Contemplations.
Some time now past in the Autumnal Tide
When Phœbus wanted but one hour to bed
The trees all richly clad, yet void of pride
Where gilded o're by his rich golden head.
Their leaves and fruits seemed painted but was true
Of green, of red, of yellow mixed hew,
Rapt were my sences at this delectable view.
I wist not what to wish, yet sure thought I,
If so much excellence abide below;
How excellent is he that dwells on high?
Whose power and beauty by his works we know.
Sure he is goodness, wisdome, glory, light,
That hath this under world so richly dight;
More Heaven than Earth was here, no winter & no night.
Then on a stately oak I cast mine Eye,
Whose ruffling top the Clouds seemed to aspire;
How long since thou wast in thine Infancy?
Thy strength and stature, more thy years admire.
Hath hundred winters past since thou wast born?
Or thousand since thou brakest thy shell of horn,
If so, all these as nought, Eternity doth scorn.
Then higher on the glistening Sun I gazed,
Whose beams was shaded by the leavie Tree,
The more I looked, the more I grew amazed,
And softly said, what glory's like to thee?
Soul of this world, this Universes Eye
Had I not, better known, (alas) the same had I.
Thou as a bridegroom from thy Chamber rushes
And as a strong man, joyes to run a race,
The morn doth usher thee with smiles and blushes
The Earth reflects her glances in thy face.
Birds, insects, Animals with Vegetive,
Thy heart from death and dulness doth revive:
And in the darksome womb of fruitful nature dive.
