LITMIR.BIZ

           How happy is he born and taught

           That serveth not another's will;

           Whose armour is his honest thought

           And simple truth his utmost skill!

           Whose passions not his masters are,

           Whose soul is still prepared for death,

           Not tied unto the world by care

           Of public fame, or private breath;

           Who envies none that chance doth raise

           Or vice; Who never understood

           How deepest wounds are given by praise;

           Nor rules of state, but rules of good:

           Who hath his life from rumours freed,

           Whose conscience is his strong retreat;

           Whose state can neither flatterers feed,

           Nor ruin make accusers great;

           Who God doth late and early pray

           More of His grace than gifts to lend;

           And entertains the harmless day

           With a well-chosen book or friend;

           —This man is freed from servile bands

           Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;

           Lord of himself, though not of lands,

           And having nothing, yet hath all.

              It is not growing like a tree

              In bulk, doth make Man better be;

           Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,

           To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:

                A lily of a day

                Is fairer far in May,

              Although it fall and die that night—

              It was the plant and flower of Light.

           In small proportions we just beauties see;

           And in short measures life may perfect be.

               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 disperséd lie,

               Contract into a span.

               So strength first made a way;

           Then beauty flow'd, then wisdom, honour, 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.

           Happy those early days, when I

           Shined in my Angel-infancy!

           Before I understood this place

           Appointed for my second race,

           Or taught my soul to fancy aught

           But a white, celestial thought;

           When yet I had not walk'd above

           A mile or two from my first Love,

           And looking back, at that short space

           Could see a glimpse of his bright face;

           When on some gilded cloud or flower

           My gazing soul would dwell an hour,

           And in those weaker glories spy

           Some shadows of eternity;

           Before I taught my tongue to wound

           My conscience with a sinful sound,

           Or had the black art to dispense

           A several sin to every sense,

           But felt through all this fleshly dress

           Bright shoots of everlastingness.

           O how I long to travel back,

           And tread again that ancient track!

           That I might once more reach that plain,

           Where first I left my glorious train;

           From whence th' enlighten'd spirit sees

           That shady City of Palm trees!

           But ah! my soul with too much stay

           Is drunk, and staggers in the way:—

           Some men a forward motion love,

           But I by backward steps would move;

           And when this dust falls to the urn,

           In that state I came, return.

           Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son,

           Now that the fields are dank and ways are mire,

           Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire

           Help waste a sullen day, what may be won

           From the hard season gaining? Time will run

           On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire

           The frozen earth, and cloth in fresh attire

           The lily and rose,

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