Narrow and low, and infinitely less Than this great morning's mighty business. Alas! will never do, We must have store; Go, soul, out of thyself and seek for more; Great nature for the key of her huge chest ; Of nimble art, and traverse round The airy shop of self-appeasing sound, And beat a summons in the same All sovereign Name, To warn each several kind, And shape of sweetness-be they such Or answer artful touch, That they convene and come away, To wait at the love-crowned doors of that illustrious day. And every sweet-lipped thing To obey my bolder touch; I have authority in love's name to take you, And to the work of love this morning wake you. Wake! in the name Of Him who never sleeps, all things that are, Or, what's the same, Are musical; Answer my call, And come along; Help me to meditate mine immortal song. Come, ye soft ministers of sweet sad mirth! Bring all your household stuff of heaven on earth. Oh you my soul's most certain wings, Complaining pipes, and prattling strings, Bring all the store Of sweets you have, and murmur that you have no more. Come, ne'er to part, Nature and art; Come, and come strong To the conspiracy of our spacious song. Bring all the powers of praise Your provinces of well-united worlds can raise; Bring all your lutes and harps of heaven and earth, Vessels of vocal joys, Or you, more noble architects of intellectual noise, Solicitors of souls or ears. And when you are come with all That you can bring or we may call, Oh! may you fix For ever here, and mix Yourselves into the long And everlasting series of a deathless song. Powers of my soul, be proud, And speak aloud To all the dear-bought nations this redeeming Name, And in the wealth of one rich word proclaim New similes to nature. May it be no wrong, Blest heavens, to you and your superior song, That we dark sons of dust and sorrow Awhile dare borrow The name of your delights and our desires, And fit it to so far inferior lyres. Our murmurs have their music too, Ye mighty orbs, as well as you ; Nor yields the noblest nest Of warbling seraphim to the ears of love A choicer lesson than the joyful breast Of a poor panting turtle-dove. And we low worms have leave to do The same bright business, ye third heavens! with you. Gentle spirits, do not complain, We will have care To keep it fair, And send it back to you again. Come, lovely Name! appear from forth the bright Regions of peaceful light; Look from thine own illustrious home, Fair King of names, and come: Leave all thy native glories in their gorgeous nest, And give Thyself awhile the gracious guest Of humble souls that seek to find The hidden sweets Which man's heart meets When Thou art master of the mind. Come, lovely Name! life of our hope! Lo, we hold our hearts wide ope! Unlock thy cabinet of day, Dearest sweet, and come away. Lo, how the thirsty lands Gasp for thy golden showers with long-stretched hands! Lo, how the labouring earth That hopes to be All heaven by Thee, Leaps at thy birth! The attending world to wait thy rise, First turned to eyes; And then, not knowing what to do, Turned them to tears, and spent them too. Come, royal Name! and pay the expense Of all thy precious patience: Oh! come away, And kill the death of this delay. Oh! see so many worlds of barren years To catch the day-break of thy dawn. Oh! they are wise, And know what sweets are sucked from out it. By which they thrive, Where all their hoard of honey lies. Lo, where it comes upon the snowy dove's The birth of our bright joys. O thou compacted Body of blessings! spirit of souls extracted! Oh! dissipate thy spicy powers, Cloud of condensed sweets! and break upon us In balmy showers! Oh! fill our senses and take from us All force of so profane a fallacy, To think aught sweet but that which smells of Thee. Fair flowery Name! in none but Thee And thy nectareal fragrancy, Hourly there meets An universal synod of all sweets; By whom it is defined thus That no perfume For ever shall presume To pass for odoriferous, But such alone whose sacred pedigree Can prove itself some kin, sweet Name! to Thee. A thousand blest Arabias dwell! A thousand hills of frankincense, And ten thousand paradises, The soul that tastes thee takes from hence. How many unknown worlds there are Of comforts which thou hast in keeping! How many thousand mercies there In pity's soft lap lie a sleeping! Happy is he who has the art To awake them, And to take them, House and lodge them in his heart. PATRICK CAREY. BUT little is known of Carey, except that he was a churchman and a loyalist. His poems, some of which possess great merit, were first printed by Sir Walter Scott, from a MS. dated 1651. CHRIST IN THE CRADLE, IN THE GARDEN, AND IN HIS PASSION. Look, how He shakes for cold! How pale his lips are grown! Wherein his limbs to fold, Yet mantle has He none, His pretty feet and hands (Of late more pure and white Than is the snow That pains them so,) Have lost their candour1 quite. 1 Whiteness. |