Made by that Reverend Man of God Mr. John Wilson, Pastor to the first Church in Boston; On the sudden Death of Mr. Joseph Brisco, Who was translated from Earth to Heaven
Jan. 1. 1657
Not by a Fiery Chariot as Elisha was ,
But by the Water, which was the outward cause:
And now at Rest with Christ his Saviour dear ,
Though he hath left his dear Relations here.
Joseph Briscoe Anagram
Job cries hopes.
There is no Job but cries to God and hopes,
And God his ear in Christ; to cries he opes,
Out of the deeps to him I cry'd and hop'd,

There is no escape by the river,
There is no flight left by the fen;
We are compassed about by the shiver
Of the night of their marching men
Give a cheer!
For our hearts shall not give way.
Here's to a dark to-morrow,
And here's to a brave to-day!

The tale of their hosts is countless,
And the tale of ours a score;
But the palm is naught to the dauntless,
And the cause is more and more.
Give a cheer!
We may die, but not give way.
Here's to a silent morrow
And here's to a stout to-day!

There is no dearer lover of lost hours
Than I.
I can be idler than the idlest flowers;
More idly lie
Than noonday lilies languidly afloat,
And water pillowed in a windless moat.
And I can be
Stiller than some gray stone
That hath no motion known.
It seems to me
That my still idleness doth make my own
All magic gifts of joy's simplicity.

There is never a day so dreary
But God can make it bright,
And unto the soul that trusts Him,
He giveth songs in the night,
There is never a path so hidden,
But God can lead the way,
If we seek for the Spirit's guidance
And patiently wait and pray.

There is never a cross so heavy
But the nail-scarred hands are there
Outstretched in tender compassion
The burden to help us bear.
There is never a heart so broken,
But the loving Lord can heal,
The heart that was pierced on Calvary
Doth still for His loved ones feel.

There is much to be said
For Mac Diarmod's young daughter,
And much to be sung
Were a poet about;
Since her eye is a mirror
Of Ulster's Blackwater,
When ripples shine over
The dark-dappled trout.

And much might be said
For his daughter's fair dower
Of heifers and bullocks
And meadowy grass;
But my head might be hanging
From Omagh gaol's tower
For all the concern
That the heart of her has.

So I'll not spend a thought
On Mac Diarmod's young daughter,
But much might be sung
Of her land and her looks;

There is many a love in the land, my love,
—But never a love like this is;
Then kill me dead with your love, my love,
—And cover me up with kisses.

So kill me dead and cover me deep
—Where never a soul discovers;
Deep in your heart to sleep, to sleep,
—In the darlingest tomb of lovers.

There is great mystery, Simone,
In the forest of your hair.

It smells of hay, and of the stone
Cattle have been lying on;
Of timber, and of new-baked bread
Brought to be one's breakfast fare;
And of the flowers that have grown
Along a wall abandoned;
Of leather and of winnowed grain;
Of briers and ivy washed by rain;
You smell of rushes and of ferns
Reaped when day to evening turns;
You smell of withering grasses red
Whose seed is under hedges shed;
You smell of nettles and of broom;
Of milk, and fields in clover-bloom;

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear;
There is ever a something sings alway;
There's the song of the lark when the skies are clear,
And the song of the thrush when the skies are gray.
The sunshine showers across the grain,
And the bluebird trills in the orchard tree;
And in and out, when the eaves drip rain,
The swallows are twittering ceaselessly.

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,
Be the skies above or dark or fair,
There is ever a song that our hearts may hear —
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear —

There is but one May in the year,
And sometimes May is wet and cold;
There is but one May in the year
Before the year grows old.

Yet though it be the chilliest May,
With least of sun and most of showers,
Its wind and dew, its night and day,
Bring up the flowers.

'Tis wind that do weäft on the clouds
In their way over hillheads;
An' waight that do roll on the water
A-winden round meäds;
An' drith that do draw on the cattle
To drink at the brook:
An' by love that the lad is a-twold
Where do live the feäir maid;
An' wi' guidance to good, oh! 'tis better
To goo than to rest.