The largest mountains barren lie,

And lightning fear,

Though they appear

To bid defiance to the sky;
Which in one hour

We've seen the opening earth devour,
When in their height they proudest were.

But th' humble man heaves up his head
Like some rich vale,

Whose fruits ne'er fail,

With flowers, with corn, and vines o'erspread!
Nor doth complain
O'erflowed by an ill-season'd rain,

Or batter'd by a storm of hail.

Like a tall bark treasure-fraught,

He the seas clear

Doth quiet steer :

But when they are to a tempest wrought,
More gallantly

He spreads his sail, and doth more high,
By swelling of the waves, appear.

For the Almighty joys to force

The glorious tide

Of human pride

To the lowest ebb; that o'er his course (Which rudely bore

Down what oppos'd it heretofore)

His feeblest enemy may stride.

But from his ill-thatch'd roof he brings

The cottager,

And doth prefer

Him to the ador'd state of kings:

He bids that hand,

Which labour hath made rough and tann'd,

The all-commanding sceptre bear.

Let then the mighty cease to boast

Their boundless sway;

Since in their sea

Few sail, but by some storm are lost.
Let them themselves

Beware for they are their own shelves:
Man still himself hath cast away.

"I WILL CONSIDER MY YEARS."

TIME! where didst thou those years inter
Which I have seen decease?

My soul's at war; and truth bids her
Find out their hidden sepulchre,

To give her troubles peace.

Pregnant with flowers, doth not the spring
Like a late bride appear?

Whose feather'd music only bring
Caresses, and no requiem sing

On the departed year?

The earth, like some rich wanton heir,
Whose parents coffin'd lie,
Forgets it once look'd pale and bare,
And doth for vanities prepare,

As the spring ne'er should die.

The present hour, flattered by all,
Reflects not on the last;

But I, like a sad factor, shall

To account my life each moment call,
And only weep the past.

My mem❜ry tracks each several way,
Since reason did begin

Over my actions her first sway;
And teacheth me, that each new day
Did only vary sin.

Poor bankrupt conscience! where are those
Rich hours, but farm'd to thee?

How carelessly I some did lose,
And other to my lust dispose,
As no rent-day should be?

I have infected with impure
Disorders my past years;
But I'll to penitence inure
Those that succeed.

There is no cure,

Nor antidote, but tears.

"I DESIRE TO DEPART."-ST. PAUL.

THE Soul, which doth with God unite,
Those gaieties how doth she slight
Which o'er opinion sway!

Like sacred virgin wax, which shines
On altars or on martyrs' shrines,

How doth she burn away!

How violent are her throes, till she
From envious earth delivered be,
Which doth her flight restrain!
How doth she dote on whips and racks,
On fires, and the so dreaded axe,
And every murd'ring pain!

How soon she leaves the pride of wealth,
The flatteries of youth and health,
And fame's more precious breath;

And every gaudy circumstance,
That doth the pomp of lite advance,
At the approach of death!

The cunning of astrologers
Observes each motion of the stars,
Placing all knowledge there;
And lovers in their mistress' eyes
Contract those wonders of the skies,
And seek no higher sphere.

The wand'ring pilot sweats to find
The causes that produce the wind,
Still gazing on the pole:

The politician scorns all art,

But what doth pride and power impart, And swells the ambitious soul.

But he, whom heavenly fire doth warm, And 'gainst these powerful follies arm, Doth soberly disdain

All these fond human mysteries,

As the deceitful and unwise

Distempers of our brain.

He as a burden bears his clay,
Yet vainly throws it not away

On every idle cause :

But, with the same untroubled eye,
Can or resolve to live or die,
Regardless of the applause.

My God! if 'tis thy great decree
That this must the last moment be
Wherein I breathe this air;

My heart obeys, joy'd to retreat
From the false favours of the great,

And treachery of the fair.

When thou shalt please this soul to enthrone Above impure corruption,

What should I grieve or fear,

To think this breathless body must
Become a loathsome heap of dust,
And ne'er again appear ?

For in the fire when ore is tried,
And by that torment purified,

Do we deplore the loss?

And, when thou shalt my soul refine,

That it thereby may purer shine,
Shall I grieve for the dross?