SONNETS.

S due by many titles, I resign

Myself to Thee, O God. First I was made
By Thee and for Thee; and, when I was decayed,
Thy blood bought that, the which before was thine:
I am thy son, made with Thyself to shine;
Thy servant, whose pains Thou hast still repaid,
Thy sheep, thine image; and, till I betrayed
Myself, a temple of thy Spirit divine.
Why doth the devil then usurp on me?

Why doth he steal, nay, ravish that's thy right?
Except Thou rise, and for thine own work fight,
Oh! I shall soon despair, when I shall see

That Thou lov'st mankind well, yet wilt not choose me,
And Satan hates me, yet is loth to lose me.

DEA

EATH, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy picture be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow:
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.

Thou'rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well,

And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally;

And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

[From WILLIAM BYRD'S songs, &c., about the year 1588. Little is known of this writer.]

MY mind to me a kingdom is,

Such perfect joy therein I find,

That it excels all other bliss

That God or nature hath assign'd:

Though much I want that most would have,
Yet still my mind forbids to crave.

No princely port, nor wealthy store,
Nor force to win a victory;

Nor wily wit to salve a sore,

No shape to win a loving eye;
To none of these I yield as thrall,
For why, my mind despise them all.

I see that plenty surfeits oft,

And hasty climbers soonest fall;

I see that such as are aloft,

Mishap doth threaten most of all;
These get with toil, and keep with fear:
Such cares my mind can never bear.

I press to bear no haughty sway;

I wish no more than may suffice;
I do no more than well I may,

Look what I want, my mind supplies;
Lo, thus I triumph like a king,
My mind's content with anything.

I laugh not at another's loss,

Nor grudge not at another's gain;
No worldly waves my mind can toss;
I brook that is another's bane;
I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend;
I loathe not life, nor dread mine end.

My wealth is health and perfect ease,
And conscience clear my chief defence;
I never seek by bribes to please,

Nor by desert to give offence;
Thus do I live, thus will I die;
Would all do so as well as I!

SUNDAY.

BY GEORGE HERBERT.-1593-1632.

[GEORGE HERBERT, the son of Lord Herbert of Cherbury, was born at Montgomery Castle in 1593, and was educated at Cambridge. He became a favourite of James I.; but the death of that monarch and some other patrons blighting his prospect of promotion at Court, he took orders, after which he was made a prebend of Lincoln, and was appointed to the living of Bemerton in Wiltshire. He discharged his clerical duties with great zeal, and with more energy than his strength permitted. He died at Bemerton in 1632, at the early age of thirty-nine.

His poetry is sweet and devotional in character, but perhaps not of the very highest order. There are many beautiful passages in his works, but his imagery is fantastic, and his style is often strained and unnatural.]

O

DAY most calm, most bright,

The fruit of this, the next world's bud,

The indorsement of supreme delight,

Writ by a Friend, and with his blood;

The couch of time, care's balm and bay : The week were dark, but for thy light; Thy torch doth show the way.

The other days and thou

Make up one man; whose face thou art,
Knocking at heaven with thy brow:
The workydays are the back-part;
The burden of the week lies there,
Making the whole to stoop and bow
Till thy release appear.

Man had straight forward gone
To endless death: but thou dost pull
And turn us round, to look on one,
Whom, if we were not very dull,
We could not choose but look on still,
Since there is no place so alone,
The which he doth not fill.

Sundays the pillars are

On which heaven's palace archèd lies:
The other days fill up the spare
And hollow room with vanities.

They are the fruitful beds and borders
In God's rich garden: that is bare,

Which parts their ranks and orders.

The Sundays of man's life,
Threaded together on Time's string,
Make bracelets to adorn the wife
Of the eternal glorious King.
On Sunday heaven's gate stands ope;
Blessings are plentiful and rife-
More plentiful than hope.

This day my Saviour rose,

And did enclose this light for his;

That, as each beast his manger knows,

Man might not of his fodder miss.

Christ hath took in this piece of ground, And made a garden there for those

Who want herbs for their wound.

The rest of our creation
Our great Redeemer did remove

With the same shake, which at his passion
Did the earth and all things with it move.

As Samson bore the doors away,

Christ's hands, though nail'd, wrought our salvation,
And did unhinge that day.

The brightness of that day
We sullied by our foul offence:
Wherefore that robe we cast away,

Having a new at his expense,

Whose drops of blood paid the full price,
That was required to make us gay,