And must give up their murmuring breath, The garlands wither on your brow, See where the victor victim bleeds: To the cold tomb, Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust. Dibine Lobe. THIS love's a fire for ever burning, This love's a spirit ever acting, This love's a star gross hearts refining, This love's a river, ever flowing, Where we drown in love's devotion. SHIRLEY. This love is music, where the metre Then the music turns to glory. This love's a master, ever pleasing, very ANON. Period Fourth. The Dormitive. THE night is come, like to the day; Depart not Thou, great God, away. Let not my sins, black as the night, Eclipse the lustre of Thy light. Keep still in my horizon; for to me The sun makes not the day, but Thee. Thou whose nature cannot sleep, On my temples sentry keep; Guard me 'gainst those watchful foes, Whose eyes are open while mine close. Let no dreams my head infest, But such as Jacob's temples blest. While I do rest my soul advance; Make my sleep a holy trance: That I may, my rest being wrought, Awake into some holy thought. And with as active vigour run My course as doth the nimble sun. Sleep is a death ;-O make me try, By sleeping, what it is to die! And as gently lay my head On my grave, as now my bed. |