SIR THOMAS BROWNE.

Your heads must come
To the cold tomb;

Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

EDWARD HERBERT, (EARL OF CHERBURY.)

[1581-1648.]

CELINDA.

WALKING thus towards a pleasant grove,
Which did, it seemed, in new delight
The pleasures of the time unite
To give a triumph to their love,
They stayed at last, and on the grass
Reposéd so as o'er his breast

She bowed her gracious head to rest,
Such a weight as no burden was.
Long their fixed eyes to heaven bent,
Unchangéd they did never move,
As if so great and pure a love
No glass but it could represent.
"These eyes again thine eyes shall see,
Thy hands again these hands infold,
And all chaste pleasures can be told,
Shall with us everlasting be.
Let then no doubt, Celinda, touch,
Much less your fairest mind invade;
Were not our souls fmmortal made,
Our equal loves can make them such."

SIR THOMAS BROWNE.

[1605-1682.]

EVENING HYMN.

THE night is come; like to the day,
Depart not thou, great God, away.
Let not my sins, black as the night,
Eclipse the lustre of thy light.
Keep in my horizon: for to me
The sun makes not the day, but thee.
Thou whose nature cannot sleep,
On my temples sentry keep:
Guard me 'gainst those watchful foes,
Whose eyes are open while mine close.
Let no dreams my head infest
But such as Jacob's temples blest.

Whilst I do rest, my soul advance;
Make my sleep a holy trance:
That I may, my rest being wrought,
Awake into some holy thought,
And with as active vigor run
My course, as doth the nimble sun.
Sleep is a death; O, make me try,
By sleeping, what it is to die:
And as gently lay my head
On my grave as now my bed.
Howe'er I rest, great God, let me
Awake again at last with thee.
And thus assured, behold I lie
Securely, or to wake or die.
These are my drowsy days; in vain
I do now wake to sleep again:
O, come that hour when I shall never
Sleep thus again, but wake forever.

RICHARD CRASHAW.

[1605-1650.]

WISHES.

WHOE'ER she be,

That not impossible She

That shall command my heart and me;

Where'er she lie,

Locked up from mortal eye In shady leaves of destiny,

Till that ripe birth

Of studied Fate stand forth,

And teach her fair steps to our earth;

Till that divine

Idea take a shrine

Of crystal flesh, through which to shine:

- Meet you her, my Wishes, Bespeak her to my blisses,

And be ye called, my absent kisses.

I wish her beauty

That owes not all its duty

To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie :

Something more than

Taffeta or tissue can,

Or rampant feather, or rich fan.

FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree,
Why do ye fall so fast?
Your date is not so past,

But you may stay yet here awhile,
To blush and gently smile,
And go at last.

What! were ye born to be

An hour or half's delight,
And so to bid good-night?
'T was pity Nature brought ye forth
Merely to show your worth,
And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we

May read how soon things have Their end, though ne'er so brave; And after they have shown their pride, Like you, awhile, they glide

Into the grave.

TO KEEP A TRUE LENT.

Is this a fast, to keep

The larder lean,

And clean

From fat of veals and sheep?

Is it to quit the dish

Of flesh, yet still
To fill

The platter high with fish?

Is it to fast an hour,

Or rag'd to go,
Or show

A downcast look, and sour?

GEORGE HERBERT.

Who would have thought my shrivelled heart

Could have recovered greenness? It was gone

Quite under ground; as flowers depart To see their mother-root, when they have blown ;

Where they together,

All the hard weather,

REST.

WHEN God at first made man, Having a glass of blessings standing by, "Let us," said he, "pour on him all we

can:

Let the world's riches, which disperséd lie, Contract into a span.'

So strength first made a way;

known.

pleasure:

When almost all was out, God made a stay, Perceiving that alone, of all his treasure, Rest in the bottom lay.

"For if I should," said he, "Bestow this jewel also on my creature, He would adore my gifts instead of me, And rest in nature, not the God of nature; So both should losers be.

"Yet let him keep the rest, But keep them with repining restlessness: Let him be rich and weary, that at least, If goodness lead him not, yet weariness May toss him to my breast."

and speak,

Yet stones are deep in admiration.
Thus praise and prayer here beneath the

sun

Make lesser mornings, when the great are done.

For each incloséd spirit is a star

Inlightning his own little sphere, Whose light, though fetcht and borrowed from far,

Both mornings makes and evenings there.

But as these birds of light make a land glad,

Chirping their solemn matins on each tree;

So in the shades of night some dark fowls be,

Whose heavy notes make all that hear them sad.

The turtle then in palm-trees mourns,
While owls and satyrs howl;
The pleasant land to brimstone turns,
And all her streams grow foul.
Brightness and mirth, and love and faith,
all fly,

Till the day-spring breaks forth again from high.

THEY ARE ALL GONE.

THEY are all gone into the world of light,
And I alone sit lingering here!
Their very memory is fair and bright,

And my sad thoughts doth clear.

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,
Like stars upon some gloomy grove,
Or those faint beams in which this hill
is drest

After the sun's remove.

I see them walking in an air of glory, Whose light doth trample on my days; My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,

Mere glimmering and decays.

O holy hope! and high humility,
High as the heavens above!

showed them me To kindle my cold love.