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 | The poetical works of John and Charles Wesley |  |
SOLOMON'S SONG. CHAP. V. 15, &c.
Altered from Sandys.
Who's this, who like the morning shows,
When she her paths with roses strews;
More fair than the replenish'd moon,
More radiant than the sun at noon?
Not armies with their ensigns spread,
So threaten with amazing dread!
When she her paths with roses strews;
More fair than the replenish'd moon,
More radiant than the sun at noon?
Not armies with their ensigns spread,
So threaten with amazing dread!
344
His looks like cedars planted on
The brows of lofty Lebanon:
His tongue the ear with music feeds,
And He in every part exceeds:
Among ten thousand He appears
The chief, and Beauty's ensign bears.
The brows of lofty Lebanon:
His tongue the ear with music feeds,
And He in every part exceeds:
Among ten thousand He appears
The chief, and Beauty's ensign bears.
I, my Beloved, am only Thine:
And Thou by just exchange art mine.
Come let us tread the pleasant fields;
Taste we what fruit the country yields;
There, where no frosts our spring destroy,
Shalt Thou alone my love enjoy.
And Thou by just exchange art mine.
Come let us tread the pleasant fields;
Taste we what fruit the country yields;
There, where no frosts our spring destroy,
Shalt Thou alone my love enjoy.
Be I, O Thou my better part,
A seal impress'd upon Thy heart:
Should falling clouds with floods conspire,
Their waters could not quench love's fire;
Nor all in nature's treasury
The freedom of affection buy.
A seal impress'd upon Thy heart:
Should falling clouds with floods conspire,
Their waters could not quench love's fire;
Nor all in nature's treasury
The freedom of affection buy.
O Thou that in Thy chosen liv'st,
And life-infusing counsel giv'st
To those that in Thy songs rejoice,
To me address Thy cheerful voice.
May I Thy finger's signet prove;
For death is not more strong than love.
And life-infusing counsel giv'st
To those that in Thy songs rejoice,
To me address Thy cheerful voice.
May I Thy finger's signet prove;
For death is not more strong than love.
Come, my Beloved, O come away!
Love is impatient of delay:
Run like a youthful hart or roe,
On hills where precious spices grow.
Love is impatient of delay:
Come, my Beloved, O come away!
Love is impatient of delay:
Run like a youthful hart or roe,
On hills where precious spices grow.
Love is impatient of delay:
Come, my Beloved, O come away!
| The poetical works of John and Charles Wesley | |