And every hour a step towards thee.... ’Tis true--with shame and grief I yield-- Thou, like the van, first took’st the field; And gotten hast the victory In thus adventuring to die Before me, whose more years might crave A just precedence in the grave. But hark! my pulse, like a soft drum, Beats my approach, tells thee I come; And slow howe’er my marches be I shall at last sit down by thee. The thought of this bids me go on And wait my dissolution With hope and comfort. Dear--forgive The crime--I am content to live Divided, with but half a heart, Till we shall meet and never part. GEORGE HERBERT 1593-1632 _281._ _Virtue_ Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright! The bridal of the earth and sky-- The dew shall weep thy fall to-night; For thou must die. Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die. Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie, My music shows ye have your closes, And all must die. Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like season’d timber, never gives; But though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives. _282._ _Easter_ I got me flowers to straw Thy way, I got me boughs off many a tree; But Thou wast up by break of day, And brought’st Thy sweets along with Thee. Yet though my flowers be lost, they say A heart can never come too late; Teach it to sing Thy praise this day. And then this day my life shall date. _283._ _Discipline_ Throw away Thy rod, Throw away Thy wrath; O my God, Take the gentle path! For my heart’s desire Unto Thine is bent: I aspire To a full consent. Not a word or look I affect to own, But by book, And Thy Book alone. Though I fail, I weep; Though I halt in pace, Yet I creep To the throne of grace. Then let wrath remove; Love will do the deed: For with love Stony hearts will bleed. Love is swift of foot; Love’s a man of war, And can shoot, And can hit from far. Who can ’scape his bow? That which wrought on Thee, Brought Thee low, Needs must work on me. Throw away Thy rod; Though man frailties hath, Thou art God: Throw away Thy wrath! _284._ _A Dialogue_ _Man._ Sweetest Saviour, if my soul Were but worth the having, Quickly should I then control Any thought of waving. But when all my care and pains Cannot give the name of gains To Thy wretch so full of stains, What delight or hope remains?