3 Trees, flowers, and herbs; birds, beasts, and stones, That since man fell expect with groans Lift up your heads and leave your moans; Whose death will be Man's life, and your full liberty. 4 Hark! how the children shrill and high Their joys provoke the distant sky, Such young, sweet mirth Join in a joyful symphony. 5 The harmless, young, and happy ass, 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, To gather flowers to welcome thee. 1 Zechariah ix, 9. 8 Then, like the palm, though wronged I'll bear, I will be still a child, still meek And only my dear Jesus seek. 9 If I lose all, and must endure I care not, so I may secure But one green branch and a white robe. 1 PROVIDENCE. Sacred and secret hand! By whose assisting, swift command Which freed poor Hagar from her fears, 2 How, in a mystic cloud, 3 4 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 my tribute pay, 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. 5 6 7 8 Bags that wax old may plundered be; A state that with the sun doth set, Poor birds this doctrine sing, Do know thy dewy morning hours, And watch all night for mists or showers, Then drink and praise thy bounteousness. 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! If all my portion here, The measure given by thee each year, Usurped; it never should me grieve, Who know how well thou canst relieve, Whose hands are open as thine eyes. 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. ST MARY MAGDALENE. Dear, beauteous saint! more white than day, Fresher than morning-flowers, which shew, Spilt, and the box quite broke and marred? 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 Thou sadly didst to him present, Called forth thy tears, which ran in live 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, Her art! whose pensive, weeping eyes, Self-boasting Pharisee! how blind Who wert all false, shouldst true grief know. |