Where shall I sojourn? what kind sea will hide
My head from thunder? where shall I abide,
Until his flames be quench'd or laid aside?

What if my feet should take their hasty flight,
And seek protection in the shades of night?
Alas! no shades can blind the God of light.

What if my soul should take the wings of day,
And find some desert? if she springs away,
The wings of Vengeance clip as fast as they

What if some solid rock should entertain
My frighted soul? can solid rocks restrain
The stroke of Justice and not cleave in twain?

Nor sea, nor shade, nor shield, nor rock, nor cave,
Nor silent deserts, nor the sullen grave,
What flame-eyed Fury means to smite, can save.

"Tis vain to flee; till gentle Mercy show
Her better eye, the farther off we go,
The swing of Justice deals the mightier blow.
Th' ingenuous child, corrected, doth not fly
His angry mother's hand, but clings more nigh,
And quenches with his tears her flaming eye.

Great God! there is no safety here below;

Thou art my fortress, thou that seem'st my foe; 'Tis thou, that strik'st the stroke, must guard the blow.

103. George Herbert. 1593-1632. (Manual, p. 177.)

SUNDAY.

O day most calm, most bright!
The fruit of this, the next world's bud;
Th' endorsement of supreme delight,
Writ by a friend, and with his blood;
The couch of time; care's balm and bay;
The week were dark, but for thy light ;-
Thy torch doth show the way.

The other days and thou

Make up one man; whose face thou art,
Knocking at heaven with thy brow:
The worky days are the back-part;

The burden of the week lies there,
Making the whole to stoop and bow,
Till thy release appear.

Man had straight forward gone
To endless death. But thou dost pull
And turn us round, to look on one,
Whom, if we were not very dull,
We could not choose but look on still;
Since there is no place so alone,
The which he doth not fill.

Sundays the pillars are

On which heaven's palace arched lies:
The other days fill up the spare
And hollow room with vanities.
They are the fruitful bed and borders
In God's rich garden; that is bare,
Which parts their ranks and orders.

The Sundays of man's life,
Threaded together on time's string,
Make bracelets to adorn the wife
Of the eternal, glorious King.

On Sunday, heaven's gate stands ope;
Blessings are plentiful and rife;

More plentiful than hope.

*

Thou art a day of mirth :

And, where the week-days trail on ground,
Thy flight is higher, as thy birth.

Oh, let me take thee at the bound,

Leaping with thee from seven to seven ;

Till that we both, being toss'd from earth,
Fly hand in hand to heaven!

104. Richard Crashaw. 1620-1650. (Manual, p. 177.)

LINES ON A PRAYER-BOOK SENT TO MRS. R.

Lo! here a little volume, but large book,

(Fear it not, sweet,

It is no hypocrite,)

Much larger in itself than in its look.

It is, in one rich handful, heaven and all-
Heaven's royal hosts encamp'd thus small;
To prove that true, schools used to tell,
A thousand angels in one point can dwell.

It is love's great artillery,

Which here contracts itself, and comes to lie

Close couch'd in your white bosom, and from thence,
As from a snowy fortress of defence,

Against the ghostly foe to take your part,

And fortify the hold of your chaste heart.
It is the armory of light:

Let constant use but keep it bright,
You'll find it yields

To holy hands and humble hearts,

More swords and shields

Than sin hath snares or hell hath darts.

Wakeful and wise,

Here is a friend shall fight for you.
Hold but this book before your heart,
Let prayer alone to play his part.
But oh! the heart

That studies this high art

Must be a sure housekeeper,

And yet no sleeper.

Dear soul, be strong,

Mercy will come ere long,

And bring her bosom full of blessings-
Flowers of never-fading graces,

To make immortal dressings,

For worthy souls whose wise embraces
Store up themselves for Him who is alone
The spouse of virgins, and the virgin's son.

SP. ENG. LIT.

G

105. Robert Herrick. 1591-1674. (Manual, p. 179.)

SONG.

Gather the rose-buds while ye may,

Old Time is still a flying;

And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heav'n, the sun,
The higher he's a getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.

The age is best which is the first,

When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse and worst
Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
And, whilst ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.

106. Sir John Suckling. 1609-1641. (Manual, p. 179.)

SONG.

Out upon it, I have lov'd

Three whole days together;
And am like to love three more,
If it prove fair weather.

Time shall melt away his wings,
E'er he shall discover

In the whole wide world again
Such a constant lover.

But the spite on't is, no praise
Is due at all to me:

Love with me had made no stays,

Had it any been but she.

Had it any been but she,
And that very face,

There had been at least e'er this

A dozen dozen in her place.

107. Sir Richard Lovelace. 1618-1658. (Manual, p. 179.) To ALTHEA FROM PRISON.

When love with unconfined wings
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings

To whisper at my grates;
When I lye tangled in her hair,

And fetter'd with her eye,
The birds that wanton in the air,
Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round
With no allaying Thames,

Our careless heads with roses crown'd,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,

When healths and draughts go free,

Fishes, that tipple in the deep,

Know no such liberty.