ARTILLERY.

As I one evening sat before my cell,

Methought a star did shoot into my lap.

I rose, and shook my clothes, as knowing well That from small fires comes oft no small mishap;

When suddenly I heard one say,

"Do as thou usest, disobey :

Expel good motions from thy breast,
Which have the face of fire, but end in rest."

I, who had heard of music in the spheres,
But not of speech in stars, began to muse;
But turning to my God, whose ministers
The stars and all things are: “If I refuse,

Dread Lord," said I, "so oft my good,
Then I refuse not e'en with blood.
To wash away my stubborn thought;
For I will do or suffer what I ought.

"But I have also stars and shooters too,
Born where Thy servants both artilleries use.
My tears and prayers night and day do woo
And work up to Thee; yet Thou dost refuse.
Not but I am (I must say still)

Much more obliged to do Thy will

Than Thou to grant mine; but because Thy promise now hath e'en set Thee Thy laws.

"Then we are shooters both, and thou dost deign To enter combat with us, and contèst

With thine own clay. But I would parley fain :
Shun not my arrows, and behold my breast.

Yet if Thou shunnest, I am Thine:

I must be so, if I am mine.

There is no articling with Thee: I am but finite, yet Thine infinitely."

CHURCH-RENTS AND SCHISMS.

BRAVE rose, alas! where art thou? in the chair
Where thou didst lately so triumph and shine,
A worm doth sit, whose many feet and hair
Are the more foul, the more thou wert divine.
This, this hath done it, this did bite the root
And bottom of the leaves; which, when the wind.
Did once perceive, it blew them underfoot,
Where rude unhallowed steps do crush and grind

Their beauteous glories. Only shreds of thee,
And those all bitten, in thy chair I see.

Why doth my Mother blush? Is she the rose,
And shows it so? Indeed, Christ's precious blood
Gave you a colour once; which when your foes
Thought to let out, the bleeding did you good,*
And made you look much fresher than before.
But when debates and fretting jealousies †
Did worm and work within you more and more,
Your colour faded, and calamities

Turnèd your ruddy into pale and bleak :
Your health and beauty both began to break.

*Martyrdoms.

† Schisms.

Then did your several parts unloose and start;
Which when your neighbours saw, like a north wind
They rushed in, and cast them in the dirt

Where Pagans tread. O Mother dear and kind!
Where shall I get me eyes enough to weep,
As many eyes as stars? since it is night,
And much of Asia and Europe fast asleep,
And e'en all Africk! would at least I might

With these two poor ones lick up all the dew
Which falls by night, and pour it out for you!

JUSTICE.

O DREADFUL justice, what a fright and terror

Wast thou of old,

When sin and error

Did show and shape thy looks to me,

And through their glass discolour thee!

He that did but look up was proud and bold.

The dishes of thy balance seemed to gape,
Like two great pits ;

The beam and scape

Did like some tottering engine show;
Thy hand above did burn and glow,

Daunting the stoutest hearts, the proudest wits.

But now that Christ's pure veil presents the sight, I see no fears;

Thy hand is white,

Thy scales like buckets, which attend
And interchangeably descend,

Lifting to heaven from this well of tears.

For where before thou still didst call on me,

Now I still touch

And harp on thee.

God's promises hath made thee mine: Why should I justice now decline? Against me there is none, but for me much.

THE PILGRIMAGE.

I TRAVELLED on, seeing the hill where lay My expectation.

A long it was and weary way.

The gloomy cave of Desperation

I left on the one, and on the other side

The rock of Pride.

And so I came to Fancy's meadow, strowed

With many a flower;

Fain would I here have made abode,

But I was quickened by my hour.

So to Care's copse I came, and there got through With much ado.

That led me to the wild of Passion, which

Some call the wold;

A wasted place, but sometimes rich.

Here I was robbed of all my gold,

Save one good angel,* which a friend had tied

Close to my side.

At length I got unto the gladsome hill,†

Where lay my hope,

Where lay my heart; and climbing still,

When I had gained the brow and top,

A lake of brackish waters on the ground
Was all I found.

With that, abashed and struck with many a sting
Of swarming fears,

I fell, and cried, "Alas, my King!

Can both the way and end be tears?"
Yet taking heart, I rose, and then perceived
I was deceived.

My hill was farther; so I flung away,

Yet heard a cry

Just as I went,-" None goes that way
And lives." "If that be all," said I,

"After so foul a journey death is fair,

And but a chair." ‡

THE HOLD-FAST.

I THREATENED to observe the strict decree
Of my dear God with all my power and might;
But I was told by one it could not be ;

Yet I might trust in God to be my light.

* A gold angel was a piece of money of the value of ten shillings, bearing the figure of an angel.

↑ Every reader will be struck by the outline here presented of the "Pilgrim's Progress." It was written when Bunyan was still an infant.

A rest.