But who I was, or where, or from what cause, Knew not; to speak I tried, and forthwith spake ——Thou sun, said I, fair light, And thou enlightened earth, so fresh and gay, Ye hills, and dales, ye rivers, woods, and plains, And ye that live and move, fair creatures, tell, Tell, if ye saw how I came thus, how here?— Tell me, how may I know Him, how adore, From whom I have that thus I move and live?—_Paradise Lost, B. VIII._ Herrick says, in his address to the daffodils:— We have short time to stay as you, We have as short a spring; As quick a growth to meet decay As you or any thing. We die As your hours do, and dry Like to the rain, Or as the pearls of dew. Now I am here, what thou wilt do for me, None of my books will show; I read, and sigh, and wish I were a tree, For sure I then should grow To fruit or shade: at least some bird might trust Her household to me, and I should be just.—§George Herbert.§ Thou who hast given me eyes to see And love this sight so fair, Give me a heart to find out Thee, And read Thee everywhere.—§Keble.§ The bell strikes one. We take no note of time Save by its loss; to give it then a tongue Were wise in man.—§Young.§ Ah, yes! the hour is come When thou must haste thee home, Pure soul! to Him who calls. The God who gave thee breath Walks by the side of death, And naught that step appalls.—§Landor.§ New light new love, new love new life hath bred; A life that lives by love, and loves by light; A love to Him to whom all loves are wed; A light to whom the sun is darkest night: Eye’s light, heart’s love, soul’s only life, He is; Life, soul, love, heart, light, eyes, and all are His; He eye, light, heart, love, soul; He all my joy and bliss.— §Fletcher’s§ _Purple Island_. Bailey’s _Festus_, that extraordinary poem the perusal of which makes the reader feel as if he had “eaten of the insane root that takes the reason prisoner,” abounds with examples:— Night brings out stars as sorrow shows us truths: Though many, yet they help not; bright, they light not. They are too late to serve us; and sad things Are aye too true. We never see the stars Till we can see naught but them. So with truth. And yet if one would look down a deep well, Even at noon, we might see those same stars——