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EASTER.
by George
Herbert
RISE heart ; thy Lord is risen. Sing his praise
Without
delayes,
Who takes thee by the hand, that thou
likewise
With him
mayst rise :
That, as his death calcined thee to dust,
His life may make thee gold, and much more
just.
Awake, my lute, and struggle for thy part
With all
thy art.
The crosse taught all wood to resound his
name
Who bore
the same.
His stretched sinews taught all strings,
what key
Is best to celebrate this most high day.
Consort both heart and lute, and twist a
song
Pleasant
and long :
Or since all music is but three parts vied,
And
multiplied ;
O let thy blessed Spirit bear a part,
And make up our defects with his sweet art.
I got me flowers to straw thy way
;
I got me boughs off many a tree
:
But thou wast up by break of day,
And brought’st thy sweets along with
thee.
The Sunne arising in the East,
Though he give light, and th’ East
perfume ;
If they should offer to contest
With thy arising, they presume.
Can there be any day but this,
Though many sunnes to shine
endeavour ?
We count three hundred, but we misse
:
There is but one, and that one ever.
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