being His. What Adam had, and forfeited for all, Christ keepeth now, Who cannot fail or fall.

COMPLAINING.

Do not beguile my heart,

Because Thou art

My power and wisdom. Put me not to shame,

Because I am

Thy clay that weeps, Thy dust that calls.

Thou art the Lord of glory;

The deed and story

Are both Thy due: but I, a silly fly,

That live or die,

According as the weather falls.

Art thou all justice, Lord?
Shows not thy word

More attributes? Am I all throat or eye,

To weep or cry?

Have I no parts but those of grief?

Let not Thy wrathful power
Afflict my hour,

My inch of life or let Thy gracious power

That I may

Contract my hour,

climb and find relief.

THE DISCHARGE.

Busy enquiring heart, what wouldst thou know?
Why dost thou pry,

And turn, and leer, and with a licorous eye
Look high and low;

And in thy lookings stretch and grow?

Hast thou not made thy counts, and summ'd up

Give

up

all?

Did not thy heart

the whole, and with the whole depart?

Let what will fall:

That which is past who can recall?

Thy life is God's, thy time to come is gone,
And is His right.

He is thy night at noon: He is at night

Thy noon alone.

The

crop

is His, for he hath sown.

And well it was for thee, when this befell,
That God did make

Thy business His, and in thy life partake:
For thou canst tell,

If it be His once, all is well.

Only the present is thy part and fee.
And happy thou,

If, though thou didst not beat thy future brow, Thou couldst well see

What present things required of thee.

They ask enough; why shouldst thou further go? Raise not the mud

Of future depths, but drink the clear and good. Dig not for woe

In times to come; for it will grow.

Man and the present fit: if he provide,
He breaks the square.

This hour is mine: if for the next I care,
I grow too wide,

And do encroach upon death's side:

For death each hour environs and surrounds.
He that would know

And care for future chances, cannot go

Unto those grounds,

But thro' a churchyard which them bounds.