Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, And hushed with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber; And lulled with sounds of sweetest melody? And in the visitation of the winds, Who take the ruffian billows by the top, HERRICK.-BORN 1591. TO MEADOWS. YE have been fresh and green, Ye have been fill'd with flowers; And ye the walks have been Where maids have spent their hours. Ye have beheld where they The richer cowslips home. You've heard them sweetly sing, With honeysuckles crown'd. But now we see none here Like unthrifts, having spent TO BLOSSOMS. BY HERRICK. FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree, But Why do ye fall so fast? What were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, And so to bid good night? 'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth Merely to show your worth, And lose you quite. But you are lovely leaves, where we TO DAFFODILS, BY HERRICK. FAIR daffodils we weep to see Until the hasting day Has run But to the even-song; And having pray'd together, we Will go with you along. We have short time to stay as you, We have as short a spring; As quick a growth to meet decay, We die, As your hours do, and dry Away. Like to the summer's rain, Or as the pearls of morning dew, GEORGE HERBERT.-BORN 1593; DIED 1632. MATIN HYMN. I CANNOT ope mine eyes, But thou art ready there to catch My morning soul and sacrifice; Then we must needs for that day make a match. My God, what is a heart? Silver, or gold, or precious stone, Or star, or rainbow, or a part Of all these things, or all of them in one? My God, what is a heart? That Thou shouldst it so eye and woo, Pouring upon it all thy art, As if that Thou hadst nothing else to do? Indeed man's whole estate Amounts, and richly, to serve Thee; He did not heaven and earth create, Yet studies them, not Him by whom they be. Teach me Thy love to know; That this new light which now I see VIRTUE. BY HERBERT. SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright, K Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die. Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, Only a sweet and virtuous soul, SHIRLEY.-BORN 1596; DIED 1666. DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST. THE glories of our blood and state 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, They stoop to fate And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death. |