Sheep eat the grass, and dung the ground for more; Trees after bearing drop their leaves for soil:
Springs vent their streams, and, by expense, get store; Clouds cool by heat; and baths, by cooling, boil.
Who hath the virtue to express the rare
And curious virtues both of herbs and stones?
Is there a herb for that? Oh, that thy care
Would shew a root that gives expressions!
And if a herb have power, what have the stars!
A rose, besides his beauty, is a cure.
Doubtless our plagues and plenty, peace and wars,
Are there much surer than our art is sure.
Thou hast hid metals: man may take them thence,
But at his peril; when he digs the place,
He makes a grave; as if the thing had sense,
And threaten'd man, that he should fill the space.
Ev'n poisons praise thee. Should a thing be lost!
Should creatures want, for want of heed, their due?
Since where are poisons, antidotes are most;
The help stands close, and keeps the fear in view.
The sea which seems to stop the traveller,
Is by a ship the speedier passage made;
The winds, who think they rule the mariner,
Are rul'd by him, and taught to serve his trade.
And as thy house is full, so I adore,
Thy curious art in marshalling thy goods.
The hills with health abound; the vales, with store;
The south, with marble; north, with furs and woods
Hard things are glorious; easy things, good cheap;
The common all men have; that, which is rare,
Men therefore seek to have, and care to keep:
The healthy frosts with summer fruits compare.
Light without wind, is glass; warm, without weight,
Is wool and furs: cool, without coldness, shade;
Speed, without pains, a horse; tall, without height,
A servile hawk; low, without loss, a spade.
All countries have enough to serve their need:
If they seek fine things, thou dost make them run
For their offence; and then dost turn their speed,
To be commerce, and trade from sun to sun.
Nothing wears clothes, but man; nothing doth need,
But he, to wear them. Nothing useth fire,
But man alone: to shew his heav'nly breed:
And only he hath fuel in desire.
When th' earth was dry, thou mad'st a sea of wet;
When that lay gather'd, thou didst broach the
When yet some places could no moisture get,
The winds grew gard'ners, and the clouds good fountains.
Rain, do not hurt my flowers; but gently spend
Your honey drops; press not to smell them here:
When they are ripe, their odour will ascend,
And at your lodging, with their thanks, appear.
How harsh are thorns, to pears! and yet they make
A better hedge and need less reparation;
How smooth are silks, compared with a stake,
Or with a stone! yet make no good foundation.
Sometimes thou dost divide thy gifts to man;
Sometimes unite. The Indian nut alone
Is clothing, meat and trencher, drink and cau,
Boat, cable, sail and needle; all in one.
Most herbs, that grow in brooks, are hot and dry;
Cold fruits warm kernels help against the wind;
The lemon's juice and rind cure mutually:
The whey of milk doth loose, the milk doth bind.
Thy creatures leap not, but express a feast,
Where all the guests sit close, and nothing wants
Frogs, marry fish and flesh; bats, bird and beast,
Sponges, non-sense, and sense; mines, th' earth and
plants,
To shew thou art not bound, as if thy lot
Were worse than ours, sometimes thou shiftest hands.
Most things move th' under jaw; the crocodile not.
Most things sleep lying; th' elephant leans, or stands.
But who hath praise enough? nay, who hath any?
None can express thy works, but he that knows them;
And none can know thy works, which are so many
And so complete, but only He that owes them.
All things that are, though they have sev'ral ways,
Yet in their being, join with one advice
To honour thee; and so I give thee praise
In all my other hymns, but in this, twice.
Each thing that is, altho' in use and name
go
for one, hath many ways in store
To honour thee: and so each hymn thy fame
Extolleth many ways; yet this, one more.
YET once more; and once more, awake my fiarp,
From silence and neglect-one lofty strain,
Lofty, yet wilder than the winds of Heaven;
And speaking mysteries more than words can tell,
I ask of thee, for I, with hymnings high,
Would join the dirge of the departing year
Yet with no wintry garland from the woods
Wrought of the leafless branch, or ivy sear,
Wreathe I thy tresses, dark December! now;
Me higher quarrel calls, with loudest song,
And fearful joy to celebrate the day
Of the Redeemer.-Near two thousand suns
Have set their seals upon the rolling lapse
Of generations, since the Day-spring first
Beam'd from on high! Now to the mighty mass
Of that increasing aggregate we add
One unit more. Space, in comparison,
How small, yet mark'd with how much misery;
Wars, famines, and the fury pestilence,
Over the nations hanging her dread scourge ;
The oppress'd, too, in silent bitterness,
Weeping their sufferance; and the arm of wrong,
Forcing the scanty portion from the weak,
And steeping the lone widow's couch with tears.
So has the year been character'd with woe,
In Christian land, and mark'd with wrongs and crimes:
Yet 'twas not thus He taught-not thus He lived,
Whose birth we this day celebrate with prayer
And much thanksgiving-He a man of woes,
Went on the way appointed :-path, though rude,
Yet borne with patience still :-He came to cheer
The broken-hearted, to raise up the sick,
And on the wandering and benighted mind
Το pour the light of truth.-O task divine!
O more than angel teacher! He had words
To soothe the barking waves, and nush the winds :
And when the soul was toss'd with troubled seas,
Wrapp'd in thick darkness and the howling storm,
He, pointing to the star of peace on high,
Arm'd it with holy fortitude, and bade it smile
[REV. J. LAWSON, MISSIONARY AT CALCUTTA ]
THAT first farewell to home and friends,-
That word, though fond, which burns and rords,
Hangs on the lips with long delay,
The all that grief and love can say.
O God, forgive! 'twas English earth
That gave the fugitive his birth;
Forgive that he could kiss the clay
He sanctified to thee that day.
'Twas as a dream, confused and dark,
To see the waves, the unmoored bark,-
The sadness of a sister's tear,
As though she stood beside his bier.
How vain the sigh-the earnest glance,
The silent speaking countenance;
The stifled sobs that load the heart
That loved, yet could consent to part.
"Twas love of home that made him grieve,
A nobler passion made him leave;
Then let sweet charity attend
His foreign grave, and silent bend.
Where he a wanderer through each clime,
Found refuge from the strife of time;
Though frail as autumn's leaf and sere,
Yet leaving all his frailties there;
In life, a cloud before the biast,
Yet calm with setting hope at last;
Mourn what he was, sing what he is,
A child of woc, an heir of bliss.
|