Upon the river's rippling face, By chance my eye fell on the stream: For then my heart, so full of strife, I and the river, we were one: A rushing thing in power serene I felt of having ever been, Was it a moment or an hour? I to these fields returned. THOMAS BURBIDGE. MAN. Y God, I heard this day MY That none doth build a stately habitation But he that means to dwell therein. What house more stately hath there been, Or can be, than is Man? to whose creation All things are in decay. And more. He is a tree, yet bears no fruit; A beast, yet is, or should be, more: Reason and speech we only bring. Parrots may thank us if they are not mute, Man is. all symmetry, Full of proportions, one limb to another, Each part may call the farthest, brother; For head with foot hath private amity, And both with moons and tides. Nothing hath got so far But man hath caught and kept it as his prey. Herbs gladly cure our flesh, because that they For us the winds do blow, The earth doth rest, heaven move, and fountains flow. Nothing we see but means our good, As our delight, or as our treasure. The whole is either our cupboard of food Or cabinet of pleasure. The stars have us to bed; Night draws the curtain which the sun withdraws : Each thing is full of duty : Waters united are our navigation; Distinguished, our habitation; Below, our drink; above, our meat : Both are our cleanliness. Hath one such beauty? Then how are all things neat! More servants wait on man Than he'll take notice of: in every path He treads down that which doth befriend him When sickness makes him pale and wan. Oh mighty love! Man is one world, and hath Another to attend him. Since then, my God, Thou hast So brave a Palace built, oh dwell in it, Till then, afford us so much wit That, as the world serves us, we may serve Thee, And both thy servants be. GEORGE HERBERT. I IN EARLY SPRING. HEARD a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sat reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts. To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, The birds around me hopped and played, The budding twigs spread out their fan And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there. If this belief from Heaven be sent, If such be Nature's holy plan, What man has made of man? WORDSWORTH. EACH AND ALL. LITTLE thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown Of thee from the hill-top looking down; The heifer that lows on the upland farm, Stops his horse, and lists with delight, Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height; Nor knowest thou what argument Thy life to thy neighbour's creed has lent. I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, The delicate shells lay on the shore; Fresh pearls to their enamel gave; |