Tell wit how much it wrangles, And as they yield reply, Tell physic of her boldness, Tell law it is contention : And if they do reply, Straight give them both the lie. Tell fortune of her blindness, Tell nature of decay, Tell friendship of unkindness, Tell justice of delay: And if they dare reply, Then give them all the lie. Tell arts they have no soundness, But vary by esteeming ; Tell schools they want profoundness, And stand too much on seeming : Give arts and schools the lie. Tell faith it's fled the city, Tell how the country erreth ; And if they dare reply, So, when thou hast, as I Commanded thee, done blabbing, Although to give the lie Deserves no less than stabbing, Yet, stab at thee who will, No stab the soul can kill. SIR WALTER RALEIGH. THE QUIET MIND. HEN all is done and said, In th' end this shall you find, He most of all doth bathe in bliss, That hath a quiet mind. And, clear from worldly cares, To deem can be content, In thinking to be spent. The body subject is To fickle fortune's power ; And to a million of mishaps Is casual every hour. And death in time doth change It to a clod of clay; Whereas the mind, which is divine, Companion none is like Unto the mind alone; For many have been harm'd by speech,- Fear oftentimes restraineth words, Wherefore, for virtue's sake, I can be well content, BENEATH A SABLE VEIL. SONNET. ENEATH a sable veil, and shadows deep, Of inaccessible and dimming light, In silence' ebon clouds, more black than night, The world's great Mind His secrets hid doth keep. Through those thick mists, when any mortal wight Aspires, with halting pace, and eyes that weep, To pry, and in His mysteries to creep, With thunders He and lightnings blasts their sight. O Sun invisible, that dost abide Within Thy bright abyss, most fair, most dark, Where with Thy proper rays Thou dost Thee hide! O ever shining, never full-seen mark, To guide me in life's night, Thy light O show! WM. DRUMMOND. THRICE HAPPY HE. SONNET. HRICE happy he, who, by some shady grove, Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own; Though solitary, who is not alone, But doth converse with that Eternal Love. Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve! Oh, how more sweet is zephyr's wholesome breath And sighs embalm'd, which new-born flowers unfold, Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath! How sweet are streams to poison drank in gold! The world is full of horrors, troubles, slights, Wood's harmless shades have only true delights. WM. DRUMMOND. |