THE HOUSE OF RICHES.

THAT house's form within was rude and strong,

Like an huge cave hewn out of rocky clift, From whose rough vault the ragged breaches hung

Embossed with massy gold of glorious gift,

And with rich metal loaded every rift, That heavy ruin they did seem to threat; And over them Arachne high did lift Her cunning web, and spread her subtle net, Enwrapped in foul smoke and clouds more black than jet.

Both roof, and floor, and walls, were all of gold,

But overgrown with dust and old de

ROBERT SOUTHWELL.

[1560-1595.]

CONTENT AND RICH.

I DWELL in grace's courts,
Enriched with virtue's rights;

Faith guides my wit, love leads my will,
Hope all my mind delights.

In lowly vales I mount
To pleasure's highest pitch,
My simple dress sure honor brings,
My poor estate is rich.

My conscience is my crown,
Contented thoughts my rest;
My heart is happy in itself;
My bliss is in my breast.
Enough, I reckon wealth;
A mean, the surest lot,

That lies too high for base contempt,
Too low for envy's shot.

My wishes are but few,
All easy to fulfil;

I make the limits of my power
The bounds unto my will.

I have no hopes but one,
Which is of heavenly reign:
Effects attained, or not desired,
All lower hopes refrain.

I feel no care of coin,
Well-doing is my wealth:
My mind to me an empire is,
While grace affordeth health.

I clip high-climbing thoughts,
The wings of swelling pride:

Their fate is worst, that from the height
Of greater honor slide.

Silk sails of largest size

The storm doth soonest tear : I bear so low and small a sail As freeth me from fear.

I wrestle not with rage
While fury's flame doth burn;
It is in vain to stop the stream
Until the tide doth turn.

But when the flame is out, And ebbing wrath doth end,

I turn a late-enragéd foe
Into a quiet friend;

And, taught with often proof,
A tempered calm I find
To be most solace to itself,
Best cure for angry mind.

Spare diet is my fare,

My clothes more fit than fine; I know I feed and clothe a foe That, pampered, would repine. I envy not their hap

Whom favor doth advance:
I take no pleasure in their pain
That have less happy chance.

To rise by others' fall

I deem a losing gain: All states with others' ruins built To ruins run amain.

No change of fortune's calms

Can cast my comforts down: When fortune smiles, I smile to think How quickly she will frown;

And when, in froward mood,
She proved an angry foe,
Small gain I found to let her come,
Less loss to let her go.

ALEXANDER HUME.

[About 1599.]

A SUMMER'S DAY.

THE time so tranquil is and clear, That nowhere shall ye find, Save on a high and barren hill, An air of passing wind.

All trees and simples, great and small,
That balmy leaf do bear,
Than they were painted on a wall,
No more they move or stir.

The ships becalmed upon the seas,
Hang up their sails to dry;
The herds, beneath the leafy trees,
Among the flowers they lie.

Till both their proper elements do

wealth?

Or having wisdom was not vexed in

touch.

mind?

Which seem sweet flowers with lustre fresh and gay,

She lights on that and this, and tasteth all;

But pleased with none, doth rise and soar away.

So when the soul finds here no true content,

And like Noah's dove can no sure footing take,

She doth return from whence she first was sent,

And flies to Him that first her wings

content;

such,

As almost here she with her bliss doth meet.

But when in heaven she shall his essence see,

This is her sovereign good, and perfect bliss,

Her longings, wishings, hopes, all finished be,

Her joys are full, her motions rest in this.

name

If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care,

Of him who it corrects, and did it frame, We clear might read the art and wisdom

13

Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Or vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise;
Nor rules of state, but rules of good;

Who hath his life from rumors freed,

Whose conscience is his strong retreat; Whose state can neither flatterers feed, Nor ruin make oppressors great;

Who God doth late and early pray,
More of his grace than gifts to lend;
And entertains the harmless day
With a religious book or friend:

This man is freed from servile bands,
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands;
And having nothing, yet hath all.

LADY ELIZABETH CAREW
[About 1613.]

REVENGE OF INJURIES.

THE fairest action of our human life
Is scorning to revenge an injury;
For who forgives without a further strke,

His adversary's heart to him doth ue;
And 't is a firmer conquest truly said,
To win the heart, than overthrow the head.

If we a worthy enemy do find,

To yield to worth it must be nobly done; But if of baser metal be his mind,

In base revenge there is no honor won. Who would a worthy courage overthrow? And who would wrestle with a worthless foe?

We say our hearts are great, and cannot yield;

Because they cannot yield, it proves them poor:

Great hearts are tasked beyond their power but seld;

The weakest lion will the loudest roar. Truth's school for certain doth this same allow;

High-heartedness doth sometimes teach to bow.