Nor should we be with this command dismayed,
He that examples gives will give his aid;
For He took flesh, that, where his precepts fail,
His practice as a pattern may prevail;

His love at once, and dread, instructs our thought;
As man He suffered, and as God He taught:
Will for the deed He takes; we may with ease
Obedient be, for if we love we please;

Weak though we are, to love is no hard task,
And love for love is all that heaven does ask:

Love that would all men just and temperate make,
Kind to themselves and others, for his sake.
'Tis with our minds as with a fertile ground,

Wanting this love, they must with weeds abound;
Unruly passions, whose effects are worse

Than thorns and thistles springing from the curse.

THOMAS FLATMAN.

THOMAS FLATMAN was born in 1633. He has been honoured by Wood with the title of an eminent poet; and though his writings may not entitle him to such a distinction, there is still sufficient beauty in his pieces to show that the censure bestowed on him by some recent critics is wholly undeserved. He died in 1688.

HYMN FOR THE MORNING.

AWAKE, my soul! awake, mine eyes!

Awake, my drowsy faculties!

Awake, and see the new-born light

Spring from the darksome womb of night!

Look up and see the unwearied sun,

Already has his race begun.

The pretty lark is mounted high,
And sings her matins in the sky.
Arise, my soul! and thou, my voice,
In songs of praise early rejoice!
O great Creator! heavenly King!
Thy praises ever let me sing!

Thy power has made, thy goodness kept,
This fenceless body while I slept;

Yet one day more has given me
From all the powers of darkness free.
Oh! keep my heart from sin secure,
My life unblameable and pure;

That when the last of all my days is come,
Cheerful and fearless I may wait my doom.

FOR THE EVENING.

SLEEP! downy sleep! come close mine eyes,

Tired with beholding vanities;

Sweet slumbers, come, and chase away
The toils and follies of the day.

On your soft bosom will I lie,

Forget the world, and learn to die.

O Israel's watchful Shepherd! spread
Tents of angels round my bed;

Let not the spirits of the air

While I slumber me ensnare;

But save thy suppliant free from harms,

Clasped in thine everlasting arms.

Clouds and thick darkness are thy throne,

Thy wonderful pavilion;

Oh! dart from thence a shining ray,
And then my midnight shall be day!
Thus when the morn in crimson drest,
Breaks through the windows of the east,
My hymns of thankful praise shall rise,
Like incense at the morning sacrifice!

ROBERT HERRICK.

ROBERT HERRICK was born in London, in 1591. He was educated at Cambridge, and was presented to the vicarage of Dean Prior, in Devonshire, in 1629, by Charles the First; from which, during the troubles of the times, he was ejected. The time of his death is unknown. The works of Herrick do not offer much serious poetry for choice, but what little there is, alone of all his pieces, is worth preserving; the rest deserves to remain, as it happily is, in obscurity.

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 at 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 passing bell doth toll,

And the furies in a shoal

Come to fright a parting soul,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When God knows I'm tossed about,

Either with despair or doubt,

Yet before the glass be out,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me,

When the tapers now burn blue,
And the comforters are few,

And that number more than true,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When the priest his last hath prayed, And I nod to what is said,

'Cause my speech is now decayed,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When the tempter me pursueth

With the sins of all my youth,

And half damns me with untruth, Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When the flames and hellish cries

Fright mine ears, and fright mine eyes,

And all terrors me surprise,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When the judgment is revealed,
And that opened which was sealed,
When to Thee I have appealed,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

TO DAFFODILS.

FAIR daffodils, we weep to see

You haste away so soon;

As yet the early rising sun

Has not attained its noon.
Stay, stay,

Until the hasting day

Has run

But to the even-song:

And having prayed together, we

Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay as you;
We have as short a spring,

As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you or anything:
We die

As your hours do; and dry
Away

Like to the summer-rain,

Or as the pearls of morning-dew,
Ne'er to be found again.

TO BLOSSOMS.

FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree,
Why do ye fall so fast?

Your date is not so past,

But you may stay yet here awhile
To blush and gently smile,
And go at last.

What, were ye born to be

An hour or half's delight,

And so to bid good night?

'Twas pity nature brought you forth Merely to show your worth,

And lose you quite.

But ye are lovely leaves, where we

May read how soon things have

Their end, though ne'er so brave; And after they have shown their pride, Like you, awhile, they glide

Into the grave.