ROBERT HERRICK.

* * * * *

PEACE.

  Sweet Peace, where dost thou dwell?  I humbly crave. 
       Let me once know. 
    I sought thee in a secret cave;
       And asked if Peace were there. 
  A hollow wind did seem to answer, “No! 
       Go, seek elsewhere.”

  I did; and, going, did a rainbow note: 
       “Surely,” thought I,
    “This is the lace of Peace’s coat. 
       I will search out the matter.” 
  But, while I looked, the clouds immediately
       Did break and scatter.

  Then went I to a garden, and did spy
       A gallant flower,—­
  The crown-imperial.  “Sure,” said I,
       “Peace at the root must dwell.” 
  But, when I digged, I saw a worm devour
       What showed so well.

  At length I met a reverend, good old man;
       Whom when for Peace
    I did demand, he thus began: 
       “There was a prince of old
  At Salem dwelt, who lived with good increase
       Of flock and fold.

  “He sweetly lived; yet sweetness did not save
       His life from foes. 
    But, after death, out of his grave
       There sprang twelve stalks of wheat;
  Which many wondering at, got some of those
       To plant and set.

  “It prospered strangely, and did soon disperse
       Through all the earth. 
    For they that taste it do rehearse,
       That virtue lies therein,—­
  A secret virtue, bringing peace and mirth,
       By flight of sin.

  “Take of this grain, which in my garden grows,
       And grows for you: 
    Make bread of it; and that repose
       And peace which everywhere
  With so much earnestness you do pursue,
       Is only there.”

GEORGE HERBERT.

* * * * *

PEACE.

    Is this the peace of God, this strange sweet calm? 
  The weary day is at its zenith still,
    Yet ’t is as if beside some cool, clear rill,
  Through shadowy stillness rose an evening psalm. 
  And all the noise of life were hushed away,
  And tranquil gladness reigned with gently soothing sway.

    It was not so just now.  I turned aside
  With aching head, and heart most sorely bowed;
  Around me cares and griefs in crushing crowd. 
    While inly rose the sense, in swelling tide,
  Of weakness, insufficiency, and sin,
  And fear, and gloom, and doubt in mighty flood rolled in.

    That rushing flood I had no power to meet,
  Nor power to flee:  my present, future, past,
  Myself, my sorrow, and my sin I cast
    In utter helplessness at Jesu’s feet: 
  Then bent me to the storm, if such his will. 
  He saw the winds and waves, and whispered. 
       “Peace, be still!”