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Who kisseth thorns will hurt his face,
But flowers do both refresh and grace;
And sweetly living (fie on men!)
Are, when dead, medicinal then.
If seeing much should make staid eyes,
And long experience should make wise;
Since all that age doth teach is ill,
Why should I not love childe-hood still?
Why, if I see a rock or shelf,

Shall I from thence cast down myself,
Or, by complying with the world,
From the same precipice be hurl'd?
Those observations are but foul,
Which make me wise to lose my soul.

And yet the practice worldlings call
Business and weighty action all,
Checking the poor childe for his play,
But gravely cast themselves away.

Dear, harmless age! the short, swift span, Where weeping virtue parts with man; Where love without lust dwells, and bends What way we please without self-ends.

An age of mysteries! which he

Must live twice that would God's face see; Which angels guard, and with it play, Angels! which foul men drive away.

R

How do I study now, and scan
Thee more than ere I studyed man,
And onely see through a long night
Thy edges and thy bordering light!
O for thy center and mid-day!
For sure that is the narrow way!

THE NIGHT.

John, iii. 2.

THROUGH that pure virgin-shrine,

That sacred vail drawn o'er thy glorious noon, That men might look and live, as gloworms shine, And face the moon,

Wise Nicodemus saw such light

As made him know his God by night.

Most blest believer he!

Who in that land of darkness and blinde eyes
Thy long-expected healing wings could see,
When thou didst rise;

And, what can never more be done,
Did at midnight speak with the Sun!

O who will tell me, where

He found thee at that dead and silent hour?
What hallow'd solitary ground did bear

So rare a flower;

Within whose sacred leafs did lie
The fulness of the Deity?

No mercy-seat of gold,

No dead and dusty cherub, nor carved stone,
But his own living works, did my Lord hold
And lodge alone;

Where trees and herbs did watch and peep
And wonder, while the Jews did sleep.

Dear night! this world's defeat;

The stop to busie fools; care's check and curb;
The day of spirits; my soul's calm retreat
Which none disturb!

Christ's* progress, and his prayer time;
The hours to which high heaven doth chime.

God's silent, searching flight:

When my Lord's head is filled with dew, and all
His locks are wet with the clear drops of night;
His still, soft call;

His knocking time; the soul's dumb watch,
When spirits their fair kindred catch.

Were all my loud, evil days

Calm and unhaunted as is thy dark tent,

Whose

peace but by some angel's wing or voice Is seldom rent;

* Mark, i. 35. St. Luke, xxi. 37.

Then I in heaven all the long year

Would keep, and never wander here.

But living where the Sun

Doth all things wake, and where all mix and tyre Themselves and others, I consent and run

To ev'ry myre;

And by this world's ill-guiding light,
Erre more than I can do by night.

There is in God, some say,

A deep, but dazzling darkness; as men here
Say it is late and dusky, because they
See not all clear.

O for that night! where I in him
Might live invisible and dim!

ABEL'S BLOOD.

SAD, purple well! whose bubling eye
Did first against a murth'rer cry;
Whose streams still vocal, still complain
Of bloody Cain ;

And now at evening are as red

As in the morning when first shed.
If single thou,

Though single voices are but low,

Could'st such a shrill and long cry rear
As speaks still in thy Maker's ear,
What thunders shall those men arraign
Who cannot count those they have slain,
Who bath not in a shallow flood,

But in a deep, wide sea of blood?
A sea, whose lowd waves cannot sleep,
But deep still calleth upon deep:
Whose urgent sound, like unto that
Of many waters, beateth at
The everlasting doors above,

Where souls behinde the altar move,
And with one strong, incessant cry
Inquire "How long?" of the most High?
Almighty Judge!

At whose just laws no just men grudge;
Whose blessed, sweet commands do pour
Comforts and joys and hopes each hour
On those that keep them; O accept
Of his vow'd heart whom thou hast kept
From bloody men! and grant I may
That sworn memorial duly pay

To thy bright arm, which was my light
And leader through thick death and night
Aye may that flood,

That proudly spilt and despis'd blood,
Speechless and calm as infants sleep!
Or if it watch, forgive and weep
For those that spilt it! May no cries
From the low earth to heaven rise;

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