Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

Those nicer livers, who without thy rays
Stir not abroad, those may thy lustre praise;
And wanting light, light which no wants doth know,
To thee, weak shiner, like blind Persians bow.
But where that Sun, which tramples on thy head,
From his own bright eternal eye doth shed
One living ray,

There thy dead day

Is needless. Man is to a light made free,
Which shews what thou canst neither shew nor see!
Then get thee down! then get thee down!
I have a Sun now of my own.

THE NATIVITY.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1656.

PEACE! and to all the world! Sure One,
And he the Prince of peace, hath none!
He travails to be born, and then
Is born to travail more again.
Poor Galilee, thou cans't not be
The place for his nativity.
His restless mother's called away,
And not delivered till she pay.

A tax? 'tis so still. We can see
The church thrive in her misery,

And, like her head at Bethlehem, rise,"
When she oppressed with troubles lyes.
Rise? Should all fall, we cannot be

[ocr errors]

In more extremities than he.

Great Type of passions! come what will,
Thy grief exceeds all copies still:

Might go

Thou cam'st from heaven to earth, that we
from earth to heaven with thee ;
And though thou found'st no welcome here,
Thou didst provide us mansions there.
A stable was thy court, and when

Men turned to beasts, beasts would be men:
They were thy courtiers; others none;
And their poor manger was thy throne.
No swadling silks thy limbs did fold,
Though thou could'st turn thy rags to gold.
No rockers waited on thy birth,

No cradles stirred, nor songs of mirth;
But her chaste lap and sacred breast,
Which lodged thee first, did give thee rest.

But stay! what light is that doth stream

And drop here in a gilded beam?
It is thy star runs page, and brings
Thy tributary eastern kings.

Lord! grant some light to us, that we
May find with them the way to thee!
Behold what mists eclipse the day!
How dark it is! Shed down one ray,
To guide us out of this dark night;
And say once more, "Let there be light!"

THE TRUE CHRISTMAS.

So, stick up ivie and the bays,
And then restore the heathen ways.
Green will remind you of the spring,
Though this great day denies the thing;
And mortifies the earth, and all

But

your

wild revels, and loose hall.
Could you wear flowers, and roses strow
Blushing upon your breast's warm snow,
That very dress your lightness will
Rebuke, and wither at the ill.

The brightness of this day we owe
Not unto music, masque, nor showe;
Nor gallant furniture, nor plate,
But to the manger's mean estate.
His life while here, as well as birth,
Was but a check to pomp and mirth;
And all man's greatness you may see
Condemned by his humility.

Then leave your open house and noise,
To welcome him with holy joys,

And the poor shepherds' watchfulness;

Whom light and hymns from heaven did bless.

What you abound with, cast abroad

To those that want, and ease your loade.

Who empties thus will bring more in;
But riot is both loss and sin.

Dress finely what comes not in sight,
And then you keep your Christmas right!

THE REQUEST:

O THOU who didst deny to me
This world's adored felicity,
And every big, imperious lust,
Which fools admire in sinful dust,
With those fine subtle twists that tye
Their bundles of foul gallantry,-

Keep still my weak eyes from the shine
Of those gay things which are not thine!
And shut my ears against the noise
Of wicked, though applauded, joys!
For thou in any land hast store
Of shades and coverts for thy poor;
Where from the busie dust and heat,
As well as storms, they may retreat.
A rock or bush are downy beds,
When thou art there, crowning their heads
With secret blessings, or a tire

Made of the Comforter's live fire.

And when thy goodness, in the dress

Of anger, will not seem to bless,

Yet dost thou give them that rich rain,
Which, as it drops, clears all again.

O what kind visits daily pass

"Twixt thy great self and such poor grass! With what sweet looks doth thy love shine On those low violets of thine,

U

While the tall tulip is accurst,
And crowns imperial dye with thirst!
O give me still those secret meals,
Those rare repasts which thy love deals!
Give me that joy which none can grieve,
And which in all griefs doth releive.
This is the portion thy child begs;
Not that of rust, and rags, and dregs.

THE WORLD.

CAN any tell me what it is? Can you,
That wind your thoughts into a clue,
To guide out others, while yourselves stay in,
And hug the sin?

I that so long in it have lived,
That, if I might,

In truth I would not be reprieved,
Have neither sight

Nor sense that knows

These ebbs and flows;

But since of all, all may be said,
And likeliness doth but upbraid

And mock the truth, which still is lost
In fine conceits, like streams in a sharp frost;
I will not strive, nor the rule break,
Which doth give losers leave to speak.

« AnteriorContinuar »