Narrow and low, and infinitely less

Than this great morning's mighty business.
One little world or two

Alas! will never do,

We must have store;

Go, soul, out of thyself and seek for more;
Go, and request

Great nature for the key of her huge chest ;
Of heavens, the self-involving set of spheres,
(Which dull mortality more feels than hears.)
Then rouse the nest

Of nimble art, and traverse round

The airy shop of self-appeasing sound,

And beat a summons in the same

All sovereign Name,

To warn each several kind,

And shape of sweetness-be they such
As sigh with supple wind,

Or answer artful touch,

That they convene and come away,

To wait at the love-crowned doors of that illustrious day.
Wake, lute and harp,

And every sweet-lipped thing
That talks with tuneful string!
Start into life, and leap with me
Into a hasty, fit-tuned harmony.
Nor must you think it much

To obey my bolder touch;

I have authority in love's name to take you,

And to the work of love this morning wake you.

Wake! in the name

Of Him who never sleeps, all things that are,

Or, what's the same,

Are musical;

Answer my call,

And come along;

Help me to meditate mine immortal song.

Come, ye soft ministers of sweet sad mirth!

Bring all your household stuff of heaven on earth.

Oh you my soul's most certain wings,

Complaining pipes, and prattling strings,

Bring all the store

Of sweets you have, and murmur that you have no more.

Come, ne'er to part,

Nature and art;

Come, and come strong

To the conspiracy of our spacious song.

Bring all the powers of praise

Your provinces of well-united worlds can raise;

Bring all your lutes and harps of heaven and earth,
Whate'er co-operates to the common mirth;

Vessels of vocal joys,

Or you, more noble architects of intellectual noise,
Cymbals of heaven, or human spheres,

Solicitors of souls or ears.

And when you are come with all

That you can bring or we may call,

Oh! may you fix

For ever here, and mix

Yourselves into the long

And everlasting series of a deathless song.

Powers of my soul, be proud,

And speak aloud

To all the dear-bought nations this redeeming Name,

And in the wealth of one rich word proclaim

New similes to nature.

May it be no wrong,

Blest heavens, to you and your superior song,

That we dark sons of dust and sorrow

Awhile dare borrow

The name of your delights and our desires,

And fit it to so far inferior lyres.

Our murmurs have their music too,

Ye mighty orbs, as well as you ;

Nor yields the noblest nest

Of warbling seraphim to the ears of love

A choicer lesson than the joyful breast

Of a poor panting turtle-dove.

And we low worms have leave to do

The same bright business, ye third heavens! with you. Gentle spirits, do not complain,

We will have care

To keep it fair,

And send it back to you again.

Come, lovely Name! appear from forth the bright

Regions of peaceful light;

Look from thine own illustrious home,

Fair King of names, and come:

Leave all thy native glories in their gorgeous nest,

And give Thyself awhile the gracious guest

Of humble souls that seek to find

The hidden sweets

Which man's heart meets

When Thou art master of the mind.

Come, lovely Name! life of our hope!

Lo, we hold our hearts wide ope!

Unlock thy cabinet of day,

Dearest sweet, and come away.

Lo, how the thirsty lands

Gasp for thy golden showers with long-stretched hands!

Lo, how the labouring earth

That hopes to be

All heaven by Thee,

Leaps at thy birth!

The attending world to wait thy rise,

First turned to eyes;

And then, not knowing what to do,

Turned them to tears, and spent them too.

Come, royal Name! and pay the expense

Of all thy precious patience:

Oh! come away,

And kill the death of this delay.

Oh! see so many worlds of barren years
Melted and measured out in seas of tears;
Oh! see the weary lids of wakeful hope,
(Love's eastern windows) all wide ope,
With curtains drawn,

To catch the day-break of thy dawn.
Oh! dawn at last, long looked-for day!
Take thine own wings, and come away.
Lo, where aloft it comes! It comes among
The conduct of adoring spirits, that throng
Like diligent bees, and swarm about it.

Oh! they are wise,

And know what sweets are sucked from out it.
It is the hive

By which they thrive,

Where all their hoard of honey lies.

Lo, where it comes upon the snowy dove's
Soft back, and brings a bosom big with loves.
Welcome to our dark world, thou womb of day!
Unfold thy fair conceptions, and display

The birth of our bright joys.

O thou compacted

Body of blessings! spirit of souls extracted!

Oh! dissipate thy spicy powers,

Cloud of condensed sweets! and break upon us

In balmy showers!

Oh! fill our senses and take from us

All force of so profane a fallacy,

To think aught sweet but that which smells of Thee.

Fair flowery Name! in none but Thee

And thy nectareal fragrancy,

Hourly there meets

An universal synod of all sweets;

By whom it is defined thus

That no perfume

For ever shall presume

To pass for odoriferous,

But such alone whose sacred pedigree

Can prove itself some kin, sweet Name! to Thee.
Sweet Name, in thy each syllable,

A thousand blest Arabias dwell!

A thousand hills of frankincense,
Mountains of myrrh, and beds of spices,

And ten thousand paradises,

The soul that tastes thee takes from hence.

How many unknown worlds there are

Of comforts which thou hast in keeping!

How many thousand mercies there

In pity's soft lap lie a sleeping!

Happy is he who has the art

To awake them,

And to take them,

House and lodge them in his heart.

PATRICK CAREY.

BUT little is known of Carey, except that he was a churchman and a loyalist. His poems, some of which possess great merit, were first printed by Sir Walter Scott, from a MS. dated 1651.

CHRIST IN THE CRADLE, IN THE GARDEN, AND IN HIS PASSION.

Look, how He shakes for cold!

How pale his lips are grown!

Wherein his limbs to fold,

Yet mantle has He none,

His pretty feet and hands

(Of late more pure and white

Than is the snow

That pains them so,)

Have lost their candour1 quite.

1 Whiteness.