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T Believe me, reader, can say more
THE modest front of this small Aoor
Believe me, reader, can say more Than many a braver marble can, “ Here lies a truly honest man!” One whose conscience was a thing That troubled neither church nor king ; One of those few that in this town Honour all preachers, hear their own. Sermons he heard, yet not so many As left no time to practice any; He heard them reverently, and then His practice preach'd them o'er again ; His parlour-sermons rather were Those to the eye, than to the ear ; His prayers took their price and strength Not from the loudness nor the length; He was a protestant at home, Not only in despite of Rome ; He loved his father, yet his zeal Tore not off his mother's veil ; To th' church he did allow her dress, True beauty to true holiness ; Peace, which he loved in life, did lend Her hand to bring him to his end ;
and death call'd for the score,
Richard Crashaw. 1637-1650.
MAN there came, whence none could tell,
And tested all things in the land
Quick birth of transmutation smote
The fair to foul, the foul to fair ;
Purple nor ermine did he spare, Nor scorn the dusty coat.
Of heirloom jewels, prized so much,
Were many changed to chips and clods,
And even statues of the gods Crumbled beneath its touch.
Then angrily the people cried, -
Our goods suffice us as they are ;
And since they could not so avail
To check this unrelenting guest,
They seized him, saying — “Let him test How real is our jail ! '
But, though they slew him with the sword,
And in a fire his Touchstone burn'd,
Its doings could not be o'erturn'd, Its undoings restored.
And when, to stop all future harm,
They strew'd its ashes on the breeze,
They little guesťd each grain of these Convey'd the perfect charm.
LAS these visits rare and rude
Unto Thy holy place !
Thy calm, clear deeps of grace.
Oh, never shall Thy mercy make
Our souls to rest in Thine ? Nor mortal gratitude partake
The flow of grace divine ?
When shall our grateful raptures rise
Fast as Thy grace descends, And link to endless harmonies The love that never ends ?
T. H. Gill.
EACE, muttering thoughts ! and do not grudge
to keep Within the walls of your own breast. Who cannot on his own bed sweetly sleep
Can on another's hardly rest.
Gad not abroad at every quest and call
Of an untrained hope or passion.
Is wantonness in contemplation.
Mark, how the fire in Aints doth quiet lie
Content and warm t’itself alone;
Without a knock it never shone.
Give me the pliant mind, whose gentle measure
Complies and suits with all estates; Which can let loose to
a crown, and yet with pleasure Take up within a cloister's gates.
This soul doth span the world, and hang content
From either pole unto the centre: