My days were strewed with flowers and happiness:

There was no month but May: But with my years sorrow did twist and grow,

And made a party unawares for woe.

Whereas my birth and spirit rather took

The way that takes the town; Thou didst betray me to a lingering book,

And wrap me in a gown.

I was entangled in a world of strife, Before I had the power to change my life.

Yet lest perchance I should too hapPy be

In my unhappiness, Turning my purge to food, Thou throwest me

Into more sicknesses.

Thus does Thy power cross-bias me, not making

Thine own gift good, yet me from my ways taking.

Now I am here; what Thou wilt do with me,

None of my books will show: I read, and sigh, and wish I were a tree; For sure then I should grow To fruit, or shade; at least some bird would trust

Her household to me, and I should be just.

Yet though Thou troublest me, I must be meek;

In weakness must be stout. Well, I will change the service, and go seek

Some other master out. Ah, my dear God! though I am clean forgot,

Let me not love Thee, if I love Thee not.

HERBERT.

GRATEFULNESS.

THOU that hast given so much to me, Give one thing more, a grateful heart.

See how Thy beggar works on Thee By art:

THE night is come like to the
day,

Depart not thou, great God, away,
Let not my sins, black as the night,
Eclipse the lustre of thy light.
Keep still in my horizon; for to me
The sun makes not the day, but
thee.

Thou, whose nature cannot sleep,
On my temples sentry keep;
Guard me 'gainst those watchful
foes

Whose eyes are open while mine close.

Let no dreams my head infest
But such as Jacob's temples blest.
While I do rest, my soul advance,
Make my sleep a holy trance,
That I may, my rest being wrought,
Awake into some holy thought,
And with as active vigor run
My course, as doth the nimble sun,
Sleep is a death; O make me try
By sleeping, what it is to die:
And as gently lay my head
On my grave, as now my bed.
Howe'er I rest, great God, let me
Awake again at least with thee;
And thus assured, behold I lie
Secure, or to awake or die.
These are my drowsy days; in vain
I do now wake to sleep again;-
O come that hour, when I shall never
Sleep again, but wake forever.
SIR THOMAS BROWNE.

HYMN.

LORD, when I quit this earthly stage, Where shall I fly but to thy breast? For I have sought no other home, For I have learned no other rest.

I cannot live contented here, Without some glimpses of thy face; And heaven without thy presence there

Would be a dark and tiresome place.