Thy root is ever in its grave ;— And thou must die : Sweet Spring! full of sweet days and roses; Only a sweet and virtuous soul, LIFE. I MADE a posy, while the day ran by : But Time did beckon to the flowers, and they My hand was next to them, and then my heart. Farewell, dear flow'rs! sweetly your time ye spent ; Fit, while ye liv'd, for smell or ornament; And, after death, for cures. I follow straight, without complaints or grief; SUNDAY. O DAY most calm, most bright! The fruit of this, the next world's bud; Th' indorsement of supreme delight, Writ by a friend, and with his blood; The couch of time; care's balm and bay :The week were dark but for thy light; Thy torch doth shew the way. The other days and thou Make up one man; whose face thou art, Sundays the pillars are On which heav'n's palace arched lies: Which parts their ranks and orders This day my Saviour rose, And did enclose this light for his; Who want herbs for their wound. Thou art a day of mirth : And, where the week-days trail on ground, THE QUIP. THE merry World did, on a day, First, Beauty crept into a rose ; Which when I pluckt not, Sir,' said she, 'Tell me, I pray, whose hands are those ?' -But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me. Then Money came; and, chinking still, 'What tune is this, poor man?' said he : 'I heard in music you had skill.' -But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me. Then came brave Glory puffing by, Then came quick Wit and Conversation; Yet, when the hour of thy design MARY MAGDALEN. WHEN blessed Mary wip'd her Saviour's feet, With pensive humbleness, would live and tread: She being stain'd herself, why did she strive And not his feet? Though we could dive Dear soul, she knew who did vouchsafe and deign GEORGE SANDYS. BORN 1577-DIED 1643. GEORGE SANDYS, youngest son of the Archbishop of York, was born at Bishopthorp, 1577. He was in all points an accomplished man, and was one of the gentlemen of the privy chamber to Charles the First. He wrote many paraphrases of the Psalms, and of other poetical portions of Scripture in Job, Lamentations of Jeremiah, and Ecclesiastes. The specimen given below has a general resemblance to Addison's well-known hymn in the Spectator, said to be written by a gentleman upon the conclusion of his travels-the same hymn that Burns mentions as having struck his boyish fancy: For though in dreadful whirls we hung, High on the broken wave; I knew thou wert not slow to hear, .EXTRACT FROM AN ADDRESS MAX." 66 DEO OPT. OH! who hath tasted of thy clemency |