What mightie motione so my mynd mischeivis?
What uncouth cairs throu all my corps do creep?
What restles rage my Resone so bereivis?
What maks me loth of meit, of drink, of sleep?
I knou not nou what Countenance to keep
For to expell a poysone that I prove
Alace, alace that evir I leirnd to love.

A frentick fevir thrugh my flesh I feill,
I feill a passione can not be exprest.
I feill a byll within my bosum beill
No Cataplasme can weill impesh that pest.
I feill my self with seiknes so possest
A madnes maks my mirth from me remove.

While earth was sleeping in the opal dawn
She dreamed of beauty, for a presence bright
Laid on her breast a rose, but in the light
She wakened and her angel guest had gone.

Then softly o'er her senses like a prayer,
A perfume drifted, known in Paradise,
An incense of Love's holiest sacrifice—
An evanescent fragrance, rich and rare.

O Loveliness, too soon to disappear,
The wildering grace that wraps the rose's heart
Is still the ultimate despair of art—
A pearl that, vanishing, leaves but a tear.

These petals shame mortality and blight;

I LOVE to see at early morn,
The Squirrel sit before my door;
There crack his nuts and hide his shells,
And skip away to seek for more.

I love in hedge-row paths to see
The Linnet glance from spray to spray;
Or mark at evening's balmy close,
The Redbreast hop across my way.

For sure when Nature's free-born train
Approach with song and gambol near,
Some secret impulse bids them feel
The footsteps of a friend are there.

I LOVE to see at early morn,
The Squirrel sit before my door;
There crack his nuts and hide his shells,

As the full moon shining there
To the sun that lighteth her
Am I unto thee for ever,
O my secret glory-giver!
O my light, I am dark but fair,
Black but fair.

Shine, Earth loves thee! And then shine
And be loved through thoughts of mine.
All thy secrets that I treasure
I translate them at my pleasure.
I am crowned with glory of thine,
Thine, not thine.

I make pensive thy delight,
And thy strong gold silver-white.
Though all beauty of mine thou makest,
Yet to earth which thou forsakest
I have made thee fair all night,

Ah , God! here, here, Love bade me ope my still
Shut heart-lips at his nod;
And here, in vain resistance to his will,
I wrestled with the god.
What man can strive with Love? Is he not lord?
Best conquest is to yield.
It was a victory to feel his sword
Pierce through my idle shield.

I lay here at my queen's feet in the ashen,
Wan June-light of the moon,
And sang to her the legend of my passion,
A strange, forbidden tune.
The high gods cannot take away the glory
Love gave me as I fell,
Nor dim the recollection of the story

1. Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine! O what a
2. Perfect submission, perfect delight, Visions of
foretaste of glory divine! Heir of salvation, purchase of
rapture burst on my sight; Angels descending, bring from a-
God, Born of his Spirit, washed in his blood.
bove, Echoes of mercy, whispers of love.
This is my story, this is my song, Praising my
Saviour all the day long; This is my story this is my
song, Praising my Saviour all the day long.

3. Perfect submission, all is at rest,
I in my Saviour am happy and blest,
Watching and waiting, looking above,

All women born are so perverse
No man need boast their love possessing.
If naught seem better, nothing's worse:
All women born are so perverse.
From Adam's wife, that proved a curse,
Though God had made her for a blessing,
All women born are so perverse
No man need boast their love possessing.

“Love has no shame.”—
'Twas this you said to me.
Shall Love reveal
Hid beauties that are real
And still disguise the soul's infirmity
In fear of blame?
“Love has no cruelty.”—
See first the wounds that are within
Hid by this quite sufficient skin.
Loving your spirit, I may not deceive it.
Then of my body, Lover—take or leave it.

Before the mountains were created,
And before the world was made,
God loved the Gates of Zion
Just as now and evermore;
And to love us purely
He's inscribed us in the Book of Life
Who signs this in a godly way
Remains forever blessed.
The poor pilgrim whom the mercy of God has sustained until he is ninety years old has still written this with his own hand.

Not that the gift, great Lord, deserves your hand,
Held ever worth the rarest works of men,
Offer I this; but since in all our land
None can more rightly claim a poet's pen:
That noble blood and virtue truly known,
Which circular in you united run,
Makes you each good, and every good your own,
If it can hold in what my Muse hath done.
But weak and lowly are these tuned lays,
Yet though but weak to win fair Memory,
You may improve them, and your gracing raise;
For things are priz'd as their possessors be.
If for such favour they have worthless striven,