LORD! I confess too, when I dine,
The Pulse is Thine!

And all those other bits, that be
There placed by Thee,

The Worts, the Purslain, and the mess
Of Watercress;

Which, of Thy kindness, Thou hast sent!
And my content

Makes those, and my beloved Beet,

To be more sweet!

'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth;

And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink,
Spiced to the brink!

LORD! 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand
That soils my land;

And giv'st me, for my bushel sown,
Twice ten for one!

Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay
Her egg each day!

Besides my healthful ewes to bear
Me twins each year!

The while, the conduits of my kine
Run cream, for wine!

All these, and better, Thou dost send
Me to this end,

That I should render, for my part,

A thankful heart!

Which, fired with incense, I resign
As wholly Thine!

But the acceptance; that must be,
My CHRIST, by Thee!

TO DAISIES: NOT TO SHUT TOO SOON!
SHUT not so soon! The dull-eyed night
Has not, as yet, begun
To make a seizure on the light;
Or to seal up the sun!

No Marigolds yet closed are;
No shadows great appear;
Nor doth the early Shepherd's Star
Shine like a spangle here!

Stay but till my JULIA close

Her life-begetting eye!

And let the whole world then dispose
Itself to live, or die!

'CHERRY RIPE!'

'CHERRY ripe! ripe! ripe!' I cry,
'Full and fair ones! Come and buy!'
If so be, you ask me, 'Where
They do grow?' I answer, 'There,
Where my JULIA's lips do smile!
There's the land, or Cherry Isle;
Whose Plantations fully show,
All the year, where cherries grow!'

UPON TIME.

TIME was upon
The wing, to fly away;
And I called on

Him, but a while to stay:
But he'd be gone,
For aught that I could say.

He held out then

A Writing, as he went;

And asked me, 'When

False Man would be content
To pay again,

What GOD and Nature lent?'

O, YEARS! and Age! farewell ! Behold, I go

Where I do know

Infinity to dwell!

And these mine eyes shall see
All times; how they

Are lost i' th' sea

Of vast Eternity!

Where never Moon shall sway

The stars; but she,

And Night, shall be Drowned in one endless Day!

HIS POETRY'S PILLAR.

ONLY a little more

I have to write; Then I'll give o'er

And bid the World Good night!'

'Tis but a flying minute

That I must stay,

Or linger in it;

And then I must away!

O, Time! that cutt'st down all!

And scarce leav'st here

Memorial

Of any men that were;

How many lie forgot

In vaults beneath!

And piecemeal rot,

Without a fame in death!

Behold, this Living Stone
I rear for me!

Ne'er to be thrown

Down, envious Time, by thee!

Fars, let some set up!
If so they please;

He is my hope

And my pyramides!