Of The Spouse Of Christ
Who's this that cometh from the wilderness,
Like smokey pillars thus perfum'd with myrrh,
Leaning upon her dearest in distress,
Led into's bosom by the Comforter?
She's clothed with the sun, crowned with twelve stars,
The spotted moon her footstool she hath made.
The dragon her assaults, fills her with jars,
Yet rests she under her Beloved's shade,
But whence was she? what is her pedigree?
Was not her father a poor Amorite?
What was her mother but as others be,
A poor, a wretched, and a sinful Hittite.
Yea, as for her, the day that she was born,
As loathsome, out of doors they did her cast;
Naked and filthy, stinking and forlorn;
This was her pedigree from first to last.
Nor was she pitied in this estate,
All let her lie polluted in her blood:
None her condition did commiserate,
There was no heart that sought to do her good.
Yet she unto these ornaments is come,
Her breasts are fashioned, her hair is grown;
She is made heiress of the best kingdom;
All her indignities away are blown.
Cast out she was, but now she home is taken,
Naked (sometimes),
but now, you see, she's cloth'd;
Now made the darling, though before forsaken,
Barefoot, but now as princes' daughters shod.
Instead of filth, she now has her perfumes;
Instead of ignominy, her chains of gold:
Instead of what the beauty most consumes,
Her beauty's perfect, lovely to behold.
Those that attend and wait upon her be
Princes of honour, clothed in white array;
Upon her head's a crown of gold, and she
Eats wheat, honey, and oil, from day to day.
For her beloved, he's the high'st of all,
The only Potentate, the King of kings:
Angels and men do him Jehovah call,
And from him life and glory always springs.
He's white and ruddy, and of all the chief:
His head, his locks, his eyes, his hands, and feet,
Do, for completeness
, out-go all belief;
His cheeks like flowers are, his mouth most sweet.
As for his wealth, he is made heir of all;
What is in heaven, what is on earth is his:
And he this lady his joint-heir doth call,
Of all that shall be, or at present is.
Well, lady, well, God has been good to thee;
Thou of an outcast, now art made a queen.
Few, or none, may with thee compared be,
A beggar made thus high is seldom seen.
Take heed of pride, remember what thou art
By nature, though thou hast in grace a share,
Thou in thyself dost yet retain a part
Of thine own filthiness; wherefore beware.
poem by John Bunyan
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Related quotes
Why Art Thou Thus Cast Down, My Heart?
Why art thou thus cast down, my heart?
Why troubled, why dost mourn apart,
O'er nought but earthly wealth?
Trust in thy God, be not afraid,
He is thy Friend who all things made.
Dost think thy prayers He doth not heed?
He knows full well what thou dost need,
And heaven and earth are His;
My Father and my God, who still
Is with my soul in every ill.
Since Thou my God and Father art,
I know Thy faithful loving heart
Will ne'er forget Thy child;
See I am poor, I am but dust,
On earth is none whom I can trust.
The rich man in his wealth confides,
But in my God my trust abides;
Then laugh ye as ye will,
I hold this fast that He hath taught,--
Who trusts in God shall want for nought.
Yes, Lord, Thou art as rich to-day
As Thou hast been and shalt be aye,
I rest on Thee alone;
Thy riches to my soul be given,
And 't is enough for earth and heaven.
What here may shine I all resign,
If the eternal crown be mine,
That through Thy bitter death
Thou gainedst, O Lord Christ, for me--
For this, for this, I cry to Thee!
All wealth, all glories, here below,
The best that this world can bestow,
Silver or gold or lands,
But for a little time is given,
And helps us not to enter heaven.
I thank Thee, Christ, Eternal Lord,
That Thou hast taught me by Thy word
To know this truth and Thee;
O grant me also steadfastness
Thy heavenly kingdom not to miss.
Praise, honour, thanks, to Thee be brought,
For all things in and for me wrought
By Thy great mercy, Christ.
This one thing only still I pray,
Oh cast me ne'er from Thee away
poem by Hans Sachs
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Author to her Book, The
Thou ill-form'd offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth did'st by my side remain,
Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true,
Who thee abroad expos'd to public view,
Made thee in rags, halting to th' press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judge).
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother call.
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
Thy Visage was so irksome in my sight,
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could.
I wash'd thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.
I stretcht thy joints to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou run'st more hobbling than is meet.
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save home-spun Cloth, i' th' house I find.
In this array, 'mongst Vulgars mayst thou roam.
In Critics' hands, beware thou dost not come,
And take thy way where yet thou art not known.
If for thy Father askt, say, thou hadst none;
And for thy Mother, she alas is poor,
Which caus'd her thus to send thee out of door.
poem by Anne Bradstreet
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The Author To Her Book
Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth did'st by my side remain,
Till snatched from thence by friends, less wise than true,
Who thee abroad, exposed to public view,
Made thee in rags, halting to th' press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judge).
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother call.
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
Thy visage was so irksome in my sight;
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could:
I washed thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot still made a flaw.
I stretched thy joints to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou run'st more hobbling than is meet;
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save homespun cloth, i' th' house I find.
In this array 'mongst Vulgars may'st thou roam.
In critic's hands beware thou dost not come,
And take thy way where yet thou art not known;
If for thy Father asked, say thou hadst none;
And for thy Mother, she alas is poor,
Which caused her thus to send thee out of door.
poem by Anne Bradstreet
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The Dedication
The Son of the living GOD, and the sacred
Virgin Mary.
I.
MY God ! Thou that didst die for me,
These Thy death's fruits I offer Thee ;
Death that to me was life and light,
But dark and deep pangs to Thy sight.
Some drops of Thy all-quick'ning blood
Fell on my heart ; those made it bud,
And put forth thus, though, Lord, before
The ground was curs'd, and void of store.
Indeed I had some here to hire
Which long resisted Thy desire,
That ston'd Thy servants, and did move
To have Thee murder'd for Thy love ;
But, Lord, I have expell'd them, and so bent,
Beg Thou wouldst take Thy tenant's rent.
II.
Dear Lord, 'tis finished ! and now he
That copied it, presents it Thee.
'Twas thine first, and to Thee returns,
From Thee it shin'd, though here it burns.
If the Sun rise on rocks, is't right
To call it their inherent light ?
No, nor can I say, this is mine,
For, dearest Jesus, 'tis all Thine ;
As Thy clothes, when Thou with clothes wert clad,
Both light from Thee, and virtue had ;
And now,as then, within this place
Thou to poor rags dost still give grace.
This is the earnest Thy love sheds,
The candle shining on some heads,
Till at Thy charges they shall be
Cloth'd all with immortality.
III.
My dear Redeemer, the world's light,
And life too, and my heart's delight !
For all Thy mercies and Thy truth,
Show'd to me in my sinful youth,
For my sad failings and my wild
Murmurings at Thee, when most mild ;
For all my secret faults, and each
Frequent relapse and wilful breach,
For all designs meant against Thee
And ev'ry publish'd vanity,
Which Thou divinely hast forgiven,
While Thy blood wash'd me white as heaven ;
I nothing have to give to Thee,
But this Thy own gift, given to me.
Refuse it not ; for now Thy token
Can tell Thee where a heart is broken.
REVEL. CAP. I. VER. 5, 6, 7.
Unto him that loved us, and washed us from our
sins in His own blood.
And hath made us kings and priests unto God and
His Father ; to Him be glory and dominion, for ever
and ever. Amen.
Behold He cometh with clouds, and every eye shall
see Him, and they also which pierced Him ; and all
kindreds of the earth shall wail because of Him : even
so, Amen.
poem by Henry Vaughan
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Absolution II
UNBIND thine eyes, with thine own soul confer,
Look on the sins that made thy life unclean,
Behold how poor thy vaunted virtues were,
How weak thy faith, thy deeds how small and mean,
How far from thy high dreams thy life hath been,
How poor thy use of all thou hast received,
How little of all God's glory thou hast seen,
How misconstrued that which thou hast perceived.
Turn not thine eyes away from thine unworth,
The cup of shame drink to the bitter lees;
And when thou art lowered to the least on earth,
And in the dust makest common cause with these,
Then shall kind arms enfold thee, bringing peace,
The Earth, thy Mother, shall assuage thy pain,
Her woods and fields, Her quiet streams and seas
Shall touch thy soul, and make thee whole again.
But if thy heart holds fast one secret sin,
If one vile script thy soul shrinks to erase,
The mighty Mother cannot bring thee in
Unto the happy, holy, healing place;
But thou shalt weep in darkness, out of grace,
And miss the light of beauty undefiled;
For he who would behold Her, face to face,
Must be in spirit as a little child.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Spirit
Be still, thou unregenerate part,
Disturb no more my settled heart,
For I have vow'd (and so will do)
Thee as a foe still to pursue,
And combat with thee will and must
Until I see thee laid in th' dust.
Sister we are, yea twins we be,
Yet deadly feud 'twixt thee and me,
For from one father are we not.
Thou by old Adam wast begot,
But my arise is from above,
Whence my dear father I do love.
Thou speak'st me fair but hat'st me sore.
Thy flatt'ring shews I'll trust no more.
How oft thy slave hast thou me made
When I believ'd what thou hast said
And never had more cause of woe
Than when I did what thou bad'st do.
I'll stop mine ears at these thy charms
And count them for my deadly harms.
Thy sinful pleasures I do hate,
Thy riches are to me no bait.
Thine honours do, nor will I love,
For my ambition lies above.
My greatest honour it shall be
When I am victor over thee,
And Triumph shall, with laurel head,
When thou my Captive shalt be led.
How I do live, thou need'st not scoff,
For I have meat thou know'st not of.
The hidden Manna I do eat;
The word of life, it is my meat.
My thoughts do yield me more content
Than can thy hours in pleasure spent.
Nor are they shadows which I catch,
Nor fancies vain at which I snatch
But reach at things that are so high,
Beyond thy dull Capacity.
Eternal substance I do see
With which inriched I would be.
Mine eye doth pierce the heav'ns and see
What is Invisible to thee.
My garments are not silk nor gold,
Nor such like trash which Earth doth hold,
But Royal Robes I shall have on,
More glorious than the glist'ring Sun.
My Crown not Diamonds, Pearls, and gold,
But such as Angels' heads infold.
The City where I hope to dwell,
There's none on Earth can parallel.
The stately Walls both high and trong
Are made of precious Jasper stone,
The Gates of Pearl, both rich and clear,
And Angels are for Porters there.
The Streets thereof transparent gold
Such as no Eye did e're behold.
A Crystal River there doth run
Which doth proceed from the Lamb's Throne.
Of Life, there are the waters sure
Which shall remain forever pure.
Nor Sun nor Moon they have no need
For glory doth from God proceed.
No Candle there, nor yet Torch light,
For there shall be no darksome night.
From sickness and infirmity
Forevermore they shall be free.
Nor withering age shall e're come there,
But beauty shall be bright and clear.
This City pure is not for thee,
For things unclean there shall not be.
If I of Heav'n may have my fill,
Take thou the world, and all that will."
poem by Anne Bradstreet
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The Flesh and the Spirit
In secret place where once I stood
Close by the Banks of Lacrim flood,
I heard two sisters reason on
Things that are past and things to come.
One Flesh was call'd, who had her eye
On worldly wealth and vanity;
The other Spirit, who did rear
Her thoughts unto a higher sphere.
Sister, quoth Flesh, what liv'st thou on,
Nothing but Meditation?
Doth Contemplation feed thee so
Regardlessly to let earth go?
Can Speculation satisfy
Notion without Reality?
Dost dream of things beyond the Moon
And dost thou hope to dwell there soon?
Hast treasures there laid up in store
That all in th' world thou count'st but poor?
Art fancy-sick or turn'd a Sot
To catch at shadows which are not?
Come, come. I'll show unto thy sense,
Industry hath its recompence.
What canst desire, but thou maist see
True substance in variety?
Dost honour like? Acquire the same,
As some to their immortal fame;
And trophies to thy name erect
Which wearing time shall ne'er deject.
For riches dost thou long full sore?
Behold enough of precious store.
Earth hath more silver, pearls, and gold
Than eyes can see or hands can hold.
Affects thou pleasure? Take thy fill.
Earth hath enough of what you will.
Then let not go what thou maist find
For things unknown only in mind.
Spirit: Be still thou unregenerate part,
Disturb no more my settled heart,
For I have vowed (and so will do)
Thee as a foe still to pursue,
And combat with thee will and must
Until I see thee laid in th' dust.
Sisters we are, yea, twins we be,
Yet deadly feud 'twixt thee and me,
For from one father are we not.
Thou by old Adam wast begot,
But my arise is from above,
Whence my dear Father I do love.
Thou speak'st me fair, but hat'st me sore.
Thy flatt'ring shows I'll trust no more.
How oft thy slave, hast thou me made,
When I believed what thou hast said
And never had more cause of woe
Than when I did what thou bad'st do.
I'll stop mine ears at these thy charms,
And count them for my deadly harms.
Thy sinful pleasures I do hate,
Thy riches are to me no bait.
Thine honors do, nor will I love,
For my ambition lies above.
My greatest honor it shall be
When I am victor over thee,
And triumph shall with laurel head,
When thou my captive shalt be led.
How I do live, thou need'st not scoff,
For I have meat thou know'st not of.
The hidden manna I do eat,
The word of life it is my meat.
My thoughts do yield me more content
Than can thy hours in pleasure spent.
Nor are they shadows which I catch,
Nor fancies vain at which I snatch,
But reach at things that are so high,
Beyond thy dull capacity:
Eternal substance I do see,
With which enriched I would be.
Mine eye doth pierce the heavens and see
What is invisible to thee.
My garments are not silk nor gold,
Nor such like trash which earth doth hold,
But royal robes I shall have on,
More glorious than the glist'ring sun;
My crown not diamonds, pearls, and gold,
But such as angels' heads enfold.
The city where I hope to dwell,
There's none on earth can parallel.
The stately walls both high and strong,
Are made of precious jasper stone,
The gates of pearl, both rich and clear,
And angels are for porters there;
The streets thereof transparent gold,
Such as no eye did e're behold;
A crystal river there doth run,
Which doth proceed from the Lamb's throne.
Of life, there are the waters sure,
Which shall remain forever pure,
Nor sun, nor moon, they have no need,
For glory doth from God proceed.
No candle there, nor yet torchlight,
For there shall be no darksome night.
From sickness and infirmity
For evermore they shall be free;
Nor withering age shall e'er come there,
But beauty shall be bright and clear.
This city pure is not for thee,
For things unclean there shall not be.
If I of heaven may have my fill,
Take thou the world and all that will.
poem by Anne Bradstreet
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The Wounded Eagle
Eagle! this is not thy sphere!
Warrior-bird, what seek'st thou here?
Wherefore by the fountain's brink
Doth thy royal pinion sink?
Wherefore on the violet's bed
Lay'st thou thus thy drooping head?
Thou that hold'st the blast in scorn,
Thou that wear'st the wings of mourn.
Eagle! wilt thou not arise?
Look upon thine own bright skies!
Lift thy glance! the fiery sun
There his pride pf place has won,
And the mountain lark is there,
And sweet sound hath fill'd the air:
Hast thou left that realm on high?
-Oh, it can be but to die!
Eagle! Eagle! thou hast bowed
From thine empire o'er the cloud!
Thou that hadst ethereal birth,
Thou hast stoop'd too near the earth,
And the hunter's shaft hath found thee,
And the toils of death have bound thee,
Wherefore didst thou leave thy place,
Creature of a kingly race?
Wert thou weary of thy throne?
Was the sky's dominion lone?
Chill and lone it well might be,
Yet that mighty wing was free!
Now the chain is o'er thee cast:
From thy heart the blood flows fast,
Woe for gifted souls and high!
Is not such their destiny?
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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The Broken Pitcher
Accursed be the hour of that sad day
The careless potter put his hand to thee,
And dared to fashion out of common clay
So pure a shape as thou didst seem to me.
An idle boy, when vintage was begun,
I passed and saw thy beauty for my sin,
And poured unheedingly till it was done
The red wine of my love's first gathering in.
And thou, ah! thou didst look at me and smile
To see me give with such ungrudging hand,
As taking all to thy dear heart, the while
It only fell upon the thirsty sand.
Sad pitcher, thou wast broken at the well,
Ere yet the shepherd's lip had tasted thine.
A god had lost in thee his hydromel,
As I have wasted my poor wealth of wine.
Yet, wherefore wast thou made so fair a thing?
Or why of clay, whose fabric rightly were
Of finest gold, new--fashioned for a king,
And framed by some divine artificer?
I will not curse thee, thou poor shape of clay,
That thou art other than thou seemed to be,
Yet I will break thee, that no passer may
Unthinking break another heart on thee.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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The First Canzone Of The Convito
From The Italian Of Dante
I.
Ye who intelligent the Third Heaven move,
Hear the discourse which is within my heart,
Which cannot be declared, it seems so new.
The Heaven whose course follows your power and art,
Oh, gentle creatures that ye are! me drew,
And therefore may I dare to speak to you,
Even of the life which now I live--and yet
I pray that ye will hear me when I cry,
And tell of mine own heart this novelty;
How the lamenting Spirit moans in it, 10
And how a voice there murmurs against her
Who came on the refulgence of your sphere.
II.
A sweet Thought, which was once the life within
This heavy heart, man a time and oft
Went up before our Father’s feet, and there
It saw a glorious Lady throned aloft;
And its sweet talk of her my soul did win,
So that I said, ‘Thither I too will fare.’
That Thought is fled, and one doth now appear
Which tyrannizes me with such fierce stress,
That my heart trembles--ye may see it leap--
And on another Lady bids me keep
Mine eyes, and says--Who would have blessedness
Let him but look upon that Lady’s eyes,
Let him not fear the agony of sighs.
III.
This lowly Thought, which once would talk with me
Of a bright seraph sitting crowned on high,
Found such a cruel foe it died, and so
My Spirit wept, the grief is hot even now--
And said, Alas for me! how swift could flee
That piteous Thought which did my life console!
And the afflicted one ... questioning
Mine eyes, if such a Lady saw they never,
And why they would...
I said: ‘Beneath those eyes might stand for ever
He whom ... regards must kill with...
To have known their power stood me in little stead,
Those eyes have looked on me, and I am dead.’
IV.
‘Thou art not dead, but thou hast wandered,
Thou Soul of ours, who thyself dost fret,’
A Spirit of gentle Love beside me said;
For that fair Lady, whom thou dost regret,
Hath so transformed the life which thou hast led,
Thou scornest it, so worthless art thou made.
And see how meek, how pitiful, how staid,
Yet courteous, in her majesty she is.
And still call thou her Woman in thy thought;
Her whom, if thou thyself deceivest not,
Thou wilt behold decked with such loveliness,
That thou wilt cry [Love] only Lord, lo! here
Thy handmaiden, do what thou wilt with her.
V.
My song, I fear that thou wilt find but few
Who fitly shall conceive thy reasoning
Of such hard matter dost thou entertain.
Whence, if by misadventure chance should bring
Thee to base company, as chance may do,
Quite unaware of what thou dost contain,
I prithee comfort thy sweet self again,
My last delight; tell them that they are dull,
And bid them own that thou art beautiful.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Lamentations of Jeremiah III: Hope of Relief through God's Mercy
1 I am the man that hath seen affliction by the rod of his wrath.
2 He hath led me, and brought me into darkness, but not into light.
3 Surely against me is he turned;
he turneth his hand against me all the day.
4 My flesh and my skin hath he made old;
he hath broken my bones.
5 He hath builded against me,
and compassed me with gall and travail.
6 He hath set me in dark places,
as they that be dead of old.
7 He hath hedged me about, that I cannot get out:
he hath made my chain heavy.
8 Also when I cry and shout,
he shutteth out my prayer.
9 He hath inclosed my ways with hewn stone;
he hath made my paths crooked.
10 He was unto me as a bear lying in wait,
and as a lion in secret places.
11 He hath turned aside my ways, and pulled me in pieces:
he hath made me desolate.
12 He hath bent his bow, and set me as a mark for the arrow.
13 He hath caused the arrows of his quiver to enter into my reins.
14 I was a derision to all my people;
and their song all the day.
15 He hath filled me with bitterness,
he hath made me drunken with wormwood.
16 He hath also broken my teeth with gravel stones,
he hath covered me with ashes.
17 And thou hast removed my soul far off from peace:
I forgat prosperity.
18 And I said, My strength and my hope is perished from the LORD:
19 remembering mine affliction and my misery, the wormwood and the gall.
20 My soul hath them still in remembrance, and is humbled in me.
21 This I recall to my mind,
therefore have I hope.
22 It is of the LORD's mercies that we are not consumed,
because his compassions fail not.
23 They are new every morning:
great is thy faithfulness.
24 The LORD is my portion, saith my soul;
therefore will I hope in him.
25 The LORD is good unto them that wait for him,
to the soul that seeketh him.
26 It is good that a man should both hope and quietly wait for the salvation of the LORD.
27 It is good for a man that he bear the yoke in his youth.
28 He sitteth alone and keepeth silence,
because he hath borne it upon him.
29 He putteth his mouth in the dust;
if so be there may be hope.
30 He giveth his cheek to him that smiteth him:
he is filled full with reproach.
31 For the Lord will not cast off for ever:
32 but though he cause grief, yet will he have compassion
according to the multitude of his mercies.
33 For he doth not afflict willingly,
nor grieve the children of men.
34 To crush under his feet all the prisoners of the earth,
35 to turn aside the right of a man before the face of the Most High,
36 to subvert a man in his cause,
the Lord approveth not.
37 Who is he that saith, and it cometh to pass,
when the Lord commandeth it not?
38 Out of the mouth of the Most High proceedeth not evil and good?
39 Wherefore doth a living man complain,
a man for the punishment of his sins?
40 Let us search and try our ways,
and turn again to the LORD.
41 Let us lift up our heart with our hands unto God in the heavens.
42 We have transgressed and have rebelled:
thou hast not pardoned.
43 Thou hast covered with anger, and persecuted us:
thou hast slain, thou hast not pitied.
44 Thou hast covered thyself with a cloud,
that our prayer should not pass through.
45 Thou hast made us as the offscouring and refuse in the midst of the people.
46 All our enemies have opened their mouths against us.
47 Fear and a snare is come upon us, desolation and destruction.
48 Mine eye runneth down with rivers of water
for the destruction of the daughter of my people.
49 Mine eye trickleth down, and ceaseth not, without any intermission,
50 till the LORD look down, and behold from heaven.
51 Mine eye affecteth mine heart,
because of all the daughters of my city.
52 Mine enemies chased me sore,
like a bird, without cause.
53 They have cut off my life in the dungeon,
and cast a stone upon me.
54 Waters flowed over mine head;
then I said, I am cut off.
55 I called upon thy name, O LORD,
out of the low dungeon.
56 Thou hast heard my voice:
hide not thine ear at my breathing, at my cry.
57 Thou drewest near in the day that I called upon thee:
thou saidst, Fear not.
58 O Lord, thou hast pleaded the causes of my soul;
thou hast redeemed my life.
59 O LORD, thou hast seen my wrong:
judge thou my cause.
60 Thou hast seen all their vengeance and all their imaginations against me.
61 Thou hast heard their reproach, O LORD,
and all their imaginations against me;
62 the lips of those that rose up against me,
and their device against me all the day.
63 Behold their sitting down, and their rising up;
I am their music.
64 Render unto them a recompense, O LORD,
according to the work of their hands.
65 Give them sorrow of heart, thy curse unto them.
66 Persecute and destroy them in anger from under the heavens of the LORD.
poem by Prophet Jeremiah
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Cobbler and Stork
COBBLER
Stork, I am justly wroth,
For thou hast wronged me sore;
The ash roof-tree that shelters thee
Shall shelter thee no more!
STORK
Full fifty years I 've dwelt
Upon this honest tree,
And long ago (as people know!)
I brought thy father thee.
What hail hath chilled thy heart,
That thou shouldst bid me go?
Speak out, I pray--then I 'll away,
Since thou commandest so.
COBBLER
Thou tellest of the time
When, wheeling from the west,
This hut thou sought'st and one thou brought'st
Unto a mother's breast.
I was the wretched child
Was fetched that dismal morn--
'T were better die than be (as I)
To life of misery born!
And hadst thou borne me on
Still farther up the town,
A king I 'd be of high degree,
And wear a golden crown!
For yonder lives the prince
Was brought that selfsame day:
How happy he, while--look at me!
I toil my life away!
And see my little boy--
To what estate he 's born!
Why, when I die no hoard leave I
But poverty and scorn.
And thou hast done it all--
I might have been a king
And ruled in state, but for thy hate,
Thou base, perfidious thing!
STORK
Since, cobbler, thou dost speak
Of one thou lovest well,
Hear of that king what grievous thing
This very morn befell.
Whilst round thy homely bench
Thy well-belovèd played,
In yonder hall beneath a pall
A little one was laid;
Thy well-belovèd's face
Was rosy with delight,
But 'neath that pall in yonder hall
The little face is white;
Whilst by a merry voice
Thy soul is filled with cheer,
Another weeps for one that sleeps
All mute and cold anear;
One father hath his hope,
And one is childless now:
He wears a crown and rules a town--
Only a cobbler thou!
Wouldst thou exchange thy lot
At price of such a woe?
I'll nest no more above thy door,
But, as thou bidst me, go.
COBBLER
Nay, stork! thou shalt remain--
I mean not what I said;
Good neighbors we must always be.
So make thy home o'erhead.
I would not change my bench
For any monarch's throne,
Nor sacrifice at any price
My darling and my own!
Stork! on my roof-tree bide,
That, seeing thee anear,
I 'll thankful be God sent by thee
Me and my darling here!
poem by Eugene Field
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Lamentations of Jeremiah II: Zion's Sorrows Come from the LORD
1 How hath the Lord covered the daughter of Zion with a cloud in his anger,
and cast down from heaven unto the earth the beauty of Israel,
and remembered not his footstool in the day of his anger!
2 The Lord hath swallowed up all the habitations of Jacob,
and hath not pitied:
he hath thrown down in his wrath the strongholds of the daughter of Judah;
he hath brought them down to the ground:
he hath polluted the kingdom and the princes thereof.
3 He hath cut off in his fierce anger all the horn of Israel:
he hath drawn back his right hand from before the enemy,
and he burned against Jacob like a flaming fire, which devoureth round about.
4 He hath bent his bow like an enemy:
he stood with his right hand as an adversary,
and slew all that were pleasant to the eye in the tabernacle of the daughter of Zion:
he poured out his fury like fire.
5 The Lord was as an enemy:
he hath swallowed up Israel,
he hath swallowed up all her palaces:
he hath destroyed his strongholds,
and hath increased in the daughter of Judah mourning and lamentation.
6 And he hath violently taken away his tabernacle, as if it were of a garden;
he hath destroyed his places of the assembly:
the LORD hath caused the solemn feasts and sabbaths to be forgotten in Zion,
and hath despised in the indignation of his anger the king and the priest.
7 The Lord hath cast off his altar,
he hath abhorred his sanctuary,
he hath given up into the hand of the enemy the walls of her palaces;
they have made a noise in the house of the LORD,
as in the day of a solemn feast.
8 The LORD hath purposed to destroy
the wall of the daughter of Zion:
he hath stretched out a line,
he hath not withdrawn his hand from destroying:
therefore he made the rampart and the wall to lament;
they languished together.
9 Her gates are sunk into the ground;
he hath destroyed and broken her bars:
her king and her princes are among the Gentiles:
the law is no more;
her prophets also find no vision from the LORD.
10 The elders of the daughter of Zion sit upon the ground, and keep silence:
they have cast up dust upon their heads;
they have girded themselves with sackcloth:
the virgins of Jerusalem hang down their heads to the ground.
11 Mine eyes do fail with tears,
my bowels are troubled,
my liver is poured upon the earth,
for the destruction of the daughter of my people;
because the children and the sucklings swoon in the streets of the city.
12 They say to their mothers, Where is corn and wine?
when they swooned as the wounded in the streets of the city,
when their soul was poured out into their mothers' bosom.
13 What thing shall I take to witness for thee?
What thing shall I liken to thee,
O daughter of Jerusalem?
What shall I equal to thee, that I may comfort thee,
O virgin daughter of Zion?
For thy breach is great like the sea:
who can heal thee?
14 Thy prophets have seen vain and foolish things for thee:
and they have not discovered thine iniquity, to turn away thy captivity;
but have seen for thee false burdens and causes of banishment.
15 All that pass by clap their hands at thee;
they hiss and wag their head at the daughter of Jerusalem, saying,
Is this the city that men call The perfection of beauty, The joy of the whole earth?
16 All thine enemies have opened their mouth against thee:
they hiss and gnash the teeth:
they say, We have swallowed her up:
certainly this is the day that we looked for;
we have found, we have seen it.
17 The LORD hath done that which he had devised;
he hath fulfilled his word that he had commanded in the days of old:
he hath thrown down, and hath not pitied:
and he hath caused thine enemy to rejoice over thee,
he hath set up the horn of thine adversaries.
18 Their heart cried unto the Lord,
O wall of the daughter of Zion,
let tears run down like a river day and night:
give thyself no rest;
let not the apple of thine eye cease.
19 Arise, cry out in the night:
in the beginning of the watches pour out thine heart like water before the face of the Lord:
lift up thy hands toward him for the life of thy young children,
that faint for hunger in the top of every street.
20 Behold, O LORD, and consider to whom thou hast done this.
Shall the women eat their fruit, and children of a span long?
Shall the priest and the prophet be slain in the sanctuary of the Lord?
21 The young and the old lie on the ground in the streets:
my virgins and my young men are fallen by the sword;
thou hast slain them in the day of thine anger;
thou hast killed, and not pitied.
22 Thou hast called as in a solemn day my terrors round about,
so that in the day of the LORD's anger none escaped nor remained:
those that I have swaddled and brought up hath mine enemy consumed.
poem by Prophet Jeremiah
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Bande Mataram
Mother, I bow to thee!
Rich with thy hurrying streams,
Bright with thy orchard gleams,
Cool with thy winds of delight,
Dark fields waving, Mother of might,
Mother free.
Glory of moonlight dreams
Over thy branches and lordly streams,
Clad in thy blossoming trees,
Mother, giver of ease,
Laughing low and sweet!
Mother, I kiss thy feet,
Speaker sweet and low!
Mother, to thee I bow.
Who hath said thou art weak in thy lands,
When the swords flash out in twice seventy million hands
And seventy millions voices roar
Thy dreadful name from shore to shore?
With many strengths who art mighty and stored,
To thee I call, Mother and Lord!
Thou who savest, arise and save!
To her I cry who ever her foemen drave
Back from plain and sea
And shook herself free.
Thou art wisdom, thou art law,
Thou our heart, our soul, our breath,
Thou the love divine, the awe
In our hearts that conquers death.
Thine the strength that nerves the arm,
Thine the beauty, thine the charm.
Every image made divine
In our temples is but thine.
Thou art Durga, Lady and Queen,
With her hands that strike and her swords of sheen,
Thou art Lakshmi lotus-throned,
Pure and perfect without peer,
Mother, lend thine ear.
Rich with thy hurrying streams,
Bright with thy orchard gleams,
Dark of hue, O candid-fair
In thy soul, with jewelled hair
And thy glorious smile divine,
Loveliest of all earthly lands,
Showering wealth from well-stored hands!
Mother, mother mine!
Mother sweet, I bow to thee,
Mother great and free.
poem by Sri Aurobindo
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Psalm 86
v.8-13
C. M.
A general song of praise to God.
Among the princes, earthly gods,
There's none hath power divine;
Nor is their nature, mighty Lord,
Nor are their works, like thine.
The nations thou hast made shall bring
Their off'rings round thy throne;
For thou alone dost wondrous things,
For thou art God alone.
Lord, I would walk with holy feet;
Teach me thine heav'nly ways,
And my poor scattered thoughts unite
In God my Father's praise.
Great is thy mercy, and my tongue
Shall those sweet wonders tell,
How by thy grace my sinking soul
Rose from the deeps of hell.
poem by Isaac Watts
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A Funeral Elegy on the Death of The Lady Penelope Clifton
Since thou art dead, Clifton, the world may see
A certain end of flesh and blood in thee;
Till then a way was left for man to cry,
Flesh may be made so pure it cannot die;
But now thy unexpected death doth strike
With grief the better and the worse alike;
The good are sad they are not with thee there,
The bad have found they must not tarry here.
Death, I confess, 'tis just in thee to try
Thy pow'r on us, for thou thyself must die;
Thou pay'st but wages, Death, yet I would know
What strange delight thou tak'st to pay them so;
When thou com'st face to face thou strik'st us mute
And all our liberty is to dispute
With thee behind thy back, which I will use:
If thou hadst bravery in thee, thou wouldst choose
(Since thou art absolute, and canst controul
All things beneath a reasonable soul)
Some looked for way of killing; if her day
Had ended in a fire, a sword, or sea,
Or hadst thou come hid in a hundred years
To make an end of all her hopes and fears,
Or any other way direct to thee
Which Nature might esteem an enemy,
Who would have chid thee? now it shews thy hand
Desires to cozen where it might command:
Thou art not prone to kill, but where th' intent
Of those that suffer is their nourishment;
If thou canst steal into a dish, and creep
When all is still as though into a sleep,
And cover thy dry body with a draught,
Whereby some innocent lady may be caught,
And cheated of her life, then thou wilt come
And stretch thyself upon her early tomb,
And laugh as pleased, to show thou canst devour
Mortality as well by wit as pow'r.
I would thou hadst had eyes, or not a dart,
That yet at least, the clothing of that heart
Thou struck'st so spitefully might have appear'd
To thee, and with a reverence have been fear'd:
But since thou art so blind, receive from me
Who 'twas on whom thou wrought'st this tragedy;
She was a lady, who for public fame,
Never (since she in thy protection came,
Who sett'st all living tongues at large) received
A blemish; with her beauty she deceived
No man; when taken with it, they agree
'Twas Nature's fault, when from 'em 'twas in thee.
And such her virtue was, that although she
Received as much joy, having pass'd through thee,
As ever any did; yet hath thy hate
Made her as little better in her state,
As ever it did any being here;
She lived with us as if she had been there.
Such ladies thou canst kill no more, but so
I give thee warning here to kill no moe;
For if thou dost, my pen shall make the rest
Of those that live, especially the best,
Whom thou most thirstest for, to abandon all
Those fruitless things, which thou wouldst have us call
Preservatives, keeping, their diet so,
As the long-living poor their neighbours do:
Then shall we have them long, and they at last
Shall pass from thee to her, but not so fast.
poem by Francis Beaumont
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Holy Sonnet XV: Wilt Thou Love God
Wilt thou love God, as he thee? then digest,
My Soul, this wholesome meditation,
How God the Spirit, by Angels waited on
In heaven, doth make his Temple in thy breast.
The Father having begot a Son most blest,
And still begetting, (for he ne'r begone)
Hath deigned to choose thee by adoption,
Co heir to his glory, and Sabbaths endless rest;
And as a robbed man, which by search doth find
His stol'n stuff sold, must lose or buy it again;
The Son of glory came down, and was slain,
Us whom he had made, and Satan stolne, to unbind.
'Twas much, that man was made like God before,
But, that God should be made like man, much more.
poem by John Donne
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Holy Sonnet XV: Wilt Thou Love God, As He Thee? Then Digest
Wilt thou love God, as he thee? Then digest,
My soul, this wholesome meditation,
How God the Spirit, by angels waited on
In heaven, doth make his Temple in thy breast.
The Father having begot a Son most blest,
And still begetting, (for he ne'er be gone)
Hath deigned to choose thee by adoption,
Co-heir t' his glory, and Sabbath' endless rest.
And as a robbed man, which by search doth find
His stol'n stuff sold, must lose or buy 't again:
The Son of glory came down, and was slain,
Us whom he'd made, and Satan stol'n, to unbind.
'Twas much that man was made like God before,
But, that God should be made like man, much more.
poem by John Donne
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A Sketch
'Emelie, that fayrer was to seene
Than is the lilye on hys stalke grene.....
Uprose the sun and uprose Emelie.'
DOST thou thus love me, O thou beautiful?
So beautiful, that by thy side I seem
Like a great ducky cloud beside a star:
Yet thou creep'st o'er its edges, and it rests
On its lone path, the slow deep-hearted cloud--
Then opes a rift and lets thee enter in;
And with thy beauty shining on its breast,
Feels no more its own blackness--thou art fair.
Dost thou thus love me, O thou all beloved,
In whose large store the very meanest coin
Would out-buy my whole wealth? Yet here thou comest
Like a kind heiress from her purple and down
Uprising, who for pity cannot sleep,
But goes forth to the stranger at her gate--
The beggared stranger at her beauteous gate--
And clothes and feeds; scarce blest till she has blest.
Dost thou thus love me, O thou pure of heart,
Whose very looks are prayers? What couldst thou see
In this forsaken pool by the yew-wood's side,
To sit down at its bank, and dip thy hand,
Saying, 'it is so clear!'--And lo, erelong
Its blackness caught the shimmer of they wings,
Its slimes slid downward from thy stainless palm,
Its depths grew still that there thy form might rise.
O beautiful! O well-beloved! O rich
In all that makes my need! I lay me down
I' the shadow of thy love, and feel no pain.
The cloud floats on, thee glittering on its breast,
The beggar wears thy purple as his own:
The noisome waves, made calm, creep to thy feet
Rejoicing that they yet can image thee,
And beyond thee, God's heaven, thick-sown with stars.
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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Said The Thistle-Down
'If thou wilt hold my silver hair,
O Lady sweet and bright;
I'll bring thee, maiden darling, where
Thy lover is to-night.
Lay down thy robe of cloth of gold--
Gold, weigheth heavily,
Thy necklace wound in jewell'd fold,
And hie thee forth with me.'
'O Thistle-down, dear Thistle-down,
I've laid my robe aside;
My necklace and my jewell'd crown,
And yet I cannot glide
Along the silver crests of night
With thee, light thing, with thee.
Rain would I try the airy flight,
What sayest thou to me?'
'If thou wilt hold my silver hair,
O maiden fair and proud;
We'll float upon the purple air
High as yon lilied cloud.
There is a jewel weighs thy heart;
If thou with me wouldst glide
That cold, cold jewel place apart--
The jewel of thy pride!'
'O Thistle-down, dear Thistle-down
That jewel part I've set;
With golden robe and shining crown
And cannot follow yet!
Fain would I clasp thy silver tress
And float on high with thee;
Yet somewhat me to earth doth press--
What sayest thou to me?
'If thou wilt hold my silver hair
O lady, sweet and chaste;
We'll dance upon the sparkling air
And to thy lover haste.
A lily lies upon thy breast
Snow-white as it can be--
It holds thee strong--sweet, with the rest
Yield lilied chastity.'
'O Thistle-down, false Thistle-down
I've parted Pride and Gold;
Laid past my jewels and my crown--
My golden robings' fold.
I will not lay my lily past--
Love's light as vanity
When to the mocking wind is cast
The lily, Chastity.'
poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
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