A paradise, that has no stint,
No change, no measure;

A painted cask, but nothing in't,

Nor wealth, nor pleasure :

Vain earth! that falsely thus comply'st

With man; vain man! that thou rely'st

On earth; vain man, thou dot'st; vain earth, thou ly'st. What mean dull souls, in this high measure,

To haberdash

In earth's base wares, whose greatest treasure
Is dross and trash?

The height of whose enchanting pleasure
Is but a flash?

Are these the goods that thou supply'st
Us mortals with? Are these the high'st?
Can these bring cordial peace? false world, thou ly'st.

DELIGHT IN GOD ONLY.

I LOVE and have some cause to love-the earth:
She is my Maker's creature; therefore good:
She is my mother, for she gave me birth;
She is my tender nurse-she gives me food;
But what's a creature, Lord, compared with thee?
Or what's my mother or my nurse to me?

I love the air: her dainty sweets refresh

My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me; Her shrill-mouthed quire sustains me with their flesh, And with their polyphonian notes delight me : But what's the air or all the sweets that she Can bless my soul withal, compared to thee?

I love the sea she is my fellow-creature,

My careful purveyor; she provides me store: She walls me round; she makes my diet greater; She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore:

But, Lord of oceans, when compared with thee, What is the ocean or her wealth to me? To heaven's high city I direct my journey, Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine eye; Mine eye, by contemplation's great attorney, Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky :

F

But what is heaven, great God, compared to thee? Without thy presence heaven's no heaven to me. Without thy presence earth gives no refection; Without thy presence sea affords no treasure; Without thy presence air's a rank infection; Without thy presence heaven itself no pleasure: If not possessed, if not enjoyed in thee, What's earth, or sea, or air, or heaven to me? The highest honours that the world can boast, Are subjects far too low for my desire; The brightest beams of glory are at mostBut dying sparkles of thy living fire :

The loudest flames that earth can kindle, be But nightly glowworms, if compared to thee. Without thy presence wealth is bags of cares; Wisdom but folly; joy disquiet-sadness: Friendship is treason, and delights are snares; Pleasures but pain, and mirth but pleasing madness; Without thee, Lord, things be not what they be, Nor have they being, when compared with thee. In having all things, and not thee, what have I ? Not having thee, what have my labours got? Let me enjoy but thee, what further crave I ? And having thee alone, what have I not? I wish nor sea nor land; nor would I be Possessed of heaven, heaven unpossessed of thee.

DECAY OF LIFE.

THE day grows old, the low pitched lamp hath made
No less than treble shade,

And the descending damp doth now prepare
To uncurl bright Titan's hair;

Whose western wardrobe now begins to unfold
Her purples, fringed with gold,

To clothe his evening glory, when the alarms
Of rest shall call to rest in restless Thetis' arms.

Nature now calls to supper, to refresh

The spirits of all flesh;

The toiling ploughman drives his thirsty teams,
To taste the slipp'ry streams:

The droiling swineherd knocks away, and feasts
His hungry whining guests:

The boxbill, ouzle, and the dappled thrush,
Like hungry rivals meet at their beloved bush.
And now the cold autumnal dews are seen

To cobweb every green;

And by the low-shorn rowans doth appear
The fast-declining year :

The sapless branches doff their summer suits
And wain their winter fruits;

And stormy blasts have forced the quaking trees
To wrap their trembling limbs in suits of mossy frieze.
Our wasted taper now hath brought her light
To the next door to-night;

Her sprightless flame grown with great snuff, doth turn
Sad as her neighb'ring urn:

Her slender inch, that yet unspent remains,
Lights but to further pains,

And in a silent language bids her guest
Prepare his weary limbs to take eternal rest.

Now careful age hath pitched her painful plough
Upon the furrowed brow;

And snowy blasts of discontented care

Have blanched the falling hair : Suspicious envy mixed with jealous spite

Disturbs his weary night :

He threatens youth with age; and now, alas!
He owns not what he is, but vaunts the man he was.

Grey hairs peruse thy days, and let thy past

Read lectures to thy last :

Those hasty wings that hurried them away

Will give these days no day :

The constant wheels of nature scorn to tire

Until her works expire:

That blast that nipped thy youth will ruin thee;

That hand that shook the branch will quickly strike the

tree.

FLEEING FROM WRATH.

AH! whither shall I fly? what path untrod
Shall I seek out to 'scape the flaming rod
Of my offended, of my angry God?

Where shall I sojourn ? what kind sea will hide
My head from thunder? where shall I abide,
Until his flames be quench'd or laid aside ?

What, if my feet should take their hasty flight,
And seek protection in the shades of night?
Alas! no shades can blind the God of light.

What, if my soul should take the wings of day,
And find some desert? If she springs away,
The wings of vengeance clip as fast as they.
What, if some solid rock should entertain
My frighted soul? can solid rocks restrain
The stroke of Justice, and not cleave in twain?
Nor sea, nor shade, nor shield, nor rock, nor cave,
Nor silent deserts, nor the sullen grave,
What flame-ey'd fury means to smite, can save.

'Tis vair to flee, till gentle Mercy show
Her better eye; the farther off we go,
The swing of Justice deals the mightier blow.
The' ingenuous child, corrected, doth not fly
His angry mother's hand, but clings more nigh,
And quenches with his tears her flaming eye.
Great God! there is no safety here below;
Thou art my fortress, thou that seem'st my foe,
'Tis thou, that strik'st the stroke, must guard the blow.

George Herbert.

Born 1593.

Died 1632.

HERBERT Was of noble birth, being descended from the Earls of Pembroke. His elder brother was Lord Herbert of Cherbury. Herbert was born at Montgomery Castle in Wales, on 3d April 1593, and was educated to push his way at court; but in 1626 circumstances induced him to enter into sacred orders, and he was settled as prebend of Layton Ecclesia, near Spalding. In uncertain health, he afterwards was made rector of Bemerton, near Salisbury, where he passed the remainder of his short life in the exercise of the duties of his office, with saintlike zeal and devotion. Here he wrote his poems, which breathe in verse the rules laid down by himself for his own direction as a country parson. He died

in 1632.

VERTUE.

SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridall of the earth and skie:
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;
For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue angrie and brave
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,

Thy root is ever in its grave,

And thou must die.

Sweet spring, full of sweet dayes and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,

My musick shows ye have your closes,

And all must die.

Onely a sweet and vertuous soul,

Like season'd timber, never gives;

But though the whole world turn to coal,

Then chiefly lives.

LIFE.

I MADE a posie, while the day ran by:
Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie
My life within this band.

But Time did becken to the flowers, and they
By noon most cunningly did steal away,

And wither'd in my hand.

My hand was next to them, and then my heart; I took, without more thinking, in good part Time's gentle admonition; Who did so sweetly death's sad taste convey, Making my minde to smell my fatall day,

Yet sugring the suspicion.

Farewell, dear flowers, sweetly your time ye spent, Fit, while ye lived, for smell or ornament,

And after death for cures. I follow straight without complaints or grief, Since if my scent be good, I care not, if

It be as short as yours.