BARNABY BARNES.

THE Sun of our soul's light Thee would I call!

But for our light Thou didst the bright sun make;
Nor reason that thy majesty should take.

Thy chiefest subjects' epithets at all.
Our chief direction's Star celestial,

(But that the stars for our direction's sake
Thou fixed, and canst at thy pleasure shake,)
I would thee name! The Rock substantial
Of our assurance I would term thy name!
But that all rocks by thy command were made.
If King of kings thy majesty became,

Monarch of monarchs I Thee would have said!

But thou gives kingdoms, and makes crowns unstable: By these I know thy name ineffable!

BARNABY BARNES.

A BLAST of wind, a momentary breath,
A watry bubble symboliz'd with air,

A sun-blown rose but for a season fair,
A ghostly glance, a skeleton of death,
A morning dew, pearling the grass beneath,
Whose moisture sun's appearance doth impair;
A lightning glimpse, a muse of thought and care,
A planet's shot, a shade which followeth,
A voice which vanisheth so soon as heard,
The thriftless heir of time, a rolling wave,
A show no more in action than regard,
A mass of dust, world's momentary slave,
Is Man, in state of our old Adam made,
Soon born to die, soon flourishing to fade.

BARNABY BARNES.

THE world's bright comforter, whose beamsome light

Poor creatures cheereth, mounting from the deep,

His course doth in prefixed compass keep;

And as courageous giant takes delight

To run his race, and exercise his might,

Till him, down gallopping the mountain's steep,
Clear Hesperus, smooth messenger of sleep,
Views; and the silver ornament of night

Forth brings, with stars past number in her train

;

All which with sun's long borrow'd splendour shine; The seas, with full tide swelling, ebb again;

All years to their old quarters new resign;

The winds forsake their mountain-chambers wild;

And all in all things with God's virtue fill'd.

EDMUND SPENSER.

NEW year, forth looking out of Janus' gate,

Doth seem to promise hope of new delight;

And, bidding th' old adieu, his passed date
Bids all old thoughts to die in dumpish spright;

And calling forth out of sad Winter's night

Fresh Love, that long hath slept in cheerless bower,

Wills him awake, and soon about him dight

His wanton wings and darts of deadly power;

For lusty Spring now in his timely hour

Is ready to come forth him to receive,

And warns the Earth with divers-colour'd flower

To deck herself, and her fair mantle weave:

Then you, fair flower, in whom fresh youth doth reign, Prepare yourself new love to entertain.

EDMUND SPENSER.

RUDELY thou wrongest my dear heart's desire,

In finding fault with her too portly pride:
The thing which I do most in her admire,

Is of the world unworthy most envied :
For in those lofty looks is close implied
Scorn of base things, and 'sdeign of foul dishonour
Threatening rash eyes which gaze on her so wide,
That loosely they ne dare to look upon her.
Such pride is praise, such portliness is honour,
That bolden'd innocence bears in her eyes;

And her fair countenance, like a goodly banner,
Spreads in defiance of all enemies.

Was never in this world ought worthy tried,

Without some spark of such self-pleasing pride.