If still the sun should hide his race,
Thy house would but a dungeon prove,
Thy works night's captives. O let grace
Drop from above!

The dew doth every morning fall;

And shall the dew outstrip Thy Dove? The dew, for which grass cannot call, Drop from above!

Death is still working like a mole,

And digs my grave at each remove; Let grace work too, and on my soul Drop from above!

Sin is still hammering my heart
Unto a hardness void of love;
Let suppling grace, to cross his art,
Drop from above!

O come! for Thou dost know the way:
Or if to me Thou wilt not move,
Remove me where I need not say,
"Drop from above!"

SUNDAY.

O DAY most calm, most bright, The fruit of this, the next world's bud, The endorsement 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 worky-days 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 arched 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 Sundays heaven's gate stands ope;
Blessings are plentiful and rife,

More plentiful than hope.

This day my Saviour rose,
And did inclose 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 th' 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,
And fit for Paradise.

Thou art a day of mirth,

And where the week-days trail on ground, Thy flight is higher, as thy birth;

O let me take thee at the bound,

Leaping with thee from seven to seven, Till that we both, being toss'd from earth, Fly hand in hand to heaven.

THE ELIXIR.

TEACH me, my God, my King,
In all things Thee to see;
And what I do in anything,
To do it as for Thee.

Not rudely, as a beast,

To run into an action;

But still to make Thee prepossest,
And give it His perfection.

A man that looks on glass
On it may stay his eye;

Or, if he pleaseth, through it pass,

And then the heav'n spy.

All may of Thee partake;

Nothing can be so mean,

Which, with this tincture, for Thy sake,

Will not grow bright and clean.

A servant with this clause
Makes drudgery Divine ;

Who sweeps a room as for Thy laws,

Makes that and th' action fine.

This is the famous stone

That turneth all to gold;

For that which God doth touch and own
Cannot for less be told.

SIGHS AND GROANS.

O Do not use me

After my sins! look not on my desert,

But on Thy glory; then Thou wilt reform,

And not refuse me, for Thou only art
The mighty God, but I a silly worm;
O do not bruise me !

O do not urge me!

For what account can Thy ill steward make?
I have abused Thy stock, destroy'd Thy woods,
Sack'd all Thy magazines. My head did ache,
Till it found out how to consume Thy goods.
O do not scourge me!

O do not blind me!

I have deserved that an Egyptian night

Should thicken all my powers, because my lust Hath still sew'd fig-leaves to exclude Thy light; But I am frailty and already dust;

O do not grind me!

O do not fill me

With the turn'd vial of Thy bitter wrath;
For Thou hast other vessels full of blood,

A part whereof my Saviour emptied hath,
Even unto death; since He died for my good,
O do not kill me!

But O reprieve me!

For Thou hast life and death at Thy command; Thou art both Judge and Saviour, feast and rod, Cordial and corrosive. Put not Thy hand

Into the bitter box; but, O my God,

My God, relieve me!

X

ROBERT HERRICK.

ROBERT HERRICK was descended from an old family in Leicestershire. His father, Nicholas Herrick, was a goldsmith in Cheapside, London. He was born in London, in 1991, and was educated at Westminster School. He entered St. John's College, Cambridge, about 1615 Taking orders, he was preferred to the vicarage of Dean Prior, Devonshire. He was deprived of his living under the Protectorate, when he returned to London. At the Restoration, in 166c, he re-obtained his charge. He died in 1674. Herrick published his "Noble Numbers," in 1647. His "Hesperides" appeared in the following year. An edition of his works, with a memoir, was published in London, in 1859.

LITANY TO THE HOLY SPIRIT

IN the hour of my distress,

When temptations me oppress,

And when I my sins confess,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When I lie within my bed,
Sick in heart and sick in head,
And with doubts discomforted,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When the house doth sigh and weep,
And the world is drown'd in sleep,
Yet mine eyes the watch do keep,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When the artless doctor sees
No one hope but of his fees,
And his skill runs on the lees,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When his potion and his pill
Is or none or little skill,
Meet for nothing but to kill,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When the passing-bell doth toll,
And the furies, in a shoal,
Come to fright my parting soul,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me.