Nor should we be with this command dismayed, His love at once, and dread, instructs our thought; Weak though we are, to love is no hard task, Love that would all men just and temperate make, Wanting this love, they must with weeds abound; Than thorns and thistles springing from the curse. THOMAS FLATMAN. THOMAS FLATMAN was born in 1633. He has been honoured by Wood with the title of an eminent poet; and though his writings may not entitle him to such a distinction, there is still sufficient beauty in his pieces to show that the censure bestowed on him by some recent critics is wholly undeserved. He died in 1688. HYMN FOR THE MORNING. AWAKE, my soul! awake, mine eyes! Awake, my drowsy faculties! Awake, and see the new-born light Spring from the darksome womb of night! Look up and see the unwearied sun, Already has his race begun. The pretty lark is mounted high, Thy power has made, thy goodness kept, Yet one day more has given me That when the last of all my days is come, FOR THE EVENING. SLEEP! downy sleep! come close mine eyes, Tired with beholding vanities; Sweet slumbers, come, and chase away On your soft bosom will I lie, Forget the world, and learn to die. O Israel's watchful Shepherd! spread Let not the spirits of the air While I slumber me ensnare; But save thy suppliant free from harms, Clasped in thine everlasting arms. Clouds and thick darkness are thy throne, Thy wonderful pavilion; Oh! dart from thence a shining ray, ROBERT HERRICK. ROBERT HERRICK was born in London, in 1591. He was educated at Cambridge, and was presented to the vicarage of Dean Prior, in Devonshire, in 1629, by Charles the First; from which, during the troubles of the times, he was ejected. The time of his death is unknown. The works of Herrick do not offer much serious poetry for choice, but what little there is, alone of all his pieces, is worth preserving; the rest deserves to remain, as it happily is, in obscurity. LITANY TO THE HOLY SPIRIT. IN the hour of my distress, Sweet Spirit, comfort me. When I lie within my bed, Sick at heart, and sick at head, And with doubts discomforted, Sweet Spirit, comfort me. When the house doth sigh and weep, Yet mine eyes the watch do keep; When the passing bell doth toll, And the furies in a shoal Come to fright a parting soul, Sweet Spirit, comfort me. When God knows I'm tossed about, Either with despair or doubt, Yet before the glass be out, Sweet Spirit, comfort me, When the tapers now burn blue, And that number more than true, When the priest his last hath prayed, And I nod to what is said, 'Cause my speech is now decayed, Sweet Spirit, comfort me. When the tempter me pursueth With the sins of all my youth, And half damns me with untruth, Sweet Spirit, comfort me. When the flames and hellish cries Fright mine ears, and fright mine eyes, And all terrors me surprise, Sweet Spirit, comfort me. When the judgment is revealed, Sweet Spirit, comfort me. TO DAFFODILS. FAIR daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon; As yet the early rising sun Has not attained its noon. Until the hasting day Has run But to the even-song: And having prayed together, we Will go with you along. We have short time to stay as you; As quick a growth to meet decay, As your hours do; and dry Like to the summer-rain, Or as the pearls of morning-dew, TO BLOSSOMS. FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree, Your date is not so past, But you may stay yet here awhile What, were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, And so to bid good night? 'Twas pity nature brought you forth Merely to show your worth, And lose you quite. But ye are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne'er so brave; And after they have shown their pride, Like you, awhile, they glide Into the grave. |