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[From To-Morroic.]

Lo, it is the even of To-day, — a day so lately a To-morrow;
Where are those high resolves, those hopes of yesternight?
O faint heart, still shall thy whisper be, To-morrow,
And must the growing avalanche of sin roll down that easy slope?
Alas, it is ponderous, and moving on in might, that a Sisyphus may not
stop it;

But haste thee with the lever of a prayer, and stem its strength To-day.

Henry Vaughan.


Dear, secret greenness! nurst below! Tempests and winds and winternights

Vex not, that but One sees thee grow, That One made all these lesser lights.

If those bright joys He singly sheds On thee, were all met in one crown, Both sun and stars would hide their heads;

And moons, though full, would get them down.

Let glory be their bait whose minds

Are all too high for a low cell: Though hawks can prey through storms and winds, The poor bee in her hive must dwell.

Glory, the crowd's cheap tinsel, still To what most takes them is a drudge;

And they too oft take good for ill, And thriving vice for virtue judge.

What needs a conscience calm and bright

Within itself an outward test? Who breaks his glass to take more light.

Makes way for storms into his rest.

Then bless thy secret growth, nor


At noise, but thrive unseen and dumb;

Keep clean, bear fruit, earn life, and watch,

Till the white-winged reaperscome!


They are all gone into the world of light,

And I alone sit lingering here! Their very memory is fair and bright, And my sad thoughts doth clear.

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,

Like stars upon some gloomy grove, Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest After the sun's remove.

I see them walking in an air of glory, Whose light doth trample on my days;

My days," which are at best but dull and hoary, Mere glimmering and decays.

O holy hope! and high humility!

High as the heavens above! These are your walks, and you have shewed them me

To kindle my cold love.

Dear, beauteous death; the jewel of

the just! Shining nowhere but in the dark; What mysteries do lie beyond thy


Could man outlook that mark!

He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know At first sight if the bird be flown; But what fair dell or grove he sings in now, That is to him unknown.

And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams,

Call to the soul when man doth sleep,

So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, And into glory peep.


Dear, harmless age! the short, swift span,

Where weeping virtue parts with man;

Where love without lust dwells, and bends

What way we please without selfends.

An age of mysteries! which he Must live twice that would God's face see;

Which angels guard, and with it play. Angels! which foul men drive away.


My soul, there is a country

Afar beyond the stars, Where stands a winged sentry

All skilful in the wars. There, above noise and danger,

Sweet Peace sits, crowned with smiles,

And one born in a manger
Commands the beauteous files.

He is thy gracious friend,

And (O my soul, awake)
Lid in pure love descend,

To die here for thy sake.
If thou canst get but thither,

There grows the flower of peace, The rose that cannot wither,

The fortress, and thy ease. Leave, then, thy foolish ranges;

For none can thee secure But One, who never changes,

Thy God, thy Life, thy Cure.


Lord! what a busy, restless thing,

Hast thou made man!
Each day and hour he is on wing.

Best's not a spam.
Then having lost the sun and light,

By clouds surprised.
He keeps a commerce in the night

With air disguised.
Hadst thou given to this active dust

A state untired,
The lost son had not left the husk,

Nor home desir'd.
That was thy secret, and it is

Thy mercy too;
For when all fails to bring to bliss,

Then this must do. Ah, Lord! and what a purchase will that be,

To take us sick, that sound would not take thee!


Cheap, mighty art! her art of love, who loved much, and much more

could move; Her art! whose memory must last Till truth through all the world be


Till his abused, despised flame Return to heaven from whence it came,

And send a fire down, that shall bring

Destruction on his ruddy wing.

Her art! whose pensive, weeping


Were once sin's loose and tempting spies;

But now are fixed stars, whose light Helps such dark stragglers to their sight.

Self-boasting Pharisee! how blind
A judge wert thou, and how unkind!
It was impossible, that thou,
Who wert all false, should'st true

grief know. Is't just to judge her faithful tears By that foul rheum thy false eye

w ears 1

"This woman," say'st thou, "is a sinner!"

And sate there none such at thy dinner?

Go, leper, ta x till thy flesh Comes like a child's, spotless and fresh;

He is still leprous that still paints: Who saint themselves, they are no saints.


Come, then, rare politicians of the time,

Brains of some standing, elders in our clime,

See here the method. A wise, solid state

Is quick in acting, friendly in debate, Joint in advice, in resolutions just, Mild in success, true to the common trust.

It cements ruptures, and by gentle hand

Allays the heat and burnings of a land. Myst

Religion guides it; and in all the

Designs so twist, that Heaven confirms the act.

If from these lists you wander, as you steer,

Look back, and catechize your actions here.

These are the marks to which true

statesmen tend, And greatness here with goodness

hath one end.


Sacred and secret hand! By whose assisting, swift command The angel showed that holy well, Which freed poor Hagar from her fears,

And turu'd to smiles the begging tears

Of young, distressed Ishmael.

How, in a mystic cloud Which doth thy strange, sure mercies shroud,

Dost thou convey man food and money,

Unseen by him till they arrive Just at his mouth, that thankless hive,

Which kills thy bees, and eats thy honey!

If I thy servant be, Whose service makes even captives free,

A fish shall all my tribute pay,
The swift-winged raven shall bring

me meat, And I like flowers shall still go


As if I knew no month but May.

I will not fear what man, With all his plots and power, can. Bags that wax old may plundered be; But none can sequester or let A state that with the sun doth set, And comes next morning fresh as he.

Poor birds this doctrine sing, And herbs which on dry hills do spring.

Or in the howling w ilderness
Do know thy dewy morning hours,
And watch all night for mists or

Then drink and praise thy bounteousness.

May he for ever die Who trusts not thee! but wretchedly Hunts gold and wealth, and will not lend

Thy service nor his soul one day!

May his crown, like his hopes be clay;

And, what he saves, may his foes spend 1

If all my portion here, The measure given by thee each year, Were by my causeless enemies

Usurped, it never should me grieve Who know how well thou canst relieve

Whose hands are open as thine eyes.

Great King of love and truth! Who would'st not hate my froward youth.

And wilt not leave me when grown old;

Gladly will I, like Pontiac sheep, Unto my wormwood diet keep, Since thou hast made thy arm my fold.


Fore shadows of true rest! some shoots of bliss; Heaven once a week; The next world's gladness prepossest in this; A day to seek; Eternity in time; the steps by which We climb above all ages; lamps that light

Man through his heap of dark days;

and the rich And full redemption of the whole

week's flight!

The pulleys unto headlong man; time's bower; The narrow way;

Transplanted Paradise; God's walking-hour; The cool o'th' day!

The creature's jubilee; God's parle with dust;

Heaven here; man on those hills of mirth and flowers;

Angels descending; the returns of trust;

A gleam of glory after six-daysshowers!

The church's love-feasts; time's prerogative, And interest

Deducted from the whole; the combs and hive, And home of rest;

The milky way chalked out with guns; a clue.

That guides through erring hours; and in full story

A taste of heaven on earth; the pledge and cue

Of a full feast; and the out-courts of glory.


WATeRS above! eternal springs! The dew that silvers the Dove's wings!

O welcome, welcome, to the sad!

Give dry dust drink, drink that makes glad.

Many fair evenings, many flowers

Sweetened with rich and gentle showers,

Have I enjoyed; and down have run
Many a fine and shining sun;
But never, till this happy hour,
Was blest with such an evening


When first thy eyes unveil, give thy

soul leave To do the like; our bodies but forerun The spirit's duty. True hearts spread

and heave Unto their God, as flowers do to the


Give him thy first thoughts then;

so shalt thou keep Him company all day, and in him


Yet never sleep the sun up. Prayer should

Dawn with the day. There are set,

awful hours 'Twixt heaven and us. The manna

was not good

After sun-rising; far-day sullies flowers.

Rise to prevent the sun; sleep doth

sins glut, And heaven's gate opens when this

world's is shut.

Serve God before the world; let him not go,

Until thou hast a blessing; then resign

The whole unto him; and remember who

Prevail'd by wrestling ere the sun did shine. Pour oil upon the stones; weep for thy sin;

Then journey on, and have an eye to heaven.

When the world's up, and every

swarm abroad, Keep thou thy temper; mix not with

each clay; Dispatch necessities: life hath a load which must be carried on, and safely


Yet keep those cares without thee,

let the heart Be God's alone, and choose the

better part.

To God, thy country, and thy friend be true;

If priest and people change, keep

thou thy ground. Who sells religion i; a Judas Jew; And, oaths once broke, the soul cannot be sound. The perjurer's a devil let loose:

what can Tie up his hands, that dares mock God and man?

Seek not the same steps with the

crowd; stick thou To thy sure trot; a constant, humble


Is both his own joy, and his Maker's too;

Let folly dust it on, or lag behind.
A sweet self-privacy in a right soul
Outruns the earth, and lines the
utmost pole.

To all that seek thee bear an open heart;

Make not thy breast a labyrinth or trap;

If trials come, this will make good thy part.

For honesty is safe, come what can hap;

It is the good man's feast, the

prince of flowers, which thrives in storms, and smells

best after showers.

Spend not an hour so as to weep another.

For tears are not thine own; if thou giv'st words,

Dash not with them thy friend, nor heaven; oh, smother

A viperous thought; some syllables are swords. Unbitted tongues are in their presence double; They shame their owners, and their hearers trouble.

When night comes, list thy deeds;

make plain the way 'Twixt heaven and thee; block it not

with delays; But perfect all before thou sleep'st;

then say, "There's one sun more strung on my

bead of days." What's good score up for joy; the

bad well scann'd Wash off w ith tears, and get thy

Master's hand.

Thy accounts thus made, spend in the

grave one hour Before thy time; be not a stranger


Where thou may'st sleep whole ages;

life's poor flower Lasts not a night sometimes. Bad

spirits fear This conversation; but the good

man lies

Entombed many days before he dies.

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