Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses A box where sweets compacted lie- And all must die. Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like season'd timber, never gives; GEORGE HERBERT, 1593-1632. FROM THE "HOLY DYING." But as when the sun approaches toward the gates of the morning, he first opens a little eye of heaven, and sends away the spirits of darkness, and gives light to a cock, and calls up the lark to matins, and by-and-by gilds the fringes of a cloud, and peeps over the eastern hills, thrusting out his golden horns-like those which decked the brows of Moses, when he was forced to wear a vail, because himself had seen the face of God; and still, while a man tells the story, the sun gets up higher till he shows a fair face and full light, and then he shines one whole day, under a cloud often, and sometimes weeping great and little showers, and sets quickly: so is a man's reason and his life." BISHOP JEREMY TAYLOR. SIMILE. As when the cheerful sun elamping wide, And woos the widowed earth afresh to pride, Wrapp'd in a sable cloud, from mortal eyes The hasty stars at noon begin to rise, And headlong to his early roost the sparrow flies. But soon as he again disshadowed is, Restoring the blind world his blemish'd sight- So Mercy once again herself displays, Those sunshine looks, whose beams would dim a thousand days GILES FLETCHER. THE SUN. But yonder comes the powerful King of Day, Aslant the dew-bright earth, and colored air, And sheds the shining day, that burnish'd plays Efflux divine! Nature's resplendent robe! The vegetable world is also thine, Parent of Seasons! who the pomp precede That waits thy throne, as through thy vast domain. In world-rejoicing state, it moves sublime. A common hymn; while 'round thy beaming car, .Shower every beauty, every fragrance shower, Herbs, flowers, and fruits; till, kindling at thy touch, From land to land is flush'd the vernal year. JAMES THOMSON, 1700-1749. THE SUN. Thou lookest on the earth, and then it smiles; Thy light is hid, and all things droop and mourn. Laughs the wild sea around her budding isles, When through their heaven thy changing car is borne; Thou wheel'st away thy flight, the woods are shorn Of all their waving locks, and storms awake All that was once so beautiful is torn By the wild winds which plow the lonely lake, And in their maddening rush the crested mountains shake. The earth lies buried in a shroud of snow; Of all the power that brooded in the urn Of their chill'd frames, and then they proudly spurn All bands that would confine, and give to air Hues, fragrance, shapes of beauty, till they burn, When, on a dewy morn, thou dartest there Rich waves of gold to wreathe with fairer light the fair. The vales are thine; and when the touch of spring They glitter as the glancing swallow's wing Dashes the water in his winding flight, And leaves behind a wave that crumbles bright, And widens outward to the pebbled shore The vales are thine; and when they wake from night, The dews that bend the grass-tips, twinkling o'er The hills are thine; they catch the newest beam, Of nations in its waters; so thy rays Flow and give brighter tints than ever bud, When a clear sheet of ice reflects a blaze Of many twinkling gems, as every gloss'd bough plays. Thine are the mountains, where they purely lift Dazzling, but cold; thy farewell glance looks there; Girt round them, as a rosy belt, they bear JAMES G. PERCIVAL DELIGHT IN GOD. I love, and have some cause to love, the earth; She is my tender nurse; she gives me food. Or what's my mother or my nurse to me? I love the air; her dainty sweets refresh My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me; I love the sea; she is my fellow-creature My careful purveyor; she provides me store; To heaven's high city I direct my journey, Without thy presence, earth gives no reflection; Without thy presence, heav'n's itself no pleasure; If not possess'd, if not enjoy'd in thee, The highest honors that the world can boast Are subjects far too low for my desire; In having all things, and not thee, what have I ? I wish nor sea, nor land, nor would I be Possess'd of heav'n, heav'n unpossess'd of thee! FRANCIS QUARLES, 1592-1664. NOON. FROM THE SPANISH. The sun, 'midst shining glory now concealed Upon heaven's highest seat, Darts straightway down upon the parched field, His fierce and burning heat; And on revolving noonday calls, that he His flushed and glowing face May show the world, and, rising from the sea, The wandering wind now rests his weary wings, And, hushed in silence, broods; And all the vocal choir of songsters sings Among the whispering woods. And sweetly warbling on his oaten pipe, The herd-boy leads along his flock of sheep |