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Being laid, and dressed for sleep, close not thy eyes

Up with thy curtains; give thy soul the wing

In some good thoughts; so when thy day shall rise,

And thou unrakest thy fire, those sparks will bring

New flames; besides where these lodge, vain heats mourn And die; that bush, where God is, shall not burn.

TO HIS BOOKS.

BRIGHT books! the pérspectives to our weak sights,

The clear projections of discerning lights,

Burning and shining thoughts, man's posthume day,

The track of fled souls, and their milky way, voice The dead alive and busy, the still Of enlarged spirits, kind Heaven's white decoys!

Who lives with you lives like those knowing flowers,

Which in commérce with light spend all their hours; Which shut to clouds, and shadows nicely shun,

But with glad haste unveil to kiss the sun. (night, Beneath you all is dark, and a dead Which whoso lives in, wants both health and sight.

By sucking you, the wise, like bees, do grow Healing and rich, though this they do most slow,

Because most choicely; for as great a

store

Have we of books as bees of herbs,

or more:

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Conceal that emptiness which age descries.

The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed,

THE ROSE.

Go, lovely rose!

Tell her that wastes her time and me,
That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,

And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung

In deserts where no men abide,

Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth

Lets in new light through chinks Of beauty from the light retired;

that time has made.

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Bid her come forth-
Suffer herself to be desired.
And not blush so to be admired.

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ON A GIRDLE.

THAT which her slender waist confined
Shall now my joyful temples bind:
No monarch but would give his crown,
His arms might do what this has done.
It was my heaven's extremest sphere,
The pale which held that lovely dear,
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love,
Did all within this circle move.

A narrow compass, and yet there
Dwelt all that's good and all that's fair;
Give me but what this riband bound,
Take all the rest the sun goes round.

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Such puppets of a phrase as to slip by

Without clear recognition. Take tonight

And very natural-no flaw to find "I preached a careful sermon, gravely

And then forgets it.

planned,

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