THE REQUEST.
O thou who didst deny to me This world's ador'd felicity, And ev'ry big imperious lust, Which fools admire in sinful dust, With those fine subtle twists, that tie Their bundles of foul gallantry-- Keep still my weak eyes from the shine Of those gay things which are not Thine! And shut my ears against the noise Of wicked, though applauded, joys! For Thou in any land hast store Of shades and coverts for Thy poor; Where from the busy dust and heat, As well as storms, they may retreat. A rock or bush are downy beds, When Thou art there, crowning their heads With secret blessings, or a tire Made of the Comforter's live fire. And when Thy goodness in the dress Of anger will not seem to bless, Yet dost Thou give them that rich rain, Which, as it drops, clears all again. O what kind visits daily pass 'Twixt Thy great self and such poor grass: With what sweet looks doth Thy love shine On those low violets of Thine, While the tall tulip is accurst, And crowns imperial die with thirst! O give me still those secret meals, Those rare repasts which Thy love deals! Give me that joy, which none can grieve, And which in all griefs doth relieve! This is the portion Thy child begs; Not that of rust, and rags, and dregs.