Thanksgiving for his House.
Robert Herrick (1591-1674).
Lord, thou hast given me a cell
Wherein to dwell,
A little house whose humble roof
Is weather-proof;
Under the sparres of which I lie
Both soft and dry;
Where thou, my chamber for to ward,
Hast set a guard
Of harmless thoughts to watch and keep
Me, while I sleep.
Low is my porch, as is my fate,
Both void of state;
And yet the threshold of my doore
Is worn by th’ poore,
Who hither come, and freely get
Good words, or meat.
’Tis thou that crownest my glittering hearth
With guiltlesse mirthe,
And givest me wassaile bowls to drink,
Spiced to the brink.
Lord, ’tis thy plenty-dropping hand
That soiles my land
And givest me for my bushel sown
Twice ten for one;
Thou makest my teeming hen to lay
Her egg each day.
All these, and better, thou dost send
Me, to this end,
That I should render, for my part,
A thankful heart;
Which, fired with incense, I resigne
As wholly Thine:
But the acceptance, that must be,
O Lord, by Thee.