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SIR JOHN DAVIES.
Great is the calm, for everywhere And as the moisture which the thirsty The wind is settling down:
earth The smoke goes upright in the air, Sucks from the sea to fill her empty From every tower and town.
veins, From out her womb at last doth take a
birth, What pleasure, then, to walk and see, Along a river clear,
And runs a lymph along the grassy The perfect form of every tree
plains : Within the deep appear :
Long doth she stay, as loth to leave the
land The bells and circles on the waves,
From whose soft side the first did issue From leaping of the trout;
make; The salmon from their creels and caves
She tastes all places, turns to every hand, Come gliding in and out.
Her flowery banks unwilling to for
sake. O sure it were a seemly thing, While all is still and calm,
Yet Nature so her streams doth lead and The praise of God to play and sing,
carry, With trumpet and with shalm!
As that her course doth make no final
stay, All laborers draw home at even,
Till she herself unto the Ocean marry, And can to others say,
Within whose watery bosom first she “Thanks to the gracious God of heaven,
lay. Who sent this summer day.”
Even so the soul, which in this earthly
mould The spirit of God doth secretly in
Because at first she doth the earth beSIR JOHN DAVIES,
And only this material world she views. [1570 - 1626.]
At first her mother Earth she holdeth THE SOUL.
And doth embrace the world, and AGAIN, how can she but immortal be,
worldly things. When with the motions of both will She flies close by the ground and hovers and wit
here, She still aspireth to eternity,
And mounts not up with her celestial And never rests till she attain to it?
Water in conduit-pipes can rise no higher Yet under heaven she cannot light on Than the well-head from whence it first aught doth spring :
That with her heavenly nature doth Then, since to eternal God she doth as. agree; pire,
She cannot rest, she cannot fix her She cannot be but an eternal thing.
She cannot in this world contented be. “All moving things to other things do
For who did ever yet, in honor, wealth, Of the same kind, which shows their Or pleasure of the sense, contentment nature such";
find? So earth falls down, and fire doth mount Who ever ceased to wish when he had above,
wealth? Till both their proper elements do Or having wisdom was not vexed in touch.
Then as a bee, which among weeds doth | There is she crowned with garlands of fall,
content; Which seem sweet flowers with lustre There doth she manna eat, and nectar fresh and gay,
drink : She lights on that and this, and tasteth That presence doth such high delights all;
present, But pleased with none, doth rise and As never tongue could speak, nor soar away.
heart could think.
So when the soul finds here no true con
tent, And like Noah's dove can no sure
THOMAS NASH. footing take, She doth return from whence she first
(1564 - 1600.) was sent, And flies to Him that first her wings
CONTENTMENT, did make. So while the virgin soul on earth doth Or thrust my hand too far into the fire.
I NEVER loved ambitiously to climb, stay,
To be in heaven sure is a blessed thing, She, wooed and tempted in ten thou. But, Atlas-like, to prop heaven on one's
back By these great powers which on the earth Cannot but be more labor than delight.
Such is the state of men in honor placed : The wisdom of the world, wealth, They are gold vessels made for servile pleasure, praise:
uses; With these sometimes she doth her time High trees that keep the weather from
low houses, beguile,
But cannot shield the tempest from them. These do by fibs her fantasy possess;
selves. But she distastes them all within a while, I love to dwell betwixt the hills and dales, And in the sweetest finds a tedious. Neither to be so great as to be envied, ness;
Nor yet so poor the world should pity me. But if upon the world's Almighty King She once doth fix her humble, loving
thought; Who by his picture drawn in every thing, WILLIAM DRUMMOND. And sacred messages, her love hath sought;
(1585 – 1649.)
Of him she thinks she cannot think too THE LESSONS OF NATURE.
much; This honey tasted still, is ever sweet; Of this fair volume which we World do The pleasure of her ravished thought is such,
If we the sheets and leaves could turn As almost here she with her bliss doth meet.
Of him who it corrects, and did it frame,
We clear might read the art and wisdom But when in heaven she shall his essence
rare: see, This is her sovereign good, and perfect Find out his power which wildest powers bliss,
doth tame, Her longings, wishings, hopes, all fin- His providence extending everywhere, ished be,
His justice which proud rebels doth not Her joys are full, her motions rest in spare, this.
In every page, no period of the same.