The Golden Treasury. Unknown

           When I consider how my light is spent

           Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,

           And that one talent which is death to hide

           Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent

           To serve therewith my Maker, and present

           My true account, lest He returning chide,—

           Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?

           I fondly ask:—But Patience, to prevent

           That murmur, soon replies; God doth not need

           Either man's work, or His own gifts: who best

           Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His state

           Is kingly; thousands at His bidding speed

           And post o'er land and ocean without rest:—

           They also serve who only stand and wait.

           How happy is he born and taught

           That serveth not another's will;

           Whose armour is his honest thought

           And simple truth his utmost skill!

           Whose passions not his masters are,

           Whose soul is still prepared for death,

           Not tied unto the world by care

           Of public fame, or private breath;

           Who envies none that chance doth raise

           Or vice; Who never understood

           How deepest wounds are given by praise;

           Nor rules of state, but rules of good:

           Who hath his life from rumours freed,

           Whose conscience is his strong retreat;

           Whose state can neither flatterers feed,

           Nor ruin make accusers great;

           Who God doth late and early pray

           More of His grace than gifts to lend;

           And entertains the harmless day

           With a well-chosen book or friend;

           —This man is freed from servile bands

           Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;

           Lord of himself, though not of lands,

           And having nothing, yet hath all.

              It is not growing like a tree

              In bulk, doth make Man better be;

           Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,

           To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:

                A lily of a day

                Is fairer far in May,

              Although it fall and die that night—

              It was the plant and flower of Light.

           In small proportions we just beauties see;

           And in short measures life may perfect be.

               When God at first made Man,

           Having a glass of blessings standing by;

           Let us (said he) pour on him all we can:

           Let the world's riches, which disperséd lie,

               Contract into a span.

               So strength first made a way;

           Then beauty flow'd, then wisdom, honour, pleasure:

           When almost all was out, God made a stay,

           Perceiving that alone, of all his treasure,

               Rest in the bottom lay.

               For if I should (said he)

           Bestow this jewel also on my creature,

           He would adore My gifts instead of Me,

           And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature:

               So both should losers be.

               Yet let him keep the rest,

           But keep them with repining restlessness:

           Let him be rich and weary, that at least,

           If goodness lead him not, yet weariness

               May toss him to my breast.

           Happy those early days, when I

           Shined in my Angel-infancy!

           Before I understood this place

           Appointed for my second race,

           Or taught my soul to fancy aught

           But a white, celestial thought;

           When yet I had not walk'd above

           A mile or two from my first Love,

           And looking back, at that short space

           Could see a glimpse of his bright face;

           When on some gilded cloud or flower

           My gazing soul would dwell an hour,

           And in those weaker glories spy

           Some shadows of eternity;

           Before I taught my tongue to wound

           My conscience with a sinful sound,

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