Sin's Round.

SORRY I am, my God-sorry I am,
That my offences course it in a ring.
My thoughts are working like a busy flame,
Until their cockatrice they hatch and bring.

And when they once have perfected their draughts,
My words take fire from my inflamed thoughts.

My words take fire from my inflamed thoughts,
Which spit it forth like the Sicilian hill.

They vent the wares, and pass them with their faults;

And by their breathing ventilate the ill.

But words suffice not, where are lewd intentions:
My hands do join to finish the inventions.

My hands do join to finish the inventions;

And so my sins ascend three stories high,

As Babel grew, before there were dissensions.
Yet ill deeds loiter not; for they supply

New thoughts of sinning. Wherefore to my shame,
Sorry I am, my God-sorry I am.

Time.

MEETING With Time-" Slack thing," said I;
"Thy scythe is dull; whet it for shame."
"No marvel, sir," he did reply,

"If it at length deserve some blame;
But where one man would have me grind it,
Twenty for one too sharp do find it."

"Perhaps some such of old did pass, Who above all things loved this life; To whom thy scythe a hatchet was,

Which now is but a pruning-knife.

Christ's coming hath made man thy debtor, Since by thy cutting he grows better.

"And in his blessing thou art blest; For where thou only wert before An executioner, at best,

Thou art a gardener now; and more, An usher to convey our souls

Beyond the utmost stars and poles.

"And this is that makes life so long,
While it detains us from our God.
E'en pleasures here increase the wrong;
And length of days lengthen the rod.
Who wants the place where God doth dwell,
Partakes already half of hell.

"Of what strange length must that need be, Which e'en eternity excludes!"

Thus far Time heard me patiently;

Then chafing said—“ This man deludes; What do I here before his door?

He doth not crave less time, but more."

Gratefulness.

THOU that hast given so much to me,
Give one thing more,—a grateful heart.
See how thy beggar works on thee
By art.

He makes thy gifts occasion more,
And says-If he in this be crost,
All thou hast given him heretofore
Is lost.

But thou didst reckon, when at first

Thy word our hearts and hands did crave,

What it would come to at the worst

To save.

Perpetual knockings at thy door,
Tears sullying thy transparent rooms,
Gift upon gift, much would have more,
And comes.

This notwithstanding, thou went'st on,
And didst allow us all our noise;
Nay, thou hast made a sigh and groan

Thy joys.

Not that thou hast not still above

Much better tunes than groans can make;

But that these country airs thy love

Did take.

Wherefore I cry, and cry again;

And in no quiet canst thou be,
Till I a thankful heart obtain

Of thee.

Not thankful when it pleaseth me,—
As if thy blessings had spare days,—
But such a heart, whose pulse may be
Thy praise.

Peace.

SWEET Peace, where dost thou dwell? I humbly crave, Let me once know.

I sought thee in a secret cave;

And asked, if Peace were there.
A hollow wind did seem to answer, "No!
Go, seek elsewhere."

I did; and, going, did a rainbow note:

66

Surely," thought I,

"This is the lace of Peace's coat.

I will search out the matter."

But, while I looked, the clouds immediately
Did break and scatter.

Then went I to a garden, and did spy
A gallant flower,—

The crown imperial. "Sure," said I,
"Peace at the root must dwell."
But, when I digg'd, I saw a worm devour
What showed so well.

At length I met a reverend, good old man;
Whom when for Peace

I did demand, he thus began :-
"There was a prince of old

At Salem dwelt, who lived with good increase
Of flock and fold.

"He sweetly lived; yet sweetness did not save His life from foes.

But, after death, out of his grave

There sprang twelve stalks of wheat;

Which many wondering at, got some of those
To plant and set.

"It prospered strangely, and did soon disperse
Through all the earth.

For they that taste it do rehearse,
That virtue lies therein,-

A secret virtue, bringing peace and mirth,
By flight of sin.

"Take of this grain, which in my garden grows, And grows for you:

Make bread of it; and that repose
And peace, which every where
With so much earnestness you do pursue,
Is only there."

Confession.

Oн, what a cunning guest
Is this same grief! Within my heart I made
Closets, and in them many a chest:
And, like a master in my trade,

In those chests, boxes; in each box, a till:—
Yet grief knows all, and enters when he will.

No screw, no piercer can

Into a piece of timber work and wind,
As God's afflictions into man,

When he a torture hath designed.

They are too subtle for the subtlest hearts;

And fall, like rheums, upon the tenderest parts.