_—­Sir H. Wotton_

A THANKSGIVING TO GOD, FOR HIS HOUSE

Lord, thou hast given me a cell,
  Wherein to dwell;
A little house, whose humble roof
  Is weather-proof;
Under the spars of which I lie
  Both soft and dry;
Where thou, my chamber for to ward,
  Hast set a guard
Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep
  Me, while I sleep. 
Low is my porch, as is my fate: 
  Both void of state;
And yet the threshold of my door
  Is worn by th’ poor,
Who thither come, and freely get
  Good words, or meat. 
Like as my parlor, so my hall
   And kitchen’s small;
A little buttery, and therein
   A little bin,
Which keeps my little loaf of bread
   Unchipt, unflead;
Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar
   Make me a fire,
Close by whose living coal I sit,
   And glow like it. 
Lord, I confess too, when I dine,
   The pulse is thine,
And all those other bits that be
   There placed by thee;
The worts, the purslain, and the mess
   Of water-cress,
Which of thy kindness thou hast sent;
   And my content
Makes those, and my beloved beet,
   To be more sweet. 
’Tis thou that crown’st my glittering hearth
   With guiltless mirth,
And giv’st me wassail-bowls to drink,
   Spiced to the brink. 
Lord, ’tis thy plenty-dropping hand
   That soils my land,
And giv’st me, for my bushel sown,
   Twice ten for one;
Thou mak’st my teeming hen to lay
  Her egg each day;
Besides my healthful ewes to bear
  Me twins each year;
The while the conduits of my kine
  Run cream, for wine: 
All these, and better, thou dost send
  Me—­to this end,
That I should render, for my part,
  A thankful heart.

_—­R.  Herrick_

FRIENDS DEPARTED

They are all gone into the world of light! 
  And I alone sit lingering here! 
Their very memory is fair and bright,
  And my sad thoughts doth clear.

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast
  Like stars upon some gloomy grove,
Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest
  After the Sun’s remove.

I see them walking in an air of glory,
  Whose light doth trample on my days;
My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,
  Mere glimmerings and decays.

O holy hope! and high humility! 
  High as the Heavens above! 
These are your walks, and you have show’d them me,
  To kindle my cold love.

Dear, beauteous Death; the jewel of the just! 
  Shining nowhere but in the dark;
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,
  Could man outlook that mark!

He that hath found some fledged birdes nest may know
  At first sight if the bird be flown;
But what fair dell or grove he sings in now,
  That is to him unknown.