This past, I threw the clothes quite o’er his head;
      And, stung with fear
  Of my own frailty, dropped down many a tear
      Upon his bed;
  Then sighing, whispered, Happy are the dead! 
      What peace doth now
    Rock him asleep below!

  And yet, how few believe such doctrine springs
      From a poor root
  Which all the winter sleeps here under foot,
      And hath no wings
  To raise it to the truth and light of things,
      But is still trod
    By every wandering clod!

  O thou, whose spirit did at first inflame
      And warm the dead! 
  And by a sacred incubation fed
      With life this frame,
  Which once had neither being, form, nor name! 
      Grant I may so
    Thy steps track here below,

  That in these masks and shadows I may see
      Thy sacred way;
  And by those hid ascents climb to that day
      Which breaks from thee,
  Who art in all things, though invisibly: 
      Show me thy peace,
    Thy mercy, love, and ease.

  And from this care, where dreams and sorrows reign,
      Lead me above,
  Where light, joy, leisure, and true comforts move
      Without all pain: 
  There, hid in thee, show me his life again
      At whose dumb urn
    Thus all the year I mourn.

There are several amongst his poems lamenting, like this, the death of some dear friend—­perhaps his twin-brother, whom he outlived thirty years.

According to what a man is capable of seeing in nature, he becomes either a man of appliance, a man of science, a mystic, or a poet.

I must now give two that are simple in thought, construction, and music.  The latter ought to be popular, from the nature of its rhythmic movement, and the holy merriment it carries.  But in the former, note how the major key of gladness changes in the third stanza to the minor key of aspiration, which has always some sadness in it; a sadness which deepens to grief in the next stanza at the consciousness of unfitness for Christ’s company, but is lifted by hope almost again to gladness in the last.

  CHRIST’S NATIVITY.

  Awake, glad heart!  Get up, and sing! 
  It is the birthday of thy king! 
      Awake! awake! 
      The sun doth shake
  Light from his locks, and, all the way
  Breathing perfumes, doth spice the day.

  Awake! awake!  Hark how the wood rings
  Winds whisper, and the busy springs
      A concert make: 
      Awake! awake! 
  Man is their high-priest, and should rise
  To offer up the sacrifice.

  I would I were some bird or star,
  Fluttering in woods, or lifted far
      Above this inn
      And road of sin! 
  Then either star or bird should be
  Shining or singing still to thee.

  I would I had in my best part
  Fit rooms for thee! or that my heart
      Were so clean as
      Thy manger was! 
  But I am all filth, and obscene;
  Yet, if thou wilt, thou canst make clean.