But thou beneath the sad and heavy line Of death, doth waste all senseless, cold, and dark; Where not so much as dreams of light may shine, Nor any thought of greenness, leaf, or bark. And yet--as if some deep hate and dissent, Bred in thy growth betwixt high winds and thee, Were still alive--thou dost great storms resent Before they come, and know'st how near they be. Else all at rest thou liest, and the fierce breath Of tempests can no more disturb thy ease; But this thy strange resentment after death Means only those who broke--in life--thy peace. Henry Vaughan. 1621-1695 365. Friends Departed THEY are all gone into the world of light! And I alone sit ling'ring 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 glimmering 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 fledg'd bird's nest may know, At first sight, if the bird be flown; But what fair well or grove he sings in now, That is to him unknown. And yet as Angels in some brighter dreams Call to the soul, when man doth sleep: So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, And into glory peep. If a star were confin'd into a tomb, Her captive flames must needs burn there; But when the hand that lock'd her up gives room, She'll shine through all the sphere. O Father of eternal life, and all Created glories under Thee! Resume Thy spirit from this world of thrall Into true liberty. Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill My perspective still as they pass: Or else remove me hence unto that hill, Where I shall need no glass. John Bunyan. 1628-1688 366. The Shepherd Boy sings in the Valley of Humiliation HE that is down needs fear no fall, He that is low, no pride; He that is humble ever shall Have God to be his guide. I am content with what I have, Little be it or much: And, Lord, contentment still I crave, Because Thou savest such. Fullness to such a burden is That go on pilgrimage: Here little, and hereafter bliss, Is best from age to age. Ballads and Songs By Unknown Authors. 17th Cent. 367. Thomas the Rhymer TRUE Thomas lay on Huntlie bank; A ferlie he spied wi' his e'e; And there he saw a ladye bright Come riding down by the Eildon Tree.