They call you proud and hard,
England, my England:

You with worlds to watch and ward,
England, my own!

You whose mailed hand keeps the keys
Of such teeming destinies,

You could know nor dread nor ease

Were the Song on your bugles blown,
England,

Round the Pit on your bugles blown!
Mother of Ships whose might,

England, my England,
Is the fierce old Sea's delight,
England, my own,

Chosen daughter of the Lord,
Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword,

There's the menace of the Word

In the Song on your bugles blown,

England

Out of heaven on your bugles blown!

W. E. HENLEY.

438. NOW THAT THE APRIL OF YOUR YOUTH

Now that the April of your youth adorns

The garden of your face,

Now that for you each knowing lover mourns,
And all seek to your grace,

Do not repay affection with scorns.

What though you may a matchless beauty vaunt,
And all that hearts can move

By such a power, that seemeth to enchant ;

Yet, without help of love,

Beauty no pleasure to itself can grant.

Then think each minute that you lose a day;

The longest youth is short,

The shortest age is long; Time flies away
And makes us but his sport,

And that which is not Youth's, is Age's prey.

I GOT me flowers to straw Thy way,

I got me boughs off many a tree;
But Thou wast up by break of day,
And brought'st Thy sweets along with Thee.

The sun arising in the East,

Though he give light, and the East perfume,
If they should offer to contest
With Thy arising, they presume.

Can there be any day but this,

Though many suns to shine endeavour ?
We count three hundred, but we miss :
There is but one, and that one ever.

440.

JUDGE NOT THE PREACHER

G. HERBERT.

JUDGE not the preacher, for He is thy judge ;
If thou mistake him, thou conceiv'st Him not:
God calleth preaching folly: do not grudge
To pick out treasures from an earthen pot:

The worst speak something good; if all want sense,
God takes a text, and preacheth patience.

G. HERBERT (The Church Porch).

441. SIN

LORD, with what care hast Thou begirt us round!
Parents first season us; then schoolmasters
Deliver us to laws; they send us, bound
To rules of reason, holy messengers,
Pulpits and Sundays, sorrow dogging sin,
Afflictions sorted, anguish of all sizes,
Fine nets and stratagems to catch us in,
Bibles laid open, millions of surprises;
Blessings beforehand, ties of gratefulness,
The sound of glory ringing in our ears:
Without, our shame; within, our consciences;
Angels and grace, eternal hopes and fears!
Yet all these fences and their whole array
One cunning bosom-sin blows quite away.

442. THE QUIDDITY

My God, a verse is not a crown,
No point of honour, or gay suit,
No hawk, or banquet, or renown,
Nor a good sword, nor yet a lute.

G. HERBERT.

It cannot vault or dance or play,
It never was in France or Spain,
Nor can it entertain the day
With a great stable or demain.

It is no office, art, or news,
Nor the Exchange, or busy hall :
But it is that which, while I use,

I am with Thee: and Most take all'.

G. HERBERT.

443. SUNDAY

O DAY most calm, most bright,
The fruit of this, the next world's bud,
The indorsement of supreme delight,
Writ by a friend, and with His blood;
The couch of Time, Care's balm and bay:
The week were dark but for thy light-
Thy Torch doth show the way.

The Sundays of man's life,
Threaded together on Time's string,
Make bracelets to adorn the wife
Of the eternal glorious King:

On Sunday heaven's gate stands ope;

Blessings are plentiful and rife,

More plentiful than hope.

444. VIRTUE

SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky,

The dew shall weep thy fall to-night,

For thou must die.

G. HERBERT.

Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,

Thy root is ever in its grave,

And thou must die.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,

My music shows you have your closes,

And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,

Like seasoned timber, never gives; selfish.
But though the whole world turn to coal,
Then chiefly lives.

445. THE ELIXIR

TEACH me, my God and King,
In all things Thee to see,
And what I do in anything
To do it as for Thee.

G. HERBERT.

All may of Thee partake
Nothing can be so mean
Which with his tincture, for Thy
sake',

Will not grow bright and clean.

A servant with this clause
Makes drudgery divine;

Who sweeps a room, as for Thy laws,
Makes that and the action fine.

G. HERBERT.

446. THE PULLEY

WHEN God at first made man,
Having a glass of blessings standing by,
Let us,' said He, 'pour on him all we can:
Let the world's riches, which dispėrsèd lie,
Contract into a span.'

So strength first made a way,

Then beauty flowed, then wisdom, honour, pleasure;
When almost all was out, God made a stay,
Perceiving that, alone of all His treasure,
Rest in the bottom lay.

'For if I should,' said He,

'Bestow this jewel also on My creature,
He would adore My gifts instead of Me,
And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature:
So both should losers be.

'Yet let him keep the rest,

But keep them with repining restlessness;
Let him be rich and weary, that at least,
If goodness lead him not yet weariness
May toss him to My breast.'

A SWEET disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wanton-

ness;

G. HERBERT.

sulject.

A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribands to flow confusedly;
A winning wave, deserving note,

A lawn about the shoulders In the tempestuous petticoat;

thrown

Into a fine distraction;

An erring lace, which here and

there

Enthrals a crimson stomacher;

A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility;

Do more bewitch me, than when

art

Is too precise in every part.
R. HERRICK.

449. AN ODE FOR BEN JONSON

BECALM HIS FEVER

Thou sweetly canst convert the