MARIGOLD. 
207 
And how she veils her flowers when he is gone, 
As if she scorned to be looked upon 
By an inferior eye ; or did contemn 
To wait upon a meaner light than him : 
When this I meditate, methinks the flowers 
Have spirits far more generous than ours, 
And give us fair examples to despise* 
The servile fawnings and idolatries 
Wherewith we court these earthly things below, 
Which merit not the service we bestow. 
But Oh, my God! though grovelling I appear 
Upon the ground, and have a rooting here 
Which hales me downward, yet in my desire 
To that which is above me I aspire, 
And all my best affections I profess 
To him that is the Sun of Righteousness. 
Oh ! keep the morning of his incarnation, 
The burning noon-tide of his bitter passion, 
The night of his descending, and the height 
Of his ascension,—ever in my sight, 
That imitating Him in what I may, 
I never follow an inferior way. 
THE MARIGOLD. 
SHAKESPEARE. 
Here’s flowers for you; 
Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram; 
The marigold, that goes to bed with the sun, 
And with him rises weeping. 
