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3 Trees, flowers, and herbs; birds, beasts, and
That since man fell expect with groans
To see the Lamb, come all at once,
Lift up your heads and leave your moans;
For here comes he.
Whose death will be Man's life, and your full liberty.
4 Hark! how the children shrill and high
• Hosanna' cry;
Their joys provoke the distant sky,
Where thrones and seraphim reply;
And their own angels shine and sing,
In a bright ring:
Such young, sweet mirth
Makes heaven and earth
Join in a joyful symphony.
5 The harmless, young, and happy ass,
(Seen long before this came to pass,) Is in these joys a high partaker, Ordained and made to bear his Maker.
6 Dear Feast of Palms, of flowers and dew!
Whose fruitful dawn sheds hopes and lights; Thy bright solemnities did shew
The third glad day through two sad nights.
7 I'll get me up before the sun,
I'll cut me boughs off many a tree, And all alone full early run
To gather flowers to welcome thee.
8 Then, like the palm, though wronged I'll bear,
I will be still a child, still meek
As the poor ass which the proud jeer,
And only my dear Jesus seek.
9 If I lose all, and must endure
The proverbed griefs of holy Job, I care not, so I may secure
But one green branch and a white robe.
Sacred and secret hand !
By whose assisting, swift command
The angel showed that holy well
Which freed poor Hagar from her fears,
And turned to smiles the begging tears Of young,
How, in a mystic cloud, Which doth thy strange, sure mercies shroud, Dost thou convey man food and money,
Unseen by him till they arrive
Just at his mouth, that thankless hive, Which kills thy bees, and eats thy honey!
If I thy servant be,
Whose service makes even captives free,
A fish shall all
The swift-winged raven shall bring me meat,
And I, like flowers, shall still go neat, As if I knew no month but May.
I will not fear what man With all his plots and power can.
Bags that wax old may plundered be;
But none can sequester or let
A state that with the sun doth set, And comes next morning fresh as he.
Poor birds this doctrine sing,
And herbs which on dry hills do spring,
Or in the howling wilderness
Do know thy dewy morning hours,
And watch all night for mists or showers, Then drink and praise thy bounteousness.
6 May he for ever die
Who trusts not thee, but wretchedly Hunts gold and wealth, and will not lend
Thy service nor his soul one day!
May his crown, like his hopes, be clay; And what he saves may his foes spend !
7 If all my portion here,
The measure given by thee each
year, Were by my causeless enemies
Usurped; it never should me grieve,
Who know how well thou canst relieve, Whose hands are open as thine eyes. .
8 Great King of love and truth!
Who wouldst not hate my froward youth, And wilt not leave me when grown old,
Gladly will I, like Pontic sheep,
Unto my wormwood diet keep,
Since thou hast made thy arm my fold.
Dear, beauteous saint! more white than day,
When in his naked, pure array;
Fresher than morning-flowers, which shew,
As thou in tears dost, best in dew.
How art thou changed, how lively, fair,
Pleasing, and innocent an air,
Not tutored by thy glass, but free,
Native, and pure, shines now in thee!
But since thy beauty doth still keep
Bloomy and fresh, why dost thou weep?.
This dusky state of sighs and tears
Durst not look on those smiling years,
When Magdal-castle was thy seat,
Where all was sumptuous, rare, and neat.
Why lies this hair despised now
Which once thy care and art did show?
Who then did dress the much-loved toy
In spires, globes, angry curls and coy,
Which with skilled negligence seemed shed
About thy curious, wild, young head?
Why is this rich, this pistic nard
Spilt, and the box quite broke and marred?
What pretty sullenness did haste
Thy easy hands to do this waste?
Why art thou humbled thus, and low
As earth thy lovely head dost bow?
Dear soul! thou knew'st flowers here on earth
At their Lord's footstool have their birth;
Therefore thy withered self in haste
Beneath his blest feet thou didst cast,
That at the root of this green tree
Thy great decays restored might be.
Thy curious vanities, and rare
Odorous ointments kept with care,
And dearly bought, when thou didst see
They could not cure nor comfort thee;
Like a wise, early penitent,
Thou sadly didst to him present,
Whose interceding, meek, and calm
Blood, is the world's all-healing balm.
This, this divine restorative
Called forth thy tears, which ran in live
And hasty drops, as if they had
(Their Lord so near) sense to be glad.
Learn, ladies, here the faithful cure
Makes beauty lasting, fresh, and pure;
Learn Mary's art of tears, and then
Say you have got the day from men.
Cheap, mighty art! her art of love,
Who loved much, and much more could move;
Her art! whose memory must last
Till truth through all the world be passed;
Till his abused, despised flame
Return to heaven, from whence it came,
And send a fire down, that shall bring
Destruction on his ruddy wing.
Her art! whose pensive, weeping eyes,
Were once sin's loose and tempting spies;
But now are fixed stars, whose light
Helps such dark stragglers to their sight.
Self-boasting Pharisee ! how blind
A judge wert thou, and how unkind !
It was impossible that thou,
Who wert all false, shouldst true grief know.
Is 't just to judge her faithful tears