Praise.

LORD, I will mean and speak thy praise,-
Thy praise alone!

My busy heart shall spin it all my days;
And, when it stops for want of store,
Then will I wring it with a sigh, or groan,
That thou mayst yet have more.

When thou dost favor any action,

It runs, it flies;

All things concur to give it a perfection.
That, which had but two legs before,

When thou dost bless, hath twelve; one wheel doth rise
To twenty, then, or more.

But when thou dost on business blow,

It hangs, it clogs:

Not all the teams of Albion in a row

Can hale or draw it out of door.

Legs are but stumps, and Pharaoh's wheels but logs, And struggling hinders more.

Thousands of things do thee employ,

This spacious globe.

Devils, their rod;

In ruling all

Angels must have their joy;

the sea, his shore;

The winds, their stint: and yet, when I did call,

Thou heardst my call, and more.

I have not lost one single tear.

But, when mine eyes

Did weep to heaven, they found a bottle there, (As we have boxes for the poor,)

Ready to take them in; yet of a size,
That would contain much more.

But after thou hadst slipt a drop

From thy right eye,

(Which there did hang, like streamers near the top Of some fair church; to shew the sore And bloody battle, which thou once didst try,)

The glass was full, and more. Wherefore, I sing. Yet, since my heart,

Though pressed, runs thin;

Oh, that I might some other hearts convert,

And so take up at use good store;
That to thy chests there might be coming in
Both all my praise, and more!

Joseph's Coat.

WOUNDED I sing, tormented I indite,
Thrown down I fall into a bed, and rest.
Sorrow hath changed its note: such is His will,
Who changeth all things as him pleaseth best.

For well he knows, if but one grief and smart,
Among my many, had his full career,
Sure, it would carry with it e'en my heart;
And both would run, until they found a bier

To fetch the body; both being due to grief.
But he hath spoiled the race; and given to anguish
One of Joy's coats, 'ticing it with relief
To linger in me, and together languish.

I live to shew His power, who once did bring
My joys to weep; and now, my griefs to sing.

The Pulley.

WHEN God at first made man,

Having a glass of blessings standing by,
"Let us," said he, "pour on him all we can;
Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie,
Contract into a span."

So strength first made away;

Then beauty flowed; then wisdom, honor, pleasure.
When almost all was out, God made a stay;
Perceiving, that alone of all his treasure
Rest in the bottom lay.

"For if I should," said he,
"Bestow this jewel also on my creature,
He would adore my gifts instead of me;
And rest in nature, not the God of nature:
So both should losers be.

"Yet let him keep the rest;

But keep them, with repining restlessness.
Let him be rich and weary; that, at least,
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
May toss him to my breast."

The Priesthood.

BLEST order, which in power doth so excel,
That with th' one hand thou liftest to the sky,
And with the other throwest down to hell
In thy just censures: fain would I draw nigh,—
Fain put thee on; exchanging my lay-sword,
For that of th' holy word.

But thou art fire,-sacred and hallowed fire;
And I, but earth and clay: should I presume
To wear thy habit, the severe attire
My slender compositions might consume.
I am both foul and brittle; much unfit
To deal in holy writ.

Yet have I often seen, by cunning hand
And force of fire, what curious things are made
Of wretched earth. Where once I scorned to stand,
That earth is fittest, by the fire and trade
Of skilful artists, for the boards of those,
Who make the bravest shows.

But since those great ones, be they ne'er so great,
Come from the earth, from whence those vessels come;
So that at once both feeder, dish, and meat
Have one beginning and one final sum;
I do not greatly wonder at the sight,
If earth in earth delight.

But th' holy men of God such vessels are,
As serve Him up, who all the world commands.
When God vouchsafeth to become our fare,

Their hands convey Him, who conveys their hands.
Oh, what pure things, most pure, must those things be,
Who bring my God to me!

Wherefore I dare not, I, put forth my hand

To hold the ark; although it seems to shake

Through th' old sins and new doctrines of our land.

Only, since God doth often vessels make,

Of lowly matter, for high uses meet,-
I throw me at his feet.

There will I lie, until my Maker seek

For some mean stuff, whereon to shew his skill:
Then is my time. The distance of the meek
Doth flatter power. Lest good come short of ill
In praising might, the poor do by submission,
What pride by opposition.

The Search.

WHITHER, oh, whither art thou fled,
My Lord, my love?

My searches are my daily bread;

Yet never prove.

My knees pierce th' earth; mine eyes, the sky:
And yet the sphere

And centre both to me deny,

That thou art there.

Yet can I mark how herbs below

Grow green, and gay;

As if to meet thee they did know :
While I decay.

Yet can I mark how stars above

Simper and shine;

As having keys unto thy love:
While poor I pine.

I sent a sigh to seek thee out,

Deep drawn in pain,

Winged like an arrow; but my scout
Returns in vain.