111. TO HEAVEN.

Open thy gates To him, who weeping waits, And might come in, But that held back by sin.

Let mercy be So kind to set me free, And I will straight Come in, or force the gate.

112. THE RECOMPENSE.

All I have lost that could be rapt from me; And fare it well: yet, Herrick, if so be Thy dearest Saviour renders thee but one Smile, that one smile's full rest.i.tution.

113. TO G.o.d.

Pardon me, G.o.d, once more I Thee entreat, That I have placed Thee in so mean a seat Where round about Thou seest but all things vain, Uncirc.u.mcis'd, unseason'd and profane.

But as Heaven's public and immortal eye Looks on the filth, but is not soil'd thereby, So Thou, my G.o.d, may'st on this impure look, But take no tincture from my sinful book: Let but one beam of glory on it shine, And that will make me and my work divine.

114. TO G.o.d.

Lord, I am like to mistletoe, Which has no root, and cannot grow Or prosper but by that same tree It clings about; so I by Thee.

What need I then to fear at all, So long as I about Thee crawl?

But if that tree should fall and die, Tumble shall heav'n, and down will I.

115. HIS WISH TO G.o.d.

I would to G.o.d that mine old age might have Before my last, but here a living grave, Some one poor almshouse; there to lie, or stir Ghostlike, as in my meaner sepulchre; A little piggin and a pipkin by, To hold things fitting my necessity, Which rightly used, both in their time and place, Might me excite to fore and after-grace.

Thy Cross, my Christ, fix'd 'fore mine eyes should be, Not to adore that, but to worship Thee.

So, here the remnant of my days I'd spend, Reading Thy Bible, and my Book; so end.

_Piggin_, a small wooden vessel.

116. SATAN.

When we 'gainst Satan stoutly fight, the more He tears and tugs us than he did before; Neglecting once to cast a frown on those Whom ease makes his without the help of blows.

117. h.e.l.l.

h.e.l.l is no other but a soundless pit, Where no one beam of comfort peeps in it.

118. THE WAY.

When I a ship see on the seas, Cuff'd with those wat'ry savages, And therewithal behold it hath In all that way no beaten path, Then, with a wonder, I confess Thou art our way i' th' wilderness; And while we blunder in the dark, Thou art our candle there, or spark.

119. GREAT GRIEF, GREAT GLORY.

The less our sorrows here and suff'rings cease, The more our crowns of glory there increase.

120. h.e.l.l.

h.e.l.l is the place where whipping-cheer abounds, But no one jailer there to wash the wounds.

121. THE BELLMAN.

Along the dark and silent night, With my lantern and my light, And the tinkling of my bell, Thus I walk, and this I tell: Death and dreadfulness call on To the gen'ral session, To whose dismal bar we there All accounts must come to clear.

Scores of sins w'ave made here many, Wip'd out few, G.o.d knows, if any.

Rise, ye debtors, then, and fall To make payment while I call.

Ponder this, when I am gone; By the clock 'tis almost one.

122. THE GOODNESS OF HIS G.o.d.

When winds and seas do rage And threaten to undo me, Thou dost, their wrath a.s.suage If I but call unto Thee.

A mighty storm last night Did seek my soul to swallow, But by the peep of light A gentle calm did follow.

What need I then despair, Though ills stand round about me; Since mischiefs neither dare To bark or bite without Thee?

123. THE WIDOWS' TEARS: OR, DIRGE OF DORCAS.

Come pity us, all ye who see Our harps hung on the willow tree: Come pity us, ye pa.s.sers-by Who see or hear poor widows cry: Come pity us; and bring your ears And eyes to pity widows' tears.

_Chor._ And when you are come hither Then we will keep A fast, and weep Our eyes out altogether.

For Tabitha, who dead lies here, Clean washed, and laid out for the bier, O modest matrons, weep and wail!

For now the corn and wine must fail: The basket and the bin of bread, Wherewith so many souls were fed, _Chor._ Stand empty here for ever: And ah! the poor At thy worn door Shall be relieved never.

Woe worth the time, woe worth the day That 'reaved us of thee, Tabitha!

For we have lost with thee the meal, The bits, the morsels, and the deal Of gentle paste and yielding dough That thou on widows did'st bestow.

_Chor._ All's gone, and death hath taken Away from us Our maundy; thus Thy widows stand forsaken.

Ah, Dorcas, Dorcas! now adieu We bid the cruse and pannier too: Ay, and the flesh, for and the fish Doled to us in that lordly dish.

We take our leaves now of the loom From whence the housewives' cloth did come: _Chor._ The web affords now nothing; Thou being dead, The worsted thread Is cut, that made us clothing.

Farewell the flax and reaming wool With which thy house was plentiful; Farewell the coats, the garments, and The sheets, the rugs, made by thy hand; Farewell thy fire and thy light That ne'er went out by day or night: _Chor._ No, or thy zeal so speedy, That found a way By peep of day, To feed and cloth the needy.

But, ah, alas! the almond bough And olive branch is withered now.

The wine press now is ta'en from us, The saffron and the calamus.

The spice and spikenard hence is gone, The storax and the cinnamon.

_Chor._ The carol of our gladness Has taken wing, And our late spring Of mirth is turned to sadness.

How wise wast thou in all thy ways!