More enemies now I have
Than heeres upon my head;
Let them not me deprave,
But fight thou in my steade.
On thee my care I cast,
For all their cruell spight;
I set not by their hast,
For thou art my delight.
I am not she that list
My anker to let fall
For every drislinge mist;
My shippe's substancial.
Not oft I use to wright
In prose, nor yet in ryme;
Yet wil I shewe one sight,
That I sawe in my time:
I sawe a royall throne,
Where Justice shulde have sitte;
But in her steade was One
Of moody cruell witte.
Absorpt was rightwisness,
As by the raginge floude;
Sathan, in his excess,
Sucte up the guiltlesse bloude.
Then thought I,--Jesus, Lorde,
When thou shalt judge us all,
Harde is it to recorde
On these men what will fall.
Yet, Lorde, I thee desire,
For that they doe to me,
Let them not taste the hire
Of their iniquitie.
ANNE ASKEWE.
* * * * *
DOUBT AND FAITH.
FROM "IN MEMORIAM," XCV.
You say, but with no touch of scorn,
Sweet-hearted, you, whose light-blue eyes
Are tender over drowning flies,
You tell me, doubt is Devil-born.
I know not: one indeed I knew
In many a subtle question versed,
Who touched a jarring lyre at first,
But ever strove to make it true:
Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds,
At last he beat his music out.
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