CXXXVI. THE SON.

Let foreign nations of their language boast,
What fine variety each tongue affords :
I like our language, as our men and coast :
Who cannot dress it well, want wit, not words
How neatly do we give one only name
To parent's issue and the sun's bright star !
A son is light and fruit; a fruitful fame
Chasing the father's dimness, carried far
From the first man in the East, to fresh and new
Western discoveries of posterity.
So in one word our Lord's humility
We turn upon him in a sense most true :

For what Christ once in humbleness began,
We him in glory call, The Son of Man.

CXXXVII. A TRUE HYMN.

My joy, my life, my crown!
My heart was meaning all the day,

Somewhat it fain would say :
And still it runneth muttering up and down
With only this, My joy, my life, my crown!

Yet slight not these few words ;
If truly said, they may take part

Among the best in art.
The fineness which a hymn or psalm affords,
Is, when the soul unto the lines accords.

He who craves all the mind,
And all the soul, and strength, and time,

If the words only rhyme,
Justly complains, that somewhat is behind
To make his verse, or write a hymn in kind.

Whereas if the heart be moved,
Although the verse be somewhat scant,

God doth supply the want.
As when the heart says (sighing to be approved)
O, could I love! and stops; God writeth, Loved.

CXXXVIII. THE ANSWER.

My comforts drop and melt away like snow :
I shake my head, and all the thoughts and ends,
Which my fierce youth did bandy, fall and flow
Like leaves about me, or like summer friends,
Flies of estates and sunshine. But to all,
Who think me eager, hot, and undertaking,
But in my prosecutions slack and small;
As a young exhalation, newly waking,
Scorns his first bed of dirt, and means the sky;
But cooling by the way, grows pursy and slow,
And settling to a cloud, doth live and die
In that dark state of tears: to all, that so

Show me, and set me, I have one reply,
Which they that know the rest, know more

than I.

N

CXXXIX. A DIALOGUE-ANTHEM.

CHRISTIAN, DEATH.

Chr. ALAS, poor death! where is thy glory?

Where is thy famous force, thy ancient sting?

Dea. Alas, poor mortal, void of story,

Go spell and read how I have kill'd thy king.

Chr. Poor death! and who was hurt thereby ? Thy curse being laid on him makes thee ac

[curst. Dea. Let losers talk, yet thou shalt die; These arms shall crush thee. Chr. Spare not,

do thy worst. I shall be one day better than before : Thou so much worse, that thou shalt be no

more.

CXL. THE WATER-COURSE.

Thou who dost dwell and linger here below,
Since the condition of this world is frail,
Where of all plants afflictions soonest grow;
If troubles overtake thee, do not wail :

Life.
For who can look for less, that lovet

Strife.

But rather turn the pipe, and water's course
To serve thy sins, and furnish thee with store
Of sovereign tears, springing from true remorse :
That so in pureness thou mayst him adore

Salvation. Who gives to man, as he sees fit,

Damnation.

CXLI. SELF-CONDEMNATION.

Thou who condemnest Jewish hate, For choosing Barabbas a murderer

Before the Lord of glory; Look back upon thine own estate, Call home thine eye (that busy wanderer)

That choice may be thy story.

He that doth love, and love amiss This world's delights before true Christian joy,

Hath made a Jewish choice : The world an ancient murderer is ; Thousands of souls it hath and doth destroy

With her enchanting voice.

He that hath made a sorry wedding Between his soul and gold, and hath preferr’d

False gain before the true, Hath done what he condemns in reading : For he hath sold for money his dear Lord,

And is a Judas-Jew.

Thus we prevent the last great day, And judge ourselves. That light which sin and passion

Did before dim and choke, When once those snuffs are ta'en away, Shines bright and clear, e'en unto condemnation,

Without excuse or cloak.

CXLII. BITTER-SWEET.

Au, my dear angry Lord,
Since thou dost love, yet strike;
Cast down, yet help afford;
Sure I will do the like.

I will complain, yet praise ;
I will bewail, approve :
And all my sour-sweet days
I will lament, and love.

CXLIII. THE GLANCE.

When first thy sweet and gracious eye Vouchsafed e'en in the midst of youth and night To look upon me, who before did lie

Weltering in sin ;
I felt a sugar'd strange delight,
Passing all cordials made by any art,
Bedew, embalm, and overrun my heart,

· And take it in.