If not possessed, if not enjoyed in thee,
What's earth, or sea, or air, or heaven to me?

The highest honors that the world can boast
Are subjects far too low for my desire;
The brightest beams of glory are, at most,
But dying sparkles of thy living fire;
The loudest flames that earth can kindle be
But nightly glow-worms if compared to thee.

Without thy presence, wealth is bags of cares;
Wisdom but folly; joy, disquiet, sadness;
Friendship is treason, and delights are snares;
Pleasures but pain, and mirth but pleasing
madness,

Without thee, Lord, things be not what they be, Nor have their being, when compared with thee. In having all things, and not thee, what have I ? Not having thee, what have my labors got? Let me enjoy but thee, what further crave I? And having thee alone, what have I not? I'wish nor sea, nor land, nor would I be Possessed of heaven, heaven unpossessed of thee !

FRANCIS QUARLES.

TWO WENT UP TO THE TEMPLE TO

PRAY.

Two went to pray? O, rather say,
One went to brag, the other to pray;

One stands up close and treads on high,
Where the other dares not lend his eye;

One nearer to God's altar trod, The other to the altar's God.

RICHARD CRASHAW.

THE VALEDICTION. THE silly lambs to-day Pleasantly skip and play, Whom butchers mean to slay, Perhaps to-morrow;

In a more brutish sort
Do careless sinners sport,
Or in dead sleep still snort,
As near to sorrow;

Till life, not well begun

Be sadly ended,

And the web they have spu

Can ne'er be mended.

What is the time that 's gone,
And what is that to come?
Is it not now as none?

The present stays not.

THE BIRD LET LOOSE.

THE bird let loose in eastern skies,
When hastening fondly home,
Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies
Where idle warblers roam;

But high she shoots through air and light,
Above all low delay,

Where nothing earthly bounds her flight, Nor shadow dims her way.

So grant me, God, from every care
And stain of passion free,
Aloft, through Virtue's purer air,

To hold my course to thee!
No sin to cloud, no lure to stay

My soul, as home she springs; Thy sunshine on her joyful way, Thy freedom in her wings!

THOMAS MOORE

THE PILGRIMAGE. GIVE me my scallop-shell of quiet, My staff of faith to walk upon; My scrip of joy, immortal diet;

My bottle of salvation;

My gown of glory, hope's true gauge,
And thus I'll take my pilgrimage!
Blood must be my body's 'balmer,
No other balm will there be given;
Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer,
Travelleth towards the land of Heaven;

Over the silver mountains

Where spring the nectar fountains.
There will I kiss the bowl of bliss,
And drink mine everlasting fill
Upon every milken hill.

My soul will be a-dry before,
But after, it will thirst no more.
Then by that happy, blissful day,
More peaceful pilgrims I shall see,
That have cast off their rags of clay,
And walk apparelled fresh like me.

I'll take them first to quench their thirst,
And taste of nectar's suckets

At those clear wells where sweetness dwells
Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets.
And when our bottles and all we
Are filled with immortality,

Then the blest paths we 'll travel,
Strewed with rubies thick as gravel, -
Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors,
High walls of coral, and pearly bowers.
From thence to Heaven's bribeless hall,
Where no corrupted voices brawl;
No conscience molten into gold,
No forged accuser, bought or sold,
No cause deferred, no vain-spent journey,
For there Christ is the King's Attorney;
Who pleads for all without degrees,
And he hath angels, but no fees;
And when the grand twelve-million jury
Of our sins, with direful fury,
'Gainst our souls black verdicts give,
Christ pleads his death, and then we live.
Be thou my speaker, taintless pleader,
Unblotted lawyer, true proceeder !
Thou giv'st salvation even for alms,
Not with a bribéd lawyer's palms.
And this is mine eternal plea

To Him that made heaven, earth, and sea,
That since my flesh must die so soon,
And want a head to dine next noon,
Just at the stroke when my veins start and
spread,

Set on my soul an everlasting head:
Then am I, like a palmer, fit

To tread those blest paths which before I writ.
Of death and judgment, heaven and hell,
Who oft doth think, must needs die well.

Is it to quit the dish
Of flesh, yet still
To fill

The platter high with fish?

Is it to fast an hour,
Or ragged to go,
Or show

A downcast look, and sour?

No! 't is a fast to dole

Thy sheaf of wheat,
And meat,

Unto the hungry soul.

It is to fast from strife, From old debate And hate,

To circumcise thy life.

To show a heart grief-rent;
To starve thy sin,
Not bin,

And that 's to keep thy lent.

ROBERT HERRICK

I WOULD I WERE AN EXCELLENT DIVINE

I WOULD I were an excellent divine
That had the Bible at my fingers' ends;
That men might hear out of this mouth of mine
How God doth make his enemies his friends;
Rather than with a thundering and long prayer
Be led into presumption, or despair.

This would I be, and would none other be,
But a religious servant of my God;
And know there is none other God but he,
And willingly to suffer mercy's rod, -
Joy in his grace, and live but in his love,
And seek my bliss but in the world above.