Imágenes de páginas

O, 'tis not a tear,
"Tis a star about to drop

From thine eye its sphere;

The sun will stoop and take it up. wel

Proud will his sister be to wear

This thine eye's jewel in her ear.

O, 'tis a tear,

Too true a tear: for no sad eyne,

How sad soe'er,

Rain so true a tear as thine; Each drop leaving a place so dear, Weeps for itself, is its own tear.

Such a pearl as this is,
Slipt from Aurora's dewy breast,
The rose-bud's sweet lip kisses;
And such the rose itself, when vext
With ungentle flames, does shed,
Sweating in too warm a bed.*

Such the maiden gem
By the wanton spring put on,

Peeps from her parent stem,
And blushes on the watery sun :
This watery blossom of thy eyne,
Ripe, will make the richer wine.


* See these latter lines and the following verse in "The Weeper," as printed in the editions of 1646, 1648, and 1652.,

Fair drop, why quak'st thou so?
'Cause thou straight must lay thy head
In the dust? O no;

The dust shall never be thy bed:

A pillow for thee will I bring,

Stuffed with down of angel's wing.

Thus carried up on high,

For to Heaven thou must go,
Sweetly shalt thou lie,

And in soft slumbers bathe thy woe;

Till the singing orbs awake thee,

And one of their bright chorus make thee.

[blocks in formation]

Whither th' hadst rather there have shone

An eye of Heaven; or still shine here,

In th' heaven of Mary's eye, a tear.



On the Water of our Lord's Baptism.
ACH blest drop on each blest limb,
Is wash'd itself, in washing Him:
'Tis a gem while it stays here;

While it falls hence 'tis a tear.


On the Baptized Ethiopian.
ET it no longer be a forlorn hope
To wash an Ethiop:

He's wash'd, his gloomy skin a peaceful shade
For his white soul is made:

And now, I doubt not, the Eternal Dove

A black-faced house will love.

On the Miracle of multiplied Loaves.
EE here an easy feast that knows no wound,
That under hunger's teeth will needs be found:
A subtle harvest of unbounded bread.
What would ye more? Here food itself is fed.

Upon the Sepulchre of our Lord.

ERE, where our Lord once laid his Head,
Now the grave lies buried.

The Widow's Mites.

WO mites, two drops, yet all her house and land, Fall from a steady heart, though trembling hand: The other's wanton wealth foams high, and brave; The other cast away, she only gave.


On the Prodigal.

ELL me, bright boy, tell me, my golden lad,
Whither away so frolic? why so glad?

What all thy wealth in council? all thy state? Are husks so dear? troth 'tis a mighty rate.

On the still surviving Marks of our Saviour's

HATEVER story of their cruelty,

Or nail, or thorn, or spear have writ in Thee,
Are in another sense

Still legible;

Sweet is the difference:

Once I did spell
Every red letter

A wound of Thine;
Now, what is better,
Balsam for mine.


The Sick implore St. Peter's Shadow.
NDER thy shadow may I lurk awhile,
Death's busy search I'll easily beguile:

Thy shadow, Peter, must show me the sun, My light's thy shadow's shadow, or 'tis done.



The Dumb healed, and the People enjoined silence. HRIST bids the dumb tongue speak; it

[blocks in formation]

He charges to be quiet; it runs round.

If in the first He us'd His finger's touch:
His hand's whole strength here could not be too much.


Come, see the place where the Lord lay. HOW me Himself, Himself, bright Sir, O show Which way my poor tears to Himself may go. Were it enough to show the place, and say, Look, Mary, here see where thy Lord once lay; Then could I show these arms of mine and say, Look, Mary, here see where thy Lord once lay.

To Pontius washing his Hands.

HY hands are wash'd, but O, the water's spilt
That labour'd to have wash'd thy guilt:

The flood, if any can, that can suffice,

Must have its fountain in thine eyes.

To the Infant Martyrs.

O, smiling souls, your new-built cages break,
In Heav'n you'll learn to sing ere here to speak;
Nor let the milky fonts that bathe your thirst
Be your delay;

The place that calls you hence is, at the worst,
Milk all the way.

« AnteriorContinuar »