THE FLOWER.

But while I grow in a straight line,

Still upwards bent, as if heav'n were mine own, Thy anger comes, and I decline :

What frost to that? what pole is not the zone Where all things burn,

When Thou dost turn,

And the least frown of Thine is shown?

And now in age I bud again,

After so many deaths I live and write;
I once more smell the dew and rain,
And relish versing: O my only light,
It cannot be

That I am he,

On whom Thy tempests fell all night.

These are Thy wonders, Lord of love,

To make us see we are but flowers that glide,

Which when we once can find and prove,

Thou hast a garden for us, where to bide.
Who would be more,

Swelling through store,

Forfeit their Paradise by their pride.

Herbert.

GRACE

My flock lies dead, and no increase
Doth my dull husbandry improve;
O let Thy graces without cease
Drop from above.

If still the sun should hide his face, Thy house would but a dungeon prove, Thy works night's captives: O let grace Drop from above.

The dew doth ev'ry morning fall;
And shall the dew outstrip Thy dove?
The dew, for which grass cannot call,
Drop from above.

Death is still working like a mole,
And digs my grave at each remove:
Let grace work too, and on my soul
Drop from above.

Sin is still hammering my heart
Unto a hardness, void of love :
Let suppling grace, to cross his art,
Drop from above.

O come! for Thou dost know the way, Or if to me Thou wilt not move, Remove me, where I need not sayDrop from above.

Herbert.

THE merry world did on a day

With his train-bands and mates agree

To meet together, where I lay,

And all in sport to geere at me.

THE QUIP.

First, Beautie crept into a rose;

Which when I pluckt not, Sir, said she,
Tell me, I pray, Whose hands are those?
But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Then Money came, and chinking still,
What tune is this, poor man? said he
I heard in musick you had skill;
But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Then came brave Glory puffing by
In silks that whistled, who but he!
He scarce allow'd me half an eye;
But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Then came quick Wit and Conversation,
And he would needs a comfort be,
And, to be short, make an oration;
But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me.

Yet when the hour of Thy designe
To answer these fine things shall come;
Speak not at large, say, I am Thine,
And then they have their answer home.

Herbert.

THE EQUALITY OF THE GRAVE.

THE glories of our blood and state

Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:
Early or late,

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow,

Then boast no more your mighty deeds;

Upon Death's purple altar now

See, where the victor-victim bleeds:

Your heads must come

To the cold tomb;

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

James Shirley.