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Absents within the line conspire, and sense

Things distant doth unite; Herbs sleep unto the East, and some fowles thence

Watch the returns of light. But hearts are not so kind: false, short delights

Tell us the world is brave,
And wrap us in imaginary flights
Wide of a faithfull grave.

Thus Lazarus was carried out of town;

For 'tis our foe's chief art
By distance all good objects first to drown, .

And then besiege the heart.
But I will be my own death's-head; and though

The flatt'rer say, I live, Because incertainties we cannot know,

Be sure not to believe.


My soul, there is a countrie

Afar beyond the stars,
Where stands a winged sentrie

All skilfull in the wars.
There, above noise and danger,

Sweet peace sits crown'd with smiles,
And one born in a manger

Commands the beauteous files.

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He is thy gracious friend

And (O my soul! awake)
Did in pure love descend,

To die here for thy sake.
If thou canst get but thither,
There growes

the flowre of peace, The rose that cannot wither,

Thy fortresse, and thy ease.
Leave, then, thy foolish ranges;

For none can thee secure
But One, who never changes,

Thy God, thy Life, thy Cure.



O my chief good!
My dear, dear God!

When thy blest bloud
Did issue forth forc'd by the rod,

What pain didst thou
Feel in each blow !
How didst thou weep,

And thyself steep
In thy own precious, saving teares !

What cruell smart
Did teare thy heart !
How didst thou grone it

In the spirit,
O thou, whom my soul loves and feares !


Most blessed Vine!
Whose juice so good

I feel as wine,
But thy faire branches felt as bloud,

How wert thou prest
To be my

In what deep anguish

Didst thou languish!
What springs of sweat and bloud did drown thee!

How in one path
Did the full wrath
Of thy great Father

Crowd and gather,
Doubling thy griefs, when none would own thee!


How did the weight
Of all our sinnes,

And death unite
To wrench and rack thy blessed limbes !

How pale and bloudie
Lookt thy body!
How bruis’d and broke

With every stroke!
How meek and patient was thy spirit!

How didst thou cry,
And grone on high,
“Father, forgive,

And let them live!
I dye to make my foes inherit!”


O blessed Lamb !
That took’st my sinne,

That took’st my shame,
How shall thy dust thy praises sing?

I would I were
One hearty teare!
One constant spring !

Then would I bring
Thee two small mites, and be at strife

Which should most vie,
My heart or eye,
Teaching my years

In smiles and tears
To weep, to sing, thy death, my life.


Rom. viii. 19. Etenim res creatæ exerto capite observantes expectant revelationem

filiorum Dei.

And do they so? have they a sense

Of ought but influence ?
Can they their heads list, and expect,

And grone too? why, th' elect
Can do no more: my volumes said

They were all dull and dead;
They judg'd them senslesse, and their state

Wholly inanimate.

Go, go; seal up thy looks,

And burn thy books !


I would I were a stone, or tree,

Or flowre by pedigree, Or some poor highway herb, or spring

To flow, or bird to sing !
Then should I, tyed to one sure state,

All day expect my date.
But I am sadly loose, and stray

A giddy blast each way:
O let me not thus range !

Thou canst not change.


Sometimes I sit with thee, and tarry

An hour or so; then vary.
Thy other creatures in this scene

Thee only aym and mean :
Some rise to seek thee, and with heads
Erect peep

from their beds ; Others, whose birth is in the tomb,

And cannot quit the womb,
Sigh there, and grone for thee,
Their liberty.

O let not me do lesse! Shall they

Watch, while I sleep or play?
Shall I thy mercies still abuse

With fancies, friends, or newes ?

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