Who framing, on the fourth of days, That thou might'st by a certain bound Men's hearts with lightsome splendour bless, Wipe from their minds polluting spots, Dissolve the bond of guiltiness, Throw down the heaps of sinful blots. Dear Father, grant what we entreat, And only Son, who like power hast, Together with the Paraclete, Reigning whilst times and ages last. Thursday. O God, whose forces far extend, Who creatures which from watery spring Back to the flood dost partly send, And up to th' air dost partly bring; Some in the waters deeply div'd, Some playing in the heav'ns above, That natures from one stock deriv'd May thus to several dwellings move. Upon thy servants grace bestow, That sin no soul oppress'd may thrall, Dear Father, grant what we entreat. Reigning whilst times and ages last. Friday. God, from whose work mankind did spring, Bidding the dry land forth to bring Who hast made subject to man's hand From us thy servants, Lord, expel Those errors which uncleanness breeds, Which either in our manners dwell, Or mix themselves among our deeds. Give the rewards of joyful life; The plenteous gifts of grace increase; Dear Father, grant what we entreat, Reigning whilst times and ages last. Saturday. O Trinity! O blessed light! O Unity, most principal ! The fiery sun now leaves our sight; Let us with songs of praise divine, To God the Father glory great, And to the holy Paraclete, Both now, and still while ages run. SPRING. So forth issu'd the seasons of the year; Drummond. First lusty Spring, all dight in leaves of flowers That freshly budded, and new blossoms did bear, In which a thousand birds had built their bowers, That sweetly sung to call forth paramours; That as some did him love, so others did him fear. SUMMER. Spenser. Then came the jolly Summer, being dight And now would bathe his limbs, with labour heated sore. AUTUMN. Then came the Autumn, all in yellow clad, As though he joyéd in his plenteous store, Spenser. Laden with fruits that made him laugh, full glaŭ Had by the belly oft him pinchéd sore; With ears of corn of every sort, he bore, To reap the ripen'd fruit, the which the earth had yold. Spenser. WINTER. Lastly came Winter, clothéd all in frieze, In his right hand a tippéd staff he held, For he was faint with cold, and weak with eld, That scarce his looséd limbs he able was to weld. Spenser. HYMN TO THE MORNING. Written in Summer. Hail goddess of the silver star, Whose trembling orb gives signal to the day; The sun salutes in his celestial car; Whose active heats melt every cloud And stain the lustre of thy laughing eye, Dimple-cheek'd-health with rosy features glows, Ease in her tripping step, and pleasure in her face. And looks thanksgiving through her large domain: |