SOUL AND BODY.

OOR soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
Fooled by these rebel powers that thee array,

Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,

Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,

Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end?
Then, Soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,
And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
Within be fed, without be rich no more:

So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,
And Death once dead, there's no more dying then.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

CONTENT.

H, sweet Content, where is thy mild abode?
Is it with shepherds and light-hearted swains
Which sing upon the downs and pipe abroad,

Tending their flocks and cattle on the plains?
Ah, sweet Content, where dost thou safely rest?
In heaven, with Angels which the praises sing
Of Him that made and rules at his behest

The minds and hearts of every living thing?

Ah, sweet Content, where doth thine harbour hold?

Is it in churches with religious men

Which please the gods with prayers manifold,

And in their studies meditate it then?

Whether thou dost in heaven or earth appear,

Be where thou wilt, thou wilt not harbour here.

BARNABE BARNES.

THE TALENT.

RACIOUS, Divine, and most Omnipotent !
Receive Thy servant's Talent in good part,
Who hid it not, but willing did convert

It to best use he could, when it was lent:
The sum-though slender, yet not all misspent-
Receive, dear God of grace! from cheerful heart
Of him that knows how merciful Thou art,
And with what grace to contrite sinners bent.

I know my fault, I did not as I should;
My sinful flesh against my soul rebell'd ;
But since I did endeavour what I could,

Let not my little nothing be withheld

From Thy rich treasuries of endless grace;
But (for Thy sake) let it procure a place.

BARNABE Barnes.

TO DEATH.

EATH, be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow, Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,

Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow;

And soonest our best men with thee do go,

Rest of their bones, and souls' delivery.

Thou'rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well,
And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally;

And death shall be no more-Death, thou shalt die.

JOHN DONNE.

MARY MAGDALEN.

HESE Eyes (dear Lord) once brandons1 of desire,

Frail scouts betraying what they had to keep,

Which their own heart, then others set on fire,

Their traitrous black before Thee here out-weep:

These Locks, of blushing deeds the fair attire,

Smooth-frizzled waves, sad shelves which shadow deep,
Soul-stinging serpents in gilt curls which creep,
To touch Thy sacred feet do now aspire.

In seas of Care behold a sinking Bark,

By winds of sharp Remorse unto Thee driven,
O let me not exposed be ruin's mark !

My faults confest,-Lord, say they are forgiven."
Thus sighed to Jesus the Bethanian fair,

His tear-wet feet still drying with her hair.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

1 Torches