THE PHILOSOPHER'S DEVOTION.
SING aloud; his praise rehearse
Who hath made the universe.
He the boundless heavens has spread
All the vital orbs has kned;'
He that on Olympus high
Tends his flock with watchful eye;
And this eye has multiplied
Midst each flock for to reside.
Thus, as round about they stray,
Toucheth each with out-stretch'd ray :
Nimbly they hold on their way,
Shaping out their night and day.
Never slack they; none respires,
Dancing round their central fires.
In due order as they move, Echoes sweet be gently drove Thorough heaven's vast hollowness, Which unto all corners press—
Music, that the heart of Jove
Moves to joy and sportful love;
1 Kneaded-made, compounded.
Fills the listening sailor's ears,
Riding on the wandering spheres.
Neither speech nor language is,
Where their voice is not transmiss.
God is good, is wise, is strong, Witness all the creature-throng; Is confess'd by every tongue
All things-back from whence they sprung, As the thankful rivers pay
What they borrowed of the sea.
Now, myself, I do resign;
Take me whole, I all am thine.
Save me, God! from self-desire,
Death's pit, dark hell's raging fire;
Envy, hatred, vengeance, ire:
Let not lust my soul bemire.
Quit from these, thy praise I'll sing,
Loudly sweep the trembling string.
Bear a part, O wisdom's sons!
Freed from vain religions.
Lo! from far I you salute,
Sweetly warbling on my lute.
India, Egypt, Araby,
Asia, Greece, and Tartary,
Carmel-tracts and Lebanon,
With the mountains of the moon,
From whence muddy Nile doth run;
Or, wherever else you won,
Breathing in one vital air ;-
One we are though distant far.
Rise at once-let's sacrifice:
Odours sweet perfume the skies.
See how heavenly lightning fires
Hearts inflamed with high aspires;
All the substance of our souls
Up in clouds of incense rolls!
Leave we nothing to ourselves
Save a voice-what need we else?
Or an hand to wear and tire
On the thankful lute or lyre.
Sing aloud; his praise rehearse
Who hath made the universe.
UPON a day, as best did please my mind,
Walking abroad amidst the verdant field,
Scattering my careful thoughts i' th' wanton wind;
The pleasure of my path so far had till'd1
My feeble feet that without timely rests
Uneath it were to reach my wonted nest.
In secret shade, far moved from mortal's sight,
In lowly dale my wandering limbs I laid
On the cool grass, where nature's pregnant wit
A goodly bower of thickest trees had made :
Amongst the leaves the cheerful birds did fare,
And sweetly carrol'd to the echoing air.
Hard at my feet ran down a crystal spring, Which did the cumb'rous pebbles hoarsely chide. For standing in the way. Though murmuring, The broken stream his course did rightly guide;
And strongly pressing forward with disdain,
The grassy floor divided into twain.
The place awhile did feed my foolish eye,
As being new; and eke mine idle ear
Did listen oft to such wild harmony;
And oft my curious fancy would compare
How well agreed the brook's low muttering base,
With the birds' trebles perch'd on higher place.
But sense's objects soon do glut the soul,
Or rather weary with their emptiness;
So I, all heedless how the waters roll,
And mindless of the mirth the birds express,
Into myself 'gin softly to retire,
After hid heavenly pleasures to inquire.
While I this enterprize do entertain,
Lo! on the other side, in thickest bushes,
A mighty noise! with that a naked swain
With blue and purple wings strait rudely rushes:
He leaps down light upon the flowery green:
Like sight before mine eyes had never seen.
At's snowy back the boy a quiver wore,
Right fairly wrought and gilded all with gold;
A silver bow in his left hand he bore,
And in his right a ready shaft did hold.
Thus armed stood he, and betwixt us tway,
The labouring brook did break his toilsome way.
The wanton lad, whose sport is others' pain,
Did charge his bended bow with deadly dart;
And drawing to the head with might and main,
With fell intent he aim'd to hit
my heart;
But even as he shot his arrows still
In their mid course dropt down into the rill.
Of wondrous virtues that in waters been,
Is needless to rehearse; all books do ring
Of those strange rarities: but where was seen
Such virtue as resided in this spring?
The novelty did make me much admire,
But stirred the hasty youth to rageful ire.
As heedless fowls that take their perilous flights
Over that bane of birds, Averno lake,
Do drop down dead, so dead his shafts did light
Amid this stream; which presently did slake
Their fiery points, and all their feathers wet;
Which made the youngster godling inly fret.
Thus, lustful Love (this was that love I ween,)
Was wholly changed to consuming ire,
And eath' it was, sith they're so near akin,
They be both born of one rebellious sire.
But he suppress'd his wrath, and by and by
For feather'd darts he winged words let fly.
"Vain man!" said he, "and would thou wer'st not vain,
That hid'st thyself in solitary shade,
And spill'st thy precious youth in sad disdain,` Hating this life's delights! Hath God thee made Part of this world, and wilt not thou partake Of this world's pleasure for its Maker's sake?
"Unthankful wretch! God's gifts thus to reject, And maken nought of nature's goodly dower,
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