THE PULLEY. WHEN God at first made man, Having a glass of blessing standing by, 66 Let us," said he, "pour on him all we can: Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie, Contract into a span." So strength first made away: Then beauty flow'd; then wisdom, honour, plea sure: When almost all was out, God made a stay, Rest in the bottom lay. "For if I should," said he, Bestow this jewel also on my creature, He would adore my gifts instead of me; "Yet let him keep the rest; But keep them with repining restlessness: THE PRIESTHOOD. BLEST order, which in power dost so excel, In thy just censures; fain would I draw nigh, But thou art fire, sacred and hallow'd fire; Yet have I often seen, by cunning hand But since those great ones, be they ne'er so great, Come from the earth, from whence those vessels come, So that at once both feeder, dish, and meat But the holy men of God such vessels are, Their hands convey Him, who conveys their hands. Oh, what pure things, most pure, must those things be, Who bring my God to me! Wherefore I dare not, I, put forth my hand There will I lie, until my Maker seek GRIEF. O WHO will give me tears? Come all ye springs, Dwell in my head and eyes: come, clouds and rain! My grief hath need of all the watery things, Whose grief allows him music and a rhyme; THE FLOWER. How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean As if there were no such cold thing. Who would have thought my shrivell❜d heart Could have recover'd greenness? It was gone Quite under ground, as flowers depart To see their mother-root, when they have blown; Where they together All the hard weather Dead to the world, keep house unknown. These are thy wonders, Lord of power! This or that is :' Thy word is all, if we would spell. Oh, that I once past changing were; Fast in thy Paradise, where no flow'r can wither! Many a spring I shot up fair, Offering at heav'n, growing and groaning thither: Nor doth my flower Want a spring-shower, My sins and I joining together. But, while I grow in a straight line, Still upwards bent, as if heav'n were mine own, Thy anger comes, and I decline: What frost to that? What pole is not the zone Where all things burn, When thou dost turn, And the least frown of thine is shown? And now in age I bud again; I once more smell the dew and rain, That I am he, On whom thy tempests fell all night! These are thy wonders, Lord of love! Swelling through store, Forfeit their Paradise by their pride. |