Have I no harvest but a thorn Before my sighs did dry it; there was corn Have I no bays to crown it, No flowers, no garlands gay? all blasted, Not so, my heart; but there is fruit, Recover all thy sigh-blown age On double pleasures; leave thy cold dispute Which petty thoughts have made; and made to thee While thou didst wink and wouldst not see. I will abroad. Call in thy death's-head there, tie up thy fears: To suit and serve his need But as I raved, and grew more fierce and wild Methought I heard one calling, "Child"; LOVE. LOVE OVE bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back, But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning, "A guest," I answered, "worthy to be here": "I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear, I cannot look on Thee!" Love took my hand and smiling did reply, "Who made the eyes but I?" "Truth, Lord; but I have marred them: let my shame Go where it doth deserve." "And know you not," says Love, "Who bore the blame?" "My dear, then I will serve." "You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat.” So I did sit and eat. FRANCIS QUARLES. (1592-1644.) "PHOSPHOR, BRING THE DAY." From the Emblems, Divine and Moral, 1635. Quarles's Works, edited by Dr. Grosart, are in the Chertsey Worthies Library (3 vols., 1880). WILL'T ne'er be morning? Will that promised light Ne'er break, and clear those clouds of night? Whose conquering ray May chase these fogs: sweet Phosphor, bring the day. How long, how long shall these benighted eyes Expecting spring? How long shall darkness soil These horrid mists: sweet Phosphor, bring the day. Let those whose eyes, like owls, abhor the light— How sad delay Afflicts dull hopes! Sweet Phosphor, bring the day. Alas! my light-in-vain-expecting eyes Can find no objects but what rise From this poor mortal blaze, a dying spark Of Vulcan's forge, whose flames are dark,— A dangerous, dull, blue-burning light, As melancholy as the night: Here's all the suns that glister in the sphere Heaven's loitering lamp: sweet Phosphor, bring the day. Blow, Ignorance. O thou, whose idle knee Rocks earth into a lethargy, And with thy sooty fingers hast benight The world's fair cheeks, blow, blow thy spite; Since thou hast puffed our greater taper, do Puff on, and out the lesser too. If e'er that breath-exiléd flame return, Thou hast not blown, as it will burn. The wrongs of night: sweet Phosphor, bring the day. HENRY MORE. (1614-1687.) THE PHILOSOPHER'S DEVOTION. From Philosophical Poems, 1647; it also appears in the Divine Dialogues, 1668. More's Poems, edited by Dr. Grosart, 1878, are n the Chertsey Worthies Library. SING aloud! His praise rehearse Who hath made the universe. He the boundless heavens has spread, He that on Olympus high Tends his flocks with watchful eye, Midst each flock for to reside1. Thus, as round about they stray, 1 the suns in their systems. Music that the heart of Jove God is good, is wise, is strong, All things back from whence they sprung, What they borrowed of the sea. Now myself I do resign; Take me whole: I all am thine. Quit from these, thy praise I'll sing, Lo! from far I you salute, Sweetly warbling on my lute India, Egypt, Araby, Asia, Greece, and Tartary, Carmel-tracts, and Lebanon, With the Mountains of the Moon, From whence muddy Nile doth run, Or wherever else you won1: Breathing in one vital air, One we are though distant far. Rise at once; let's sacrifice: 1 dwell. |