Though Thou with clouds of anger do disguise I sacrifice this island unto Thee, And all whom I loved there, and who loved me; Where none but Thee, th' eternal root Not Thou nor thy religion, dost control The amorousness of an harmonious soul; But Thou wouldst have that love Thyself: as Thou Art jealous, Lord, so am I jealous now, Thou lovest not, till from loving more, Thou free My soul who ever gives, takes liberty: Oh! if Thou carest not whom I love, Seal, then, this bill of my divorce to all And to 'scape stormy days, I choose HYMN TO GOD, MY GOD. SINCE I am coming to that holy room Where with the choir of saints for evermore I shall be made thy music, as I come I tune the instrument here at the door, And what I must do then think here before. Whilst my physicians by their love are grown Per fretum febris, by these straits to die; I joy that in these straits I see my west; For though those currents yield return to none, We think that Paradise and Calvary, Christ's cross and Adam's tree, stood in one place, Look, Lord! and find both Adams met in me: As the first Adam's sweat surrounds my face, So in his purple wrapped receive me, Lord, By these his thorns give me his holy crown, And as to others' souls I preached thy word, Be this my text, my sermon to mine own; Therefore, that He may raise, the Lord throws down. BEN JONSON. THIS eminent poet was born in London in 1574. Though like many other poets of his day, Jonson too briefly and too rarely forsook the service of the profaner muse for that of religion, the religious poetry he has left behind him is of a very high order. He died in 1637. EUPHEME'S MIND. PAINTER, you're come, but may be gone, Now I have better thought thereon; Not that your art I do refuse, You could make shift to paint an eye, No; to express a mind to sense A mind so pure, so perfect, fine, There, high exalted in the sphere, Whose notions, when it will express The voice so sweet, the words so fair, As some soft chime had stroked the air; And though the sound were parted thence, Still left an echo in the sense. But, that a mind so rapt, so high, So swift, so pure, should yet apply Earth's grossness; there's the how, and why. Is it because it sees us dull, And stuck in clay here, it would pull Us forth by some celestial flight, Up to her own sublimed height? Or hath she here upon the ground, Thrice happy house, that hast receipt Not swelling like the ocean proud, Smooth, soft, and sweet, in all a flood THOMAS CAREW. In action, winged as the wind, In thee, fair mansion, let it rest, But such a mind, makest God thy guest. THE GOOD LIFE, LONG LIFE. Ir is not growing like a tree In bulk doth make man better be; Or standing long an oak three hundred year, Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night; It was the plant and flower of light. In small proportions we just beauties see, 57 Tuus poet was born about 1577. He received his education at Corpus Christi College, Oxford, where his genius and abilities early attracted notice. He was introduced to court, probably by his brother, and appointed Gentleman of the Privy Chamber, and sewer in ordinary to King Charles the First; which posts he retained till his death, in 1639. Carew was the author of miscellaneous poems, not, unfortunately, all of a religious nature; but those that are so, have great beauty and simplicity. PLEASURE. BEWITCHING Syren! golden rottenness! |