BUSINESS.

CANST be idle, canst thou play

Foolish soul, who sinned to-day?
Rivers run, and springs each one
Know their home, and get them gone:
Hast thou tears, or hast thou none?

If, poor soul, thou hast no tears,
Would'st thou had no fault or fears!
Who hath those, those ills forbears!

Winds still work, it is their plot,
Be the season cold or hot:

Hast thou sighs, or hast thou not?

If thou hast no sighs or groans,

Would thou hadst no flesh and bones:

Lesser pains 'scape greater ones.

But if yet thou idle be,

Foolish soul, who died for thee?
Who did leave his Father's throne,
To assume thy flesh and bone?
Had He life, or had He none?

If He had not lived for thee
Thou hadst died most wretchedly;
And two deaths had been thy fee.

He so far thy good did plot,
That his own self He forgot-
Did He die, or did He not?

If He had not died for thee
Thou hadst lived in misery-
Two lives worse than two deaths be.

And hath any space of breath

"Twixt his sins and Saviour's death?
He that loseth gold, though dross,
Tells to all he meets, his cross-
He that hath sins, hath he no loss?

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He that finds a silver vein

Thinks on it, and thinks again—
Brings thy Saviour's death no gain?
Who in heart not ever kneels,

Neither sin nor Saviour feels.

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.

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"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 wond'ring 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 virtues lie 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 every where

With so much earnestness you do pursue,
Is only there."

MORTIFICATION.

How soon doth man decay!

When clothes are taken from a chest of sweets
To swaddle infants, whose young breath
Scarce knows the way:

They are like little winding-sheets,

Which do consign and send them unto death.

When boys go first to bed,

They step into their voluntary graves;

Sleep binds them fast; only their breath

Makes them not dead:

Successive nights, like rolling waves,

Convey them quickly, who are bound for death.

When youth is frank and free,

And calls for music, while his veins do swell,

All day exchanging mirth and breath

In company;

That music summons to the knell,

Which shall befriend him at the house of death.

When man grows staid and wise,

Getting a house and home, where he may move
Within the circle of his breath,
Schooling his eyes;

That dumb inclosure maketh love

Unto the coffin that attends his death.

When age grows low and weak,

Marking his grave, and thawing every year,
Till all do melt and drown his breath

When he would speak;

A chair or litter shows the bier

Which shall convey him to the house of death.

Man, ere he is aware,

Hath put together a solemnity,

And dressed his hearse while he hath breath

As yet to spare;

Yet, Lord, instruct us so to die,

That all these dyings may be life in death.

THOMAS RANDOLPH.

THIS poet was the adopted son of Jonson. At an early age his genius and acquirements held forth promises of literary eminence, which were, however, unhappily frustrated by a premature death. In his remains we find traces of true poetic taste, and a fine fancy. He was born in 1605, and died in 1634.

AN ECLOGUE.

(OCCASIONED BY TWO DOCTORS DISPUTING UPON
PREDESTINATION.)

CORYDON

Ho! jolly Thyrsis, whither in such haste?

Is't for a wager that you run so fast?
Or, past your hour, below yon hawthorn-tree
Does longing Galatea look for thee?

THYRSIS.

No, Corydon, I heard young Daphnis say,
Alexis challenged Tityrus to-day,

Who best shall sing of shepherd's art and praise:
But hark! I hear them; listen to their lays.

TITYRUS.

Alexis, read; what means this mystic thing?
An ewe I had two lambs at once did bring;
The one black as jet, the other white as snow;
Say, in just Providence how it could be so?

ALEXIS.

Will you Pan's goodness therefore partial call,
That might as well have given thee none at all?