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Give the rewards of joyful life;

The plenteous gifts of grace increase;
Dissolve the cruel bonds of strife;
Knit fast the happy league of peace.
Dear Father, grant what we entreat,

And only Son, who like power hast,
Together with the Paraclete,

Reigning whilst times and ages last.

Saturday. O Trinity! O blessed light!

0 Unity, most principal ! The fiery sun now leaves our sight;

Cause in our hearts thy beams to fall.

Let us with songs of praise divine,

At morn and evening thee implore;
And let our glory, bow'd to thine,
Thee glorify for evermore.
To God the Father glory great,

And glory to his only Son,
And to the holy Paraclete,
Both now, and still while ages run.

Drummond.

SPRING. So forth issu'd the seasons of the year; First lusty Spring, all dight in leaves of flowers That freshly budded, and new blossoms did bear, In which a thousand birds had built their bowers,

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That sweetly sung to call forth paramours;
And in his hand a javelin he did bear,
And on his head (as fit for warlike stores)

A gilt engraven morion he did wear,
That as some did him love, so others did him fear.

Spenser.

SUMMER.

Then came the jolly Summer, being dight
In a thin silken cassock colour'd green;
That was unlined all, to be more light,
And on his head a garland, well beseene,
He wore, from which, as he had chaffed been,
The sweat did drop, and in his hand he bore
A bow and shafts, as he in forest green

Had hunted late the libbard or the boar,
And now would bathe his limbs, with labour heated sore.

Spenser.

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Then came the Autumn, all in yellow clad,
As though he joyed in his plenteous store,
Laden with fruits that made him laugh, full glau
That he had banish'd hunger, which to fore
Had by the belly oft him pinchéd sore;
Upon his head a wreath, that was enroll’d
With ears of corn of every sort, he bore,

And in his hand a sickle he did hold,
To reap the ripen’d fruit, the which the earth had yold.

Spenser.

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WINTER.

Lastly came Winter, clothéd all in frieze,
Chattering his teeth for cold that did him chill;
Whilst on his hoary beard his breath did freeze,
And the dull drops that from his purple bill,
As from a limbeck, did adown distil;
In his right hand a tippéd staff he held,
With which his feeble steps he stayed still,

For he was faint with cold, and weak with eld, That scarce his loosed limbs he able was to weld.

Spenser.
HYMN TO THE MORNING.

Written in Summer.
Hail goddess of the silver star,
Whose trembling orb gives signal to the day;
O! queen of light, whose virgin ray

The sun salutes in his celestial car;
Whose active heats melt every cloud
That would thy dawn of glory shroud,
And stain the lustre of thy laughing eye,

While beneath thy azure sky-
Dimple-cheek’d-health with rosy features glows,

Through lowing pastures in she goes, Wearing the milkmaid's ruddy grace, Ease in her tripping step, and pleasure in her face. Forerunner of the day's bright reign,

And giver of unspeakable delight!

How nature triumphs at thy sight, And looks thanksgiving through her large domain:

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At thy approach the conscious trees

Bend humbly to the tepid breeze,
And every flower a fresher brightness wears;

Labour to the field repairs,
Where buxom Ceres waits him with a smile:
Whistling he crosses every stile,

Or chants some love-lorn ditty's air,
With which he means to charm, and win his favourite

fair. O sovereign of the spicy gale,

Of odours pure, and salutary dews,

Oft as thy star its beam renews,
Thy violet breath entranc'd let me inhale:
Give me to range thy wholesome hills,

Thy valleys, wash'd with crystal rills,
And verdant lawns, where many a wild-flower grows;

There, while zephyr softly blows,
Let me indulge the heaven-devoted thought,

And render praises as I ought

To Him whose power and love divine Call’d thee from total void, and bade thy beauty shine.

William Woty.

MATINS.

I cannot ope mine eyes,
But thou art ready there to catch
My morning-soul and sacrifice !
Then we must needs for that day make a match.

My God, what is a heart?
Silver or gold, or precious stone,

Or star, or rainbow, or a part
Of all these things, or all of them in one?

My God, what is a heart,
That thou should'st it so eye and woo,

Pouring upon it all thy art,
As if that thou hadst nothing else to do?

Indeed, man's whole estate
Amounts (and richly) to serve thee:

He did not heav'n and earth create,
Yet studies them, not Him by whom they be.

Teach me thy love to know;
That this new light, which now I see,

May both the work and workman show:
Then by a sunbeam I will climb to thee.

Herbert.

EVEN-SONG.
Blest be the God of love,
Who gave me eyes, and light, and power this day,

Both to be busy and to play,
But much more blest be God above,

Who gave me sight alone,
Which to himself he did deny !

For when he sees my ways, I die!
But I have got his Son, and he hath none.

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