Sir John Davies.

1570-1626.

THE SOUL'S HIGH DESTINY.

O IGNORANT poor man! what dost thou bear

Locked up within the casket of thy breast? What jewels, and what riches hast thou there? What heavenly treasure in so weak a chest?

Look in thy soul, and thou shalt beauties find,
Like those which drowned Narcissus in the flood:

Honor and pleasure both are in thy mind,
And all that in the world is counted good.

Think of her worth, and think that God did mean
This worthy mind should worthy things embrace:
Blot not her beauties with thy thoughts unclean,
Nor her dishonor with thy passion base.
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Kill not her quickening power with surfeitings;
Mar not her sense with sensuality;
Cast not away her wit on idle things;
Make not her free-will slave to vanity.

And when thou think'st of her eternity,
Think not that death against her nature is:
Think it a birth; and, when thou goest to die,
Sing like a swan as if thou wentst to bliss!

REASONS FOR THE SOUL'S IMMORTALITY.

AGAIN, how can she but immortal be,

When, with the motions of both will and wit,

She still aspireth to eternity,

And never rests till she attain to it?

All moving things to other things do move

Of the same kind, which shows their nature such; So earth falls down, and fire doth mount above, Till both their proper elements do touch.

And as the moisture which the thirsty earth

Sucks from the sea to fill her empty veins, From out her womb at last doth take a birth,

And runs, a lymph, along the grassy plains,

Long doth she stay, as loth to leave the land
From whose soft side she first did issue make;
She tastes all places, turns to every hand,
Her flowery banks unwilling to forsake.

Yet nature so her streams doth lead and carry
As that her course doth make no final stay,
Till she herself unto the sea doth marry,
Within whose watery bosom first she lay.

E'en so the soul, which, in this earthly mould,
The spirit of God doth secretly infuse,
Because, at first, she doth the earth behold,
And only this material world she views,

At first, her mother earth she holdeth dear,
And doth embrace the world and worldly things;
She flies close by the ground, and hovers here,
And mounts not up, with her celestial wings;-

Yet, under heaven, she cannot light on aught
That with her heavenly nature doth agree;
She cannot rest, she cannot fix her thought,
She cannot in this world contented be.

For who did ever yet, in honor, wealth,
Or pleasure of the sense, contentment find?
Who ever ceased to wish, when he had health?
Or, having wisdom, was not vexed in mind?

Then, as a bee, which among weeds doth fall,
Which seem sweet flowers with lustre fresh and
She lights on that, and this, and tasteth all,

gay,

But, pleased with none, doth rise and soar away

So, when the soul finds here no true content,

And, like Noah's dove, can no sure footing take, She doth return from whence she first was sent, And flies to Him that first her wings did make.

AFFLICTION'S TEACHINGS.

Ir aught can teach us aught, affliction's looks
(Making us pry into ourselves so near)
Teach us to know ourselves beyond all books,
Or all the learnéd schools that ever were.

She within lists my ranging mind hath brought,
That now beyond myself I will not go:
Myself am centre of my circling thought:
Only myself I study, learn, and know.

I know my life's a pain, and but a span ;
I know my sense is mocked in every thing;
And, to conclude, I know myself a man,

Which is a proud and yet a wretched thing.

Reginald Heber.

1783-1826.

GOD PROVIDETH FOR THE MORROW.

Lo! the lilies of the field,

How their leaves instruction yield!

Hark to Nature's lesson given

By the blessed birds of Heaven.
Every bush and tufted tree
Warbles sweet philosophy,-
"Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow:
God provideth for the morrow!

66 Say, with richer crimson glows
The kingly mantle than the rose ?
Say, have kings more wholesome fare
Than we poor citizens of air?
Barns nor hoarded grain have we,
Yet we carol merrily,-