Yet should rising whirlwinds tear
From its stem the ripening ear;
Should the fig-tree's blasted shoot
Drop her green untimely fruit;

Should the vine put forth no more,
Nor the olive yield her store;
Though the sickening flocks should
fall,

And the herds desert the stall;

Should thine altered hand restrain
The early and the latter rain,
Blast each opening bud of joy,
And the rising year destroy:

Yet to thee my soul should raise Grateful vows and solemn praise; And, when every blessing's flown, Love thee for thyself alone.

BARBAULD.

AFFLICTION.

WHEN first Thou didst entice to Thee my heart,

I thought the service brave; So many joys I writ down for my part!

Besides what I might have Out of my stock of natural delights, Augmented with Thy gracious benefits.

I looked on Thy furniture so fine,
And made it fine to me.
Thy glorious household stuff did me
intwine,

And 'tice me unto Thee.
Such stars I counted mine: both
heaven and earth
Paid me my wages in a world of mirth.

What pleasure could I want, whose King I served?

Where joys my fellows were? Thus argued into hopes, my thoughts reserved

No place for grief or fear: Therefore my sudden soul caught at the place,

And made her youth and fierceness seek Thy face.

At first Thou gav'st me milk and sweetnesses;

I had my wish and way:

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.

Thy golden censers filled with odors

sweet

Shall make thy actions with their ends to meet.

HERRICK.

BEFORE SLEEP.

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.

When earthly cares engross the day, And hold my thoughts aside from thee,

The shining hours of cheerful light Are long and tedious years to me.

And if no evening visit's paid Between my Saviour and my soul, How dull the night! how sad the shade!

How mournfully the minutes roll!

My God! and can a humble child That loves thee with a flame so high, Be ever from thy face exiled, Without the pity of thy eye?

Impossible! for thine own hands Have tied my heart so fast to thee; And in thy book the promise stands That where thou art thy friends must be.

LITANY TO THE HOLY SPIRIT.

IN the hour of my distress,
When temptations me oppress,
And when I my sins confess,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When I lie within my bed,
Sick at heart, and sick in head,
And with doubts discomforted,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the house doth sigh and weep,

And the world is drowned in sleep,
Yet mine eyes the watch do keep,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the artless doctor sees
No one hope, but of his fees,
And his skill runs on the lees,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When his potion and his pill,
Has or none or little skill,
Meet for nothing, but to kill,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!