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Out of the grave doth by the Godhead rise;
And lived, that could not die, in manhood dies,
That we in both might live by that sweet sacrifice.

A tree was first the instrument of strife,

Where Eve to sin her soul did prostitute ; A tree is now the instrument of life,

Though ill that trunk and this fair body suit :

Ah ! fatal tree, and yet O blessed fruit ! That death to Him, this life to us doth give ; Strange is the cure, when things past cure revive, And the Physician dies to make his patient live.

Sweet Eden was the arbor of delight,

Yet in his honey flowers our poison blew ; Sad Gethsemane, the bower of baleful night,

Where Christ a health of poison for us drew,

Yet all our honey in that poison grew :
So we from sweetest flowers could suck our bane,
And Christ from bitter venom could again
Extract life out of death, and pleasure out of pain.

A man was first the author of our fall,

A Man is now the author of our rise : A garden was the place we perished all,

A garden is the place He pays our price :

And the old serpent, with a new device, Hath found a way himself for to beguile; So he, that all men tangled in his wile, Is now by one Man caught, beguiled with his own guile.

The dewy night had with her frosty shade

Immantled all the world, and the stiff ground Sparkled in ice; only the Lord that made

All for Himself, Himself dissolved found,

Sweat without heat, and bled without a wound; Of heaven and earth, and God and man forlore, Thrice begging help of those whose sins he bore, And thrice denied of one, not to deny had swore.







may the band that now in triumph shines,

And that before they were invested thus) In earthly bodies carried heavenly minds,

Pitch round about, in order glorious,

Their sunny tents and houses luminous ; All their eternal day in songs employing, Joying their end without end of their joying, While their Almighty Prince destruction is destroying.

Full, yet without satiety of that

Which whets and quiets greedy appetite, Where never sun did rise, nor ever sat,

But one eternal day and endless night

Gives time to those whose time is infinite-
Speaking with thought, obtaining without fee,
Beholding Him whom never eye could see,
And magnifying Him that cannot greater be.

How can such joy as this want words to speak ?

And yet what words can speak such joy as this? Far from the world that might their quiet break,

Here the glad souls the face of beauty kiss,

Poured out in pleasure on their beds of bliss ; And, drunk with nectar torrents, ever hold Their eyes on Him, whose graces manifold, The more they do behold, the more they would behold.

Their sight drinks lovely fires in at their eyes,

Their brain sweet incense with fine breath accloys, That on God's sweating altar burning lies ;

Their hungry ears feed on their heavenly noise

That angels sing to tell their untold joys;
Their understanding, naked truth, their wills,
The all and self-sufficient goodness fills,
That nothing here is wanting but the want of ills.

No sorrow now hangs clouding on their brow;

No bloodless malady empales their face ; No age drops on their hairs his silver snow;

No nakedness their bodies doth embase ;

No poverty themselves and theirs disgrace; No fear of death the joy of life devours ; No unchaste sleep their precious time deflowers; No loss, no grief, no change wait on their winged hours.

But now their naked bodies scorn the cold,

And from their eyes joy looks and laughs at pain ; The infant wonders how he came so old,

The old man how he came so young again ;

Still resting, though from sleep they still refrain ; Where all are rich, and yet no gold they owe; And all are kings, and yet no subjects know; All full, and yet no time they do on food bestow.

For things that pass are past, and in this field

The indeficient spring no winter fears ; The trees together fruit and blossoms yield,

The unfading lily leaves of silver bears,

And crimson rose a scarlet garment wears ; And all of these on the saints' bodies

grow, Not, as they wont, on baser earth below: Three rivers here, of milk, and wine, and honey flow.

About the holy city rolls a flood

Of molten crystal, like a sea of glass,
On which weak stream a strong foundation stood :

Of living diamonds the building was,

That all things else, besides itself, did pass. Her streets, instead of stones, the stars did pave, And little pearls for dust it seemed to have, On which soft streaming manna like pure snow did wave. In midst of this city celestial,

Where the eternal temple should have rose, Lightened the Idea Beatifical,

End and beginning of each thing that grows;

Whose self no end nor yet beginning knows,
That hath no eyes to see, nor ears to hear,
Yet sees and hears, and is all eye, all ear ;
That nowhere is contained, and yet is everywhere.

nger of all things, yet immutable;

Before and after all, the first and last ; That moving all, is yet immoveable;

Great without quantity; in whose forecast

Things past are present, things to come are past; Swift without motion; to whose open eye The hearts of wicked men unbreasted lie; At once absent and present to them, far and nigh.

It is no flaming lustre, made of light;

No sweet consent, or well-tuned harmony; Ambrosia, for to feast the appetite,

Or flowery odor mixed with spicery;

No soft embrace or pleasure bodily;
And yet it is a kind of inward feast,
A harmony that sounds within the breast,
An odor, light, embrace, in which the soul doth rest.

A heavenly feast no hunger can consume;

A light unseen, yet shines in every place; A sound no time can steal ; a sweet perfume

No winds can scatter; an entire embrace

That no satiety can e'er unlace ;
Ingraced into so high a favor there,
The saints with their beaupeers whole worlds outwear,
And things unseen do see, and things unheard do hear.

Ye blessed souls, grown richer by your spoil,

Whose loss, though great, is cause of greater gains ; Here may your weary spirits rest from toil,

Spending your endless evening that remains

Among those white flocks and celestial trains
That feed upon their Shepherd's eyes, and frame
That heavenly music of so wondrous frame,
Psalming aloud the holy honors of his name !


HENRY KING was born in 1591. He was successively chaplain to James the First, Dean of Rochester, and Bishop of Chichester. He died in 1669. An edition of his “Poems and Psalms” was published in London in 1843, with an interesting Biography by the Rev. J. Hannah, B. A.

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So soon grown old! hast thou been six years dead ?
Poor earth, once by my love inhabited !
And must I live to calculate the time
To which thy blooming youth could never climb,
But fell in the ascent!'yet have not I
Studied enough thy losses' history.

How happy were mankind, if Death's strict laws
Consumed our lamentations like the cause !
Or that our grief, turning to dust, might end
With the dissolved body of a friend !

But sacred Heaven! O, how just thou art
In stamping death's impression on that heart,
Which through thy favors would grow insolent,
Were it not physicked by sharp discontent.
If, then, it stand resolved in thy decree,
That still I must doomed to a desert be,
Sprung out of my lone thoughts, which know no path
But what my own misfortune beaten hath ::

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