Pia Desideria :: :: University of Virginia Library

Pia Desideria

or, Divine Addresses, In Three Books. Illustrated with XLVII. Copper-Plates. Written in Latin by Herm. Hugo. Englished by Edm. Arwaker ... The Fourth Edition, Corrected

Arwaker, Edmund

PIA DESIDERIA:

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

PIA DESIDERIA:

OR, Divine Addresses, In Three BOOKS.

[_]

Square brackets denote editorial insertions or emendations.

TO THE DESIRE OF THE Eternal Habitations, JESUS CHRIST, Whom the Angels desire to pry into.

Lord, thou knowest all my Desire, and my Groaning is not hid from thee,

Psal. 38. vers. 9.

By no discov'ry did I e'er impart
The secret Pantings of my Love-sick Heart;
Whose close recesses to no other Eye
But that great Pow'r's that fram'd them, open lie:
He only views my Thoughts in their undress,
And his bright Beams search thro' their nakedness:
To him each secret sigh, each silent groan,
To him the bottom of my Soul is known.

Who can his sense t'another's ears convey,
Unless himself his own designs betray?
Yet, cou'd Discov'ry gratify my Wish,
Concealment should not long defer the Bliss:
But no relation can my wants relieve,
Or limits to my boundless Wishes give.

Rachel a while did her lost Sons deplore,
But finding Tears in vain, she wept no more.
Thus Fire emits, and then devours its Seeds,
And on its Off-spring the wild Parent feeds.
Thus, when the Clouds have empty'd all their Rain,
They drink up the exhausted stock again.
And thus I best receive the Tears I shed,
And turn the Streams back to their Fountain-head.

Then, what my Thoughts are, while I deeply GROAN,
Only to me, and him I love, is known;
What I design in every silent VOW,
Only my self, and my Beloved know;
And my thick SIGHS a mystick Language prove,
Unknown to all but me and Him I love.

How oft have I, with pious Fraud and Art,
In a dissembled look bely'd my Heart?

Pleasure and Mirth without deludes the sight,
While all within is Torment in the height.

No Faith in Tears, for Tears have learnt deceit,
No Faith in Smiles, unless your self you'd cheat.
I weep, the hasty World believes I'm sad;
I laugh, and they as fast conclude me glad.
How little shows my Face my Mind's intent?
I smile when griev'd, when pleas'd, I most lament.
Not the Camelion changes more than those,
Whose every Wish new Masquerades expose;
None knows my secret GROANS, and VOWS, and SIGHS,
None but we Two, and only we suffice.

Neither is there any Creature that is not manifest in his Sight, but all Things are naked and opened to the Eyes of him with whom we have to do.

Heb. iv. 13.

[PIA DESIDERIA]

SIGHS OF THE Penitent Soul.

BOOK the First.

I.

With my Soul have I desired thee in the Night,

Isa. xxvi. 9.

How do my wandring Thoughts mistake their way,
And in a Maze of darksom Errors stray?
Lost in whose dismal Lab'rinth, I conclude
Th'Ægyptian Plague is in my Soul renew'd.
All cloudy, fearful, horrid; not one spark
Of Day; a Night for Night it self too dark.
No Scythian or Cimmerian Sky so black,
Tho' Heav'n's bright Lamps those gloomy Shades forsake;
Ev'n Hell, where Night in sable Triumph dwells,
Yields to the Terror of my darker Cells:

For tho' no fav'ouring Star imparts its Light,
To banish thence the thick substantial Night,
Yet there so much their Punishment they feel,
As will not let them be insensible:
There the sad Shades bewail their want of Light;
And ev'n the dim Cimmerians see 'tis Night,
And, when the Scythians six dark Moons have spent,
Th'expected Day returns from Banishment.

But I am to eternal Night confin'd,
And what shou'd guide me, is it self struck blind.
There's not one glim'ering Beam that dares invade
The setled Horror of the gloomy Shade.
Nor can I hope but that I still must stray,
Since I perceive not how I lose my way;
But love th'unhappy Darkness where I err,
And Nights foul Shades, to Days bright Lamp prefer.
For Prides false light misguides my wandring mind,
And vain Ambition strikes my Judgment blind:
Loves soft Enchantments my weak Heart entice;
His foolish Fires delude my dazled Eyes.
When these black Images my thoughts possess,
The darkness and the horror still increase.
My Eyes have their successive Night and Day,
And Heav'n allows Them an alternate Sway:
Oh! that my Soul as happy were as They!

That Reason jointly might with Will preside,
Whose Office 'tis the stragling Mind to guide!

They more are griev'd who cannot use their Sight,
Than they, who never yet enjoy'd the Light;
And he that in Night's Shades has lost his Way,
Salutes with greater Joy th'approaching Day:
But that's a Night too tedious to be born,
Which never will admit the grateful Morn.

When the bright Sun returns to cheer our Eyes,
We haste, like Persians, to adore his Rise;
Thither our early Homage we address,
And strive who first shall his kind Influence bless.
Thus oft, on high, I Heav'ns bright Orb survey'd
From Pole to Pole, and thus as oft have pray'd;
Shine, shine, my Sun, bright Object of my Song,
Thou that hast left my watchful Eyes too long:
Rise, rise, or half thy beauteous Face display!
If that's too much, indulge me one short Ray.
Yet, if that Bliss is too sublime for me,
O let it be enough to've wish'd for Thee!

The World has its Nights, and those not a few. Alas! why do I say its Nights; since it self is almost one continual Night, and always overspread with Darkness?

Bernard in Cant. Serm. 75.

II.

O God, thou knowest my simplicity, and my faults are not hid from thee,

Psal. lxix. 5.

If thou our childish Follies can'st not bear,
Thou, who do'st all things by wise Counsels steer;
Who can accepted, who can pardon'd be,
Since none from Folly, none from Faults are free?
Nor scapes, alas, the most exalted Mind
This Poyson, of so subtil, strange a kind:
All whirl'd about by the same giddy Wind.
'Tis vain to hide our Faults, we've all been frail;
Folly's our Birth-right by a long Entail.
Since our first Parents went themselves astray,
And taught us too to fool our Bliss away:
They for an Apple all Mankind betray'd;
Was e'er a more imprudent Bargain made?
Nor Esau's Folly has its Parallel,
Who, Wretch! devour'd his Birth-right at a Meal.
Ev'n He, —
Whom Sheba's Queen for Wisdom did prefer,
(Strange Weakness! acted Folly ev'n with Her;

Which proves that King's Oracl'ous Sentence true,
Who says, that Fools are num'rous, Wise-men few.
Nor was the prudent Moses's Wish in vain,
When he of Man's destruction did complain:
“O that unthinking Mortals wou'd be wise,
“And place their End before their heedful Eyes!
“Then Sins short Pleasures they wou'd soon despise,
“Nor yield, like Wax, to ev'ry Stamp of Vice.

Wou'd any but a strange besotted Rout,
Th'Existence of a God deny, or doubt?
These, that in Sin they may uncheck'd go on,
Perswade themselves to a Belief of None.
Our very Crimes t'improve our Folly tend,
And we're infatuate, e'er we dare offend;
Nor does the growing frenzy here give o'er,
But from this Ill runs headlong on to more:
We Castles build in this inferiour Air,
As if to have Eternal Beings here:
But when unthought-of Death shall snatch us hence,
We then shall own the fond Improvidence.
With endless and unprofitable toil
We strive t'enrich and beautify the Soil;
This Soil, which we must leave at last behind
To those for whom our Pains were ne'er design'd.

How does our toil resemble Childrens play,
When they erect an Edifice of Clay?
How idly busy and imploy'd they are?
Here, some bring Straw; there, others Sticks prepare;
This loads his Cart with Dirt; that in a Shell
Brings Water, that it may be temper'd well;
And in their Work themselves they fondly pride,
While Age the childish Fabrick does deride:
So on our Work Heav'n with contempt looks down,
And with a breath our Babel-Tow'r's o'rethrown.

What strange desire of Gems, what thirst of Gold,
Those, drops of Rain congeal'd; that, ripned Mold!
Yet these so much Mens nobler Souls debase,
That they their Bliss in such mean trifles place.
Ah! foolish Ign'rants! can your Choice approve,
No more exalted Objects of your love,
That all your time in their pursuit you spend,
As if Salvation did on them depend?
Heav'n may be purchas'd at an easy rate;
But, oh! how few bid any thing for That!
Unthinking Men! who Earth to Heav'n prefer,
And fading Joys to endless Glory there!
The Crime of such an inconsid'rate Choice
Ought not pretend to Pardon, ev'n in Boys;

For They from Counters current Money know,
Almost as soon as they have learnt to go:
But Men (oh shame) prize counterfeit Delights
Before the Joys to which kind Heav'n invites.

Oh! for some Artist to retrieve their sense,
E're more degrees of Folly they commence!

But by Heav'ns piercing Eye we are descry'd,
Which does our Sins with Follies Mantle hide.
He's pleas'd to wink at Errors too in me,
And seeing seems as tho' he did not see.
He knows I've but a slender stock of Wit,
And want a Guardian too to manage it,
O then, some kind Protection, Lord, assign
This Ideot Soul! But 'twill be best in Thine.

They are no better than Fools, who are ever, as it were, dreaming of earthly things, and of short continuance.

Chrysost. in Joann. Hom. 4.

III.

Have mercy upon me, O Lord, for I am weak: O Lord, heal me, for my Bones are vexed,

Psal. vi. 2.

Shall my just Grief be querulous, or mute,
Full of Disease, of Physick destitute?
I thought thy Love so constant heretofore,
That Vows were needless to confirm me more:
And can'st thou now absent, and slight my Pain?
What fault of mine has caus'd this cold Disdain?

O best Physician of my love-sick Soul,
Whose sight alone will make thy Patient whole;
Thou who hast caus'd, can'st thou forget my Grief,
Which only from its Author seeks Relief?

Shou'd they whose Art gave dying Fame new breath,
And rescu'd their surviving Names from Death:
They in whose sight no bold Disease durst stand,
But trembling vanish'd at their least command;
They who each Simple's sov'reign Virtue knew,
And to their ends cou'd well apply them too:

Shou'd they their Skill in tedious Consult try,
All, all wou'd fail to ease my misery;
All their Prescriptions without Thine are vain,
Thine only suit the Nature of my Pain.
Thou who hast caus'd, can'st thou forget my Grief,
Which only from its Author seeks Relief?

See! my parch'd Tongue my inward heat declares,
And my quick Pulse proclaims intestine Wars;
While so much Blood's profusely spent within,
That not one drop can in my Cheeks be seen:
And the same Pulse that once gave brisk Alarms,
Beats a dead March in my dejected Arms:
My Doctors sigh, and shrugging take their leave,
And me to Heav'n and a cold Grave bequeath,
While more than they the fatal sense I feel
Of my lost Health, and their successful Skill.

What can the Patient hope, when ev'n despair
Discourages the lost Physician's care!
The subtle Poyson creeps through all my Veins,
And in my Bones the fierce Contagion reigns:
My drooping Head flies to my Hands for aid,
But by the feeble Props is soon betray'd:
Now my last breath is ready to expire,
And I must next to Death's dark Cell retire.

Vainly I strive my other Pains to tell,
Because their numbers unaccountable.
In this forlorn unpity'd state I lie,
While he who can relieve me, lets me die.
My Face all chang'd, and out of knowledge grown,
Ev'n I am scarce perswaded 'tis my own.
My Eyes have shrunk for shelter to my Head,
And on my Cheek the Rose hangs pale and dead.
No pow'r cou'd drive the fierce Disease away,
Nor force th'insulting Victor from his prey.
My Bed I loath; nor can it sleep procure;
My festring Wounds no Surgion's hands endure.

My Wounds—But oh! that Word has pierc'd my heart,
The very mention does renew their smart;
My Wounds gape wide, as they wou'd let in Death,
And make quick Passage for my flitting Breath:
Nor can they ev'n the lightest touch endure,
But dread the Hand that wou'd attempt their Cure.
For, Lord, my Wounds are from the Darts of Sin,
That rage and torture my griev'd Soul within:
Here an hydropick thirst of Riches reigns,
And their Pride's flatuous humour swells my Veins:
Next frantick Passion plays the Tyrant's part;
And Loves ov'r-spreading Cancer gnaws my Heart.

Oft to the learn'd I made my suff'rings known,
Oft try'd their Skill, but found Redress from none:
Not all the virtue of Bethesda's Pool,
Without thy help, could ever make me whole.
Then to what healing Altar shou'd I flie,
But that whose prostrate Victims never die?
To Thee, Health-giver to the World, I kneel,
Who most can'st pity what thy self didst feel:
There's no sound part in all my tortur'd Soul:
But, if thou wilt, Lord, thou cast make me whole.
See where, to cruel Thieves, a helpless prey,
Wounded and rob'd I'm left upon the way.
O Good Samaritan! my Heart revive
With Wine; my Wounds some Balm of Gilead give.
Then take me home, lest if I here remain,
My Foes return, and make thy Succour vain.

The whole World, from East to West, lies very sick; but to cure this very sick World, there descends an Omnipotent Physician, who humbled himself even to the Assumption of a mortal Body, as if he had gone into the Bed of the Diseased.

Aug. de Verb. Dom. Serm. 55. cap. 55.

IV.

Look upon my adversity and misery, and forgive me all my sin,

Psal. xxv. 17.

Can all my Suff'rings no Compassion move,
And wou'dst thou yet perswade me thou dost love?
'T has oft been said, believe it he that will!
That those who Love, each others torment feel.
Canst thou behold my Grief, and seek no way
For my redress? True Love brooks no delay.
See what a servile Yoak my Neck sustains,
Whose shame is more afflicting than its pains!
With any Task my Soul wou'd be content,
But one whose Scandal is a Punishment.
Had my Afflictions any parallel,
Taught by Example, I shou'd bear them well:
And 'twou'd, amidst my Woes, bring some Relief,
To have more shoulders to support the Grief:
For bravest Heroes oft have felt the weight
Of their injurious Step-dame Fortune's Hate.
Thus our fam'd Martyr, in his Murd'rers stead,
Bow'd to a Rebel Ax His Sacred Head;

While His great Son, a Prince of high Renown,
The Heir of His bright Father's Name and Crown,
In an obscure, ignoble Banishment,
Did His own Fate, and Rebels Guilt prevent.
Sad Instances of Man's uncertain State!
Yet 'tis no Crime to be unfortunate:
But my base Slav'ry is alone my blame,
And less to be bewail'd with Tears, than Shame;
And to a heavier sum my Woes amount,
Since I must place them to my own account.
Like captiv'd Sampson I am driv'n about,
The drudge and scorn of an insulting Rout.
Around I draw the heavy restless Wheel,
And find my endless Task beginning still:
Within this Circle by strange Magick bound,
I'm still in Motion, yet I gain no Ground.

O! that some usual Labour were injoyn'd,
And not the Tyrant Vice enslav'd my mind!
No weight of Chains cou'd grieve my captive Hands,
Like the loath'd Drudg'ry of its base Commands;
By this a double mis'ry I contract,
Ev'n I condemn the hated Ills I act.
Yet of my Chains I'm not so weary grown,
But that I still am putting others on.
For Sin has always this attending Curse,
To back the first Transgression with a worse:

This to my sorrow, I too often find!
Yet no Experience warns my heedless mind.
Thus Vice and Virtue do my Soul divide,
Like a Ship tost between the Wind and Tide.
Pleasure, the Bawd to Vice, here draws me in,
There, Grief, its Follow'r, pulls me back from Sin:
Yet Pleasure oft comes Conqueror from the Field,
Whilst I to Vice, inglorious Homage yield.
Tho' Grief does still with Vice in triumph ride,
Plac'd like a Slave by that great Conqu'ror's side.
Thus Vice and Virtue have alternate sway,
While I, with endless labour, Both obey:
And to increase my pains, as if too small,
Thy heavy hand comes in the rear of all,
And with deep piercing strokes corrects me more,
For what was punish'd in it self before.
Thus guilty Souls in Hell are scourg'd for Sin;
Their never-ending Pains thus still begin.

Canst thou, unkind! behold my wretched Fate?
Canst thou behold, and not commiserate?
Look on, O see if causless I complain!
O hold thy Hand, and mitigate my Pain!

I suppose the World is called a Mill, because it is turn'd about on the Wheels of Time, and grinds and crushes those that most admire it.

Aug. in Psal. xxxvi.

V.

Remember, I beseech thee, that thou hast made me as the Clay, and wilt thou bring me into Dust again?

Job x. 9.

Has Providence regard to things below?
Or does it slight what it's not pleas'd to know?
That the great Author of this brittle Frame
Forgets from what Original it came?

Ages, to Thee are but as yesterday:
And canst thou, Lord, forget thy humble Clay?
Form'd with a touch, and quick'ned with a breath;
In one short moment made, and doom'd to death.
If thou hast this forgot, receive from me
The strange relation of the History.
When this great Fabrick of the World was rear'd,
And its Orig'nal Nothing disappear'd,
Then, in the close of the Sixth busie day,
Thou with a glance didst the whole Work survey;
And pleas'd with that fair product of thy Pow'r,
Wou'dst copy't o'er again in Miniature;

Then was with all the Art of Heav'n design'd,
The mortal Image of th'immortal Mind.
Blest Eden was the place which gave him Birth,
And as he lightly leapt from Mother Earth,
Pleas'd Heav'n and Nature smiling greet his rise,
And bid him welcome into Paradise.
Hard by a silver Stream did gently pass,
Stealing its secret Path along the Grass;
But soon its head-strong Waves more fiercely hurl'd,
To view the New-born Master of the World:
Thence in four streams to distant Regions stray,
And bear the wondrous Tidings wide away.
Here from a Lump of despicable Earth,
Had Man (the less, but Nobler World) his Birth;
The Nobler, since in his small Frame we view
At once the World and its Creator too.

But things of finest texture first decay,
And Heav'n's great Master-piece is brittle Clay;
Ruin'd by that which does its worth advance,
And dash'd to pieces by the least mischance.

This frail, this transitory Thing am I,
Who only live, to learn the way to die:
So soon shall Fate to its first Matter turn,
The curious Structure of this living Urn.
Thus China-Vessels, wrought with Art and Pain,
Are, without either, turn'd to Dust again.

Such is th'uncertainty of humane state,
Such the destructive haste of necessary Fate!

Why then, my God, does swift-pac'd Time betray,
What of it self's so subject to decay?
All to the Grave, their Centre, freely bend,
And thither, prest with their own weight, descend;
Fate needs not any hasty vi'lence use,
To force a motion, which unurg'd they chuse.

Did I the Stars more temper'd matter share,
Till they first fell, I no decay shou'd fear:
Or cou'd I like th'unbody'd Angels be,
Like them, I'd triumph o'er Mortality.
But I, like Insects, sure, derive my Birth
From some Plebeian, putrifying Earth.
Why did not Heav'n an Iron temper grant,
Or hew me from a Rock of Adamant?

But how dare I with Heav'n expostulate,
Or blame the frailty of my mortal state?
Nor ought prou'd Clay its Potter e'er upbraid,
Nor scorns he that weak Vessel he has made.

Dares the unhappy Clay blaspheme the fingers of its Potter? How so! because the Potter contracting his fingers, and striking the Vessel with his whole hand, it is violently dash'd to pieces.

Rupert. in Jerem. lib. 1. cap. 4.

VI.

I have sinned, what shall I do unto thee, O thou Preserver of Men? Why hast thou set me as a Mark against thee?

Job vii. 20.

'Tis just, nor will I longer hide my shame,
But own my self egregiously to blame:
My Sins to such a mighty sum amount,
That hope of Pardon wou'd increase th'account;
And the black Cat'logue of their unwip'd score,
Calls for more Plagues than Vengeance has in store.

I own it, Lord, nor just Dishonour fear;
Since publick Punishment I ought to bear.
Here, at thy Feet, I humbly prostrate bow,
And beg my Sentence from thy Mouth to know.
Shall my own Hand thy dread Revenge prevent,
And make my self my own sad Monument?
Shall I with Gifts thy loaden Altar crown,
Or sacrifice the Beast, my self, thereon?
(Tho' sure my Blood wou'd that blest place prophane,
And give what it shou'd cleanse a fouler stain.)

All this, and more, if possible to do,
Wou'd fall far short to pay the Debt I owe.
But thou art not severe, nor hard to please,
Whom Blood and Slaughter only can appease:
Thy Sword thy conquer'd Foe has often spar'd,
And thence the best, the noblest Trophies rear'd.
No tyrant Passion rages in thy Breast,
But the meek Dove builds there her peaceful Nest;
Kind Guardian of the World! our Help, our Aid,
To whom the Vows of all Mankind are made:
Who when thou woud'st thy height of Anger show,
A sudden Calm unbends thy threatning brow:
How kindly dost thou raise the prostrate Foe,
With the same hand that shou'd have struck the blow?

Wou'dst thou permit—But oh! what Eloquence
Can with success appear in my defence?
Yet let me, Lord, plead for my self, and Thee,
Lest ev'n thy Cause, as mine, may injur'd be.
Lord, I confess I've sinned, but not alone;
Wilt thou impute a Common Guilt to One?
Thy bare-fac'd Rebels still unpunish'd go,
As if thou mindedst nothing here below.
Unplagu'd, like other Men, the brutish Swine,
Wallow i'th' foul excess of Lust and Wine:

Yet dost thou stop thy Arrows on the String,
Arrest thy brandish'd Thunder on the Wing;
Sheath thy red Sword, just lifted for the blow,
And in its room mild Olive-branches show.
But ev'ry slip each inadvertencie,
Is magnify'd to'insuff'rable in me.
I am the Mark of ev'ry wounding stroke,
As if I only did thy wrath provoke.
This I confess, All I, alas! can do:
O hear my Pray'r, with my Confession too!
Accept the good Effects of an ill Cause,
And pardon Sin, that gains thee most applause.
“Forgive me, Conqu'ror! since thou must confess
“Had I not Err'd, thy Glory had been less.

Then God sets Man as a mark against him, when Man by sinning has forsaken God: But our just Creator set him as a mark against him; because he thought him his Enemy by his naughtiness.

Greg. in 7 cap. Job, lib. 8. cap. 23.

VII.

Wherefore hidest thou thy Face, and holdest me for thine Enemy?

Job xiii. 24.

Is't my great Error, or thy small Respect,
That I am treated with this cold neglect?
I thought thy frowns were but dissembled heat,
And all thy threatning looks an amorous cheat.
As tender Mothers draw the Breast away,
To urge their pretty Innocents to play;
Or as the Nurse seems to deny a Kiss,
To make the fonder suppliant steal the Bliss:
So I believ'd thou didst abscond, and flee
Only to make me faster follow thee.
But now, (alas!) 'tis earnest all, I find,
And not pretended Anger, but design'd:
My kind Embrace you coldly entertain,
As if we never shou'd be Friends again:
And with such eager haste my presence shun,
As Men from Monsters or Infection run;
As if my Looks wou'd turn you into Stone:
But fear not that, the work's already done;

So cold you are, so senseless of my smart,
Some Magick sure has petrify'd my Heart.
O let me know what Crime I must deplore,
That lets me see your dear-lov'd Face no more!
Ah! why that Face must I no longer see,
Which ne'er, till now, once look'd unkind on me?
Sure you believe there's Poyson in my Breath,
Or that my Eyes dart unavoided Death.
Prevent the danger with thy conqu'ring Eye,
Unsheath its Rays, and let th'Offender die:
Or else discharge a frown, and strike me dead,
For more than Death I your Displeasure dread.
Your Eyes are all I wish, let them be mine,
The Sun, unmist by me, may cease to shine:
Fair Cynthia's beauteous Eyes, I can contemn,
Tho' all the Lamps of Night fetcht Beams from them:
But if, my Life, my Soul, thou Thine deny,
Heart-broke, in darkness and despair I die.
And if thy very Absence cause such pain,
Guess what my Torment is to love, but love in vain!

If any of our Servants offend us, we are wont not to look upon them: If this be thought a Punishment among Men, how much more with God? For you see that God turned away his Face from the Offering of Cain

Amb. Apolog. pro David.

VIII.

O that my Head were Waters, and mine Eyes a Fountain of Tears, that I might weep day and night!

Jer. ix. 1.

Oh! that my Head were one vast source of tears,
With bubling Streams as num'rous as my Hairs!
My Face a Plain, which briny Floods should drown,
And scorning Banks, come proudly rolling down.
That Grief with inexhaustible supplies,
Wou'd fill the Cisterns of my flowing Eyes!
Till the fierce Torrents which those Springs impart
Flow down my Breast, and stagnate round my Heart.

Not all the Tears the Royal Psalmist shed,
With which his Couch was wash'd, himself was fed;
Nor those which once the weeping Mary pour'd,
On the dear Feet of her forgiving Lord;
Nor those which drown'd the great Apostle's Breast,
Whose boasted Zeal shrunk at th'affrighting Test;
Nor these, nor more than these, can e'er suffice,
To cleanse the stains of my Impieties.

Give me the undiscover'd Source of Nile,
That with sev'n Streams o'erflows the Egyptian Soil;
Or, Noah! Let thy Deluge be renew'd.
Till I am drown'd in the impetuous Flood;
Till Tow'rs, and Trees, and Hills appear no more;
All one vast Desart Sea, without a Shore.

O that these Fountains wou'd their Course begin
And flow as fast as I made haste to sin!
The weeping Limbecks never shou'd give o're,
Till their last drop had emptied all their Store.
Happy ye Fountains which for ever flow,
Whose endless Streams no Drowth or Summer know,
O that my Eyes had all the Drops which fell
From this fair Spring, or that eternal Well!
How do I grudge the Clouds their envy'd Rain!
How wish the boundless Treasures of the Main!
Then shou'd my Tears, like that, just motion keep,
And I shou'd take a strange delight to weep.
Nor the swift current of my Grief forbid,
Till in the Waves this little World were hid;
Hid, as the neighb'ring Valleys are o'respread,
When the warm Sun melts Pindus snowy head.
The great Assyrian, found in Jordan's Seas,
A happy Med'cine for his foul Disease;

But what kind Torrent will my Cure begin,
And cleanse my filthier Leprosie of Sin?

See! from my Saviour's side a stream of Blood!
I'll bath my self in that Redeeming Flood:
That healing Torrent was on purpose spilt,
To wash my Stains, and expiate all my Guilt.
That ever-flowing Ocean will suffice
For the defect of my exhausted Eyes.

If I were all dissolv'd to Tears, and those not only some few drops, but an Ocean or a Deluge, I should never weep enough.

Hieron. in Jerem. cap. 9.

IX.

The pains of Hell came about me: The snares of Death overtook me,

Psal. xviii. 4.

While in this sad Distress my self I view,
Methinks I make that Heathen Fable true;
Of him whose bleeding mangled Carcass lay,
To his own Hounds expos'd a helpless Prey.
Long I the Pleasures of the Wood pursu'd,
Till, like its Beasts, my self grew wild and rude;
I hop'd with Hunting to divert my Care,
But almost fell my self into the Snare.

Yet to those Woods (alas) I did not go,
Whose inn'cent Sports give Health and Pleasure too.
I spread no Toils to take the tim'rous Deer,
Nor aim'd my Javlin at the rugged Bear.
Happy, had I my Time so well imploy'd,
Nor had I been by my own Game destroy'd:
I had not then mis-spent my Youthful Days,
Nor torn my Flesh among sharp Thorny ways.

But I (alas!) still ply'd the sparkling Wine,
That poys'nous Juice of the pernicious Vine;
And this expos'd me to Love's fatal Dart,
The false betray'r of my unguarded Heart:
Thou Love, hast thy sly Nets, and subtle Charms;
Nor are thy Bow and Dart thy only Arms.
And treacherous Wine does fatal Weapons bear;
The Glass is more destructive than the Spear.
Thus Sampson, by his Delilah betray'd,
Was Hers, and then his En'mies Captive made:
Thus, when too freely Noah had us'd the Vine,
He who escap'd the Flood, lay drown'd in Wine.

Thus Love, by me pursu'd (alas!) too fast,
Seiz'd my lost Soul, and prey'd on me at last;
Within whose close incircling Toils beset,
I seem'd a Beast just fall'n into the Net:
Destroy'd by what my Inclination sought,
As Birds by their frequented Lime-twigs caught;
For Death around, its subtle Nets does spread,
Fine as the texture of the Spiders Web:
And as perdue that watchful Robber lies,
His buzzing Prey the better to surprize;
But, taught by Motion when the Booty's nigh,
Leaps out, and seizes the entangled Fly:

Or as a Fowler, with his hidden Snare,
Contrives t'entrap the Racers of the Air;
While to conceal and further the Deceit,
He strows the Ground with his destructive Meat;
And fastens Birds of the same kind, to sing,
And weakly flutter on their captive Wing:
So Death the Wretch into his Snare decoys,
And with pretended Happiness destroys:
Above the Nets we think a leap to take,
But head-long drop into th'infernal Lake.

The reward of Honours, the height of Power, the delicacy of Diet, and the beauty of an Harlot, are the snares of the Devil.

Amb. lib. 4. in cap. 4. Lucæ.

Whilst thou seekest Pleasures, thou runnest into Snares; for the Eye of the Harlot is the Snare of the Adulterer.

Idem, de bono mortis.

X.

Enter not into Judgment with thy Servant, O Lord,

Psal. cxliii. 2.

The Master's Gains to a small Sum amount,
That calls his Servant to a strict Account;
And tho' the Servant has not wrong'd his Trust,
Where's the Applause of being only Just?
Vainly the Master does a Suit begin,
To gain a Vict'ry he must blush to win:
And if I'm over guilty made, no doubt
I must go seek some other Master out.
Believe me, Lord, to be Severe with me,
Will wrong thee more than my Offending thee.
I am so much too mean for thy Regard,
'Twill lessen thee to mind how I have Err'd.
What! must thy Registries the Pleadings show,
Swoln with the Hist'ry of my Overthrow?
Or can I hope my Cause shou'd Thine out-do,
Where Thou sit'st Judge, that art the Plaintiff too?
What Eloquence can plead with such success,
To free the Wretch that does his Debt confess?

Alas! what Advocate best read in Laws,
Can weaken Thine, or re-inforce my Cause?
Ah! not too strictly my Accounts survey,
Nor for Abatements let me vainly pray.
Both Heav'n and Earth thy boundless Mercy know,
To Pardon, easie; and to Punish, slow:
Ev'n when our Crimes pull thy just Vengeance down,
'Tis rather Grief, than Anger, makes thee frown:
And when thou dost our Punishment decree,
Thou seest our Stripes with more Concern than we;
And dost Chastise us at so mild a rate,
That what we bear, we scarce wou'd deprecate:
And tho' our selves we had the Judges been,
We hardly shou'd have lightlier touch'd our Sin.
But tho' this Character is All thy due,
Let me thy lightest Censures undergo;
For tho' thy Mercy does no Limits know,
Thy Justice must have Satisfaction too.
These Attributes in equal Ballance lye,
And neither must the Others Right deny.
No melting Passion can affect thy Breast,
Nor soft Intreaties charm thy Hand to rest:
Nor baffled Eloquence dares here engage:
But wants itself some happier Patronage.
No Fee, no Bribe, no Trick in all the Laws,
Can e'er prevail to carry such a Cause.

'Tis vain with Thee, Lord, to commence a Suit,
Whose awful presence strikes all Pleaders mute.
No other Judge so terrible can be,
To make me fear his strictest Scrutiny;
But Thy Tribunal, Lord, with dread I view,
Where thou art Plaintiff, Judge, and Witness too;
Where when my Sentence from Thy Mouth is come,
No Plea can urge Thee to reverse the Doom.
How this dread place augments the Guilty's fear,
Where so much awe and gravity appear!
Ev'n He whose Reas'ning did this Truth assert,
And shot a trembling into Felix Heart;
Who did not his own Judgment-Seat decline,
Cou'd without trembling never think of Thine.
And Wisdom's famous Oracle denies
The purest Soul unblemish'd in Thy Eyes;
Whose pious Father (after thine own heart)
Declares Thy Wrath the best of Man's desert.
And Job assures us, that the Stars, whose Light
Chears with kind infl'ence our admiring sight;
Tho' glorious all in our dim Eyes they shine,
Are only small Opacous Orbs in thine.
How then can weaker Beams support that weight,
Which shook these Pillars with such strange affright?
Or how can humble Hyssop keep its Wall,
When Libanus's stateliest Cedars fall?

When I behold my large unblotted Score,
And think what Plagues thy Vengeance has in store;
An icy Horror chills my freezing Blood,
And stops the active Motion of its Flood.

As some pale Captive, when condemn'd to Death,
Loath to resign, ev'n his last gasp of Breath,
Beholds with an intent and steddy Eye,
The dreadful Instrument of Fate rais'd high:
Yet still unwilling from this World to go,
Shuns with a Start the disappointed Blow:
So, when I see thy Book, in which are writ
All the black Crimes I rashly did commit,
Amaz'd, I fly thy Bar; —
For how can Sinners that strict Place abide,
Where ev'n the Righteous scarce are justify'd?

What can be thought so fearful, what so full of Trouble and Anxiety, as to stand to be judged at such a Tribunal, and to expect an uncertain Sentence from such a Judge?

Bernard. Serm. 6. super, Beati qui, &c.

XI.

Let not the Water-flood drown me: Neither let the Deep swallow me up,

Psal. lxix. 16.

Unconstant Motion of the restless Sea,
Whose treach'rous Waves the Sailors hopes betray!
So Calm sometimes, so Shining they appear,
No polish'd Crystal is more smooth or clear.
Sometimes they seem still as a standing Lake,
Whose modest Pools no stir, or motion make.
Sometimes the Waves, rais'd by a gentle breeze,
Curl their green Heads, the wand'ring Sight to please;
Then, in soft measures, round the Vessels dance,
And to the Musick of their Shrouds advance.
While thou, kind Sea, their Burthen dost sustain,
Ev'n while their Beaks plough Furrows on the Main:
Safe on thy yielding back each Vessel rides,
Tho' its rude Oars lash to a foam thy sides.
The groaning Earth scarce weightier Burthens feels
From heavy loaden Carts with I'rn-bound Wheels:
And that none may suspect thou wilt betray,
Thy Crystal Waves their Rocky Breasts display,

As if no Treach'ry cou'd be harbour'd there,
Where such fair Shows of Honesty appear.

But when the Anchor's weigh'd, the Sails atrip,
And a kind Gale bear's on the floating Ship,
Soon as the Land can be perceiv'd no more,
And all Relief is distant as the Shoar,
Then the rough Winds their boist'rous Gusts discharge,
And all at once assault the helpless Barge.
Just as the furious Lybian Lions rave,
When eager to devour a Sentenc'd Slave;
Or as a Crew of sturdy Thieves prepare
To seize and plunder some lone Traveller;
Then the insulting Billows proudly rise,
And menace, with their lofty tops, the Skies:
Whilst the discolour'd Waters hide their head,
So much th'approaching Tempest's rage they dread.
And when each jarring Wind insults and raves,
And altogether hover o'er the Waves;
Short broken Seas ev'n from themselves are torn,
And different ways each crowding Billow born.
[All black below, above all foamy-white;
A horrid Darkness mixt with dreadful Light;
Here long, long Hills, roll far, and wide away;
There obrupt Vales fright back th'intruding Day.]

Here a vast Gulph of Ruin opens wide,
And the Ship's swallowed in the rapid Tide;
Or if born on a Tenth unlucky Wave,
The breaking bubble proves its watry Grave.
Thus the false Ocean treach'rously beguiles,
And thus in Frowns end its deceitful Smiles.

But I suspected not th'unfaithful Main,
Nor did of its inconstancy complain;
I ne'er the fury of the Winds did blame,
Nor on the Tempests boisterous Rage exclaim;
(Which twists the surly Billows, till they rise,
And foaming-mad, attack the lowring Skies;)
Nor Curst the hardy Wretch that led the way,
And taught the World to perish in the Sea.
My Vessel ne'er lanch'd from my Native Shoar,
Nor did the Navigator's Art explore.
I study'd not the Chard, nor gave my mind
To learn to tack and catch the veering Wind.
Too soon these Artists of their Skill repent,
And perish by the Arts they did invent.
My Life's the Sea, whose treach'ry I declare,
My Self the Vessel Toss'd and Shipwrack'd there,
All the loud Storms of the insulting Wind,
Are restless Passions of my troubled Mind.

Thus harrest in this fluctuating State,
I pass thro' strange Vicissitudes of Fate.

Deceitful Life! whose false Serenity
Chang'd in a moment, ends in Misery!
Thou want'st no sweet Allurements to betray:
Thy Beauty ever Charming, ever Gay;
While Love and Lust wrack the Distracted Mind,
No dang'rous Sands, no Rocks, or Shores we find:
But when a Tide of Crimes breaks fiercely in,
And beats the Soul on fatal Shelves of Sin;
Then, ah too late! the dismal Gulph it spies,
In which 'tis plung'd, and sunk by treach'rous Vice.

O! that, at least like wretched drowning Men,
These sinking Souls wou'd rise and float agen!
That, while their grosser Parts do downward move,
Their pure Devotion wou'd remain above!
But, just as Men to whom Earths gaping Womb
Becomes at once their Murth'rer and their Tomb;
Or as the Wretch beneath some falling Rock,
At once is Kill'd and Bury'd with the stroke:
Or those to whom deceitful Ice gives way,
In vain wou'd rise agen to distant Day:
So fare the Men by Sins swift Current born,
Thoughtless of Heav'n, by Heav'n th'are left forlorn.

See, Lord, how I with Wind and Tide engage,
While on each Hand unequal War they wage!
See how my Head is bow'd unto the Grave,
While I am forc'd to court the drowning Wave!
Seest thou my Soul lost in a double Death,
And wilt thou not reprieve my flitting Breath?
Behold, O Lord! behold, and Pity me,
And leave me not to Perish in the Sea:
O hold me up by thy Almighty Hand,
And I shall quickly reach the wish'd-for Land.
Be thou my Pylot, and my Motion guide,
Then I shall swim in spight of Wind and Tide.

The multitude of our Lusts raise a mighty Tempest, which so tosses them that sail in the Ocean of the Body, that the Mind cannot be its own Pylot.

Ambros. Apolog. pro David cap. 3.

XII.

Oh, that thou would'st hide me in the Grave! that thou would'st keep me secret, until thy Wrath be past!

Job xiv. 13.

Who, who will grant me a secure retreat,
Where I may shun thy furies scorching heat?
Whose piercing Flames whene'er I call to mind,
I fear I can no safe Concealment find:
Then I desire the covert of the Wood
And Caves, whence Beasts are rang'd to seek their Food:
Then in Earth's Womb wou'd hide my fearful Head,
Or in some Sea-worn Rock compose my Bed:
In hilly Caverns then my Self I'd save,
Or fly for Refuge to the silent Grave:
Or far remote from the fair Orbs of Light,
Wou'd in thick Darkness dwell, and endless Night.

When the loud Thunder rolls along the Sky,
Men to the Lawrels shelter trembling fly:
In vain (alas!) they hope Protection thence,
The helpless Tree proves not its own Defence;

Much less can that a place of Refuge be
From an All-seeing angry Deity.

Thy Eyes the closest Solitudes invade,
And pierce and pry into the darkest Shade.
The Wretch who took his Ruin from a Tree,
In vain with Leaves wou'd hide his Shame from Thee:
For while to shun thy Presence he assay'd,
Ev'n his Absconding his Offence betray'd.
In vain (alas!) to Caves and Dens we run,
We carry with us what we cannot shun.
The Den that did the Hebrew Captive save,
When He was freed, prov'd his Accusers Grave:
Nor was Lot's Incest hidden in his Cave.
As much in vain we court the Earths dark Womb,
And fly for shelter to the silent Tomb:
Vengeance, ev'n thither, will our Flight pursue,
And rise to punish those Black Ills we do.
Thus vainly Cain stopt Righteous Abel's Breath,
The mouth of Blood was opened by his Death
As vainly Jonas in the Sea conceal'd
His faithless Flight, ev'n by the Sea reveal'd:
His living Tomb obey'd Heav'ns great Command,
And cast him back to the forsaken Land.
A brittle Faith is all the glassy Sea can boast
Transparent Waves betray what they shou'd cover most.

Nor can we hope Concealment in a Tomb,
That casts our Bones from its o'er-burthen'd Womb.
In Rocks and Caves we must no Trust repose,
For their own sound the Secret will disclose.
And Leaves, and Trees themselves, alike will fade,
And then Expose what they were meant to Shade.
Nor Sea, nor Lands, nor Cave, nor Den, nor Wood,
Nor Stars, nor Heav'n it self can do me good:
Thou, Lord, alone canst hide my fearful Head,
Where I no Veng'ance, nor ev'n Thine can dread.
Whilst Thy kind Hand aside thy Thunder lays,
Stretch'd out, Disarm'd, a suppliant Wretch to raise.

Whither, O Adam! have thy Transgressions led thee, that thou shunn'st thy God, whom before thou sought'st? That Fear betrays thy Crime, that Flight thy Prevarication.

Amb. in Jerem. cap. 9.

XIII.

Are not my Days few? Cease then, and let me alone, that I may bewail my self a little.

Job x. 20.

Must a few Minutes added to my Days
Be thought a favour passing Thanks or Praise?
Ages, indeed, might well deserve that Name,
And render my Ingratitude to Blame:
But, the increase of a few Days to come,
How little adds it to the slender Sum?
As well the Infant that but treads the Stage,
Is said to leave it in a good Old Age.
As well poor Insects may be said to live,
To whom their Birth-day does their Fun'ral give.

So fading Flow'rs their hasty Minutes count,
Whose longest Life scarce to one Day amount.
Flow'rs, in the Morning Boys, at Noon-tide Men,
At Night, with Age, feeble as Boys agen.
Thus in one short-liv'd Day they Bloom and Die,
And all the diff'rence of our Ages try.

Wou'd Time's o'er-hasty Wheels their Motion stay,
And the swift Hours not post so swift away,
The insects then might lengthen too their Song,
And the Flow'rs boast their Day had been so long.
But Time is ever hastning to be gone,
And, like a Stream, the Year glides swiftly on.
Successive Months closely each other Trace,
And meet the Sun along his Annual Race,
While short-liv'd Days, then either, march a swifter pace.
The harnest Hours are pressing forward still,
And, once gone by, are irretrievable.
“Thus envious Time loves on it self to prey,
“And still thro' its own Entrails eats its way.
It self pursues, it self it ever flies,
And on it self it ever Lives and Dies.
So wasting Lamps by their own Flames Expire,
And kindle at themselves their Fun'ral Fire.
Thus its own Course the Circling Year pursues,
Till like the Wheels on which 'tis mov'd it grows.

This Truth the Ancients weightily Exprest,
Who made the Father on his Off-spring Feast:
For Time on Months and Years, its Children feeds,
And kills with Motion, what its Motion breeds.
Hours waste their Days, the Days their Months consume,
And the rapacious Months their Years Entomb.

Thus Years, Months, Days, and Hours, still keep their round,
Till all in vast Eternity are drown'd.

Then, Lord, allow my Grief some little space,
To mourn the shortness of my hasty Race:
I wish not time for Laughter; if I did,
My Circumstances and the Place forbid.
All I desire, is time for Grief and Tears,
Let that be all th'Addition to my Years:
Which, tho' but short, yet have been full of Sin,
More than my Time was to Repent it in.
Yet if thou grant'st me some few Minutes more,
They'll make amends for my short Days before.
Come then, my cruel Hands, and without Rest
Or Pity, beat my hard, my senseless Breast!
Drop then, my Eyes, you cannot flow too fast;
While you delay, what precious Time is past?
'Tis done! my Tears have a prevailing force,
And Heav'n appeas'd, now stop their eager Course.

When Man first sinn'd, he chang'd Eternity for Mortality, Nine hundred Years, or thereabout: But Sin increasing by degrees, Man's Life was contracted to a very short space.

Hieron. ad Paulam, Epist 12.

XIV.

Oh! that they were wise, that they understood this, that they would consider their latter end,

Deut. xxxii, 29.

Shame on besotted Man, whose baffled Mind
Is to all Dangers, but the present, Blind!
Whose Thoughts are all imploy'd on Mischiefs near,
But Ills remote, never fore-see, or fear.
The Soldier is prepar'd before th'Alarm,
The Signal giv'n 'twou'd be too late to Arm.
The Pylot's fore-sight waits each distant Blast,
And loses no Advantage in his haste.
Th'industrious Hind Manures and Sows the Field,
Which he expects a plenteous Crop should yield:
The lab'ring Ant in Summer stores at home
Provision e're old Age and Winter come.
But, oh! what means Man's stupid Negligence,
That of the future has no Care or Sense?
Does he expect Eternity below,
A Life that shall no Alteration know,
He's much abus'd; inevitable Death,
Tho' it delays, will one Day stop his Breath:

Vain are the hopes the firmest Leagues produce,
That Tyrant keeps no Faith, regards no Truce:
He does not to the Peace he makes incline,
To take Advantage is his whole Design:
To him Alliance is an empty Name,
He does all Int'rests, but his Own Disclaim.
Sooner the Ice or Snow shall mix with Flame;
Sooner the faithless Winds and Waves agree.
And Night and Day, and Lambs for safety flee
To bloody Wolves, than that make Peace with Thee:
Fiercely the greedy Spoiler strikes at all,
A Prey for his insatiate Jaws too small:
He tears ev'n tender Infants from the Breast,
And wraps them in a Shrowd, e're for the Cradle drest.
Nor Sex nor Age the grim Destroyer spares,
Unmov'd alike by Innocence and Years.
Here sprightly Youth, there hoary bending Age
Sweet Boys, and blooming Virgins glutt his Rage.
Like common Soldiers, chief Commanders Die,
And like Commanders, common Soldiers lie.
No shining Dust appears in Cræsus Urn,
Tho' all he touch'd he seem'd to Gold to turn.
Nor boasts fair Rachel's Face that Beauty here,
For which the Patriarch serv'd his twice-sev'n year,
And never thought the pleasing Purchase dear.

Ev'n Dives here from Laz'rus is not known,
For now One's Purple, th' Other's Rags, are gone.
Each has no Mansion but his narrow Cell,
Equal in Colour, and alike in Smell.
Why then shou'd Man of such vain Treasure boast,
So difficultly gain'd, so quickly lost?
For, late or early, all resign their Breath,
And bend, pale Victims to their Conqu'ror Death:
Each Sex, each Age, Profession, and Degree,
Moves tow'rds this Centre of Humanity.

But did they not a farther Journey go,
And that to Die were all they had to do;
Cou'd but their Souls dissolve as fast away,
As their corrupting Carcasses decay;
They'd covet Death to end their present Cares,
And for prevention of their future Fears,
They'd to the Grave, as an Asylum run,
And court the Stroke which now they wish to shun:
But Death (alas!) ends not their Miseries,
The Soul's Immortal, tho' the Body Dies.
Which, soon as from its Pris'n of Clay enlarg'd,
At Heav'ns Tribunal's sentenc'd or discharg'd.
Before an awful Pow'r, just and severe,
Round whose bright Head consuming Flames appear

The shackled Captive, dazled at his Sight,
Dejected stands, and shakes with wild Affright.
While, with strict Scrutiny, the Judge surveys
Its Heart, and close Impieties displays.
The Wretch convicted, does his Guilt confess,
Nor hopes for Mercy, for Concealment less;
While He, th'Accuser, Judge, and Witness too,
Damns it to an Eternity of Woe;
Where since no hope of an Appeal appears,
'Twou'd fain dissolve and drown it self in Tears.

What Terrors then seize the forsaken Soul,
That finds no Patron for a Cause so foul?
Then it implores some Mountain to prevent,
By a kind Crush, its Shame and Punishment.

O wretched Soul, just Judge, hard Sentence too!
What harden'd Wretch dares sin that thinks on You?
Yet here, (alas!) ends not the fatal Grief,
There is another Death, another Life.
A Life as boundless as Eternity;
A Death whence shall no Resurrection be.
What Hell of Torments shall in This be found?
With what a Heav'n of Joys shall That abound?
Here rich Cœlestial Nectar treats the Soul;
There Fire and Brimstone crowns the flaming Bowl;

That, fill'd with Musick of th'Angelick Quire,
Shall each blest Soul with Extasies inspire;
While This disturb'd, at ev'ry hideous yell,
Shall in the Damn'd raise a new dread of Hell:
That knows no sharp Excess of Cold or Heat,
In This the Wretches always Freeze or Sweat.
There reign Eternal Rest, and soft Repose;
Here, painful Toil no end or Measure knows.
That, void of Grief, does nought Afflictive see;
This, still Disturb'd, from Troubles never free.
O happy Life! O vast unequall'd Bliss!
O Death accurs'd! O endless Miseries!
For that or this must be the doubtful cast,
Nor may we throw agen when once 'tis past.
Be wise then, Man, or will thy Care be vain,
To shun the Mis'ry, and the Bliss obtain;
Give Heav'n thy Heart, if thou its Crown wou'dst gain.

What more lamentable and more dreadful can be thought of, than that terrible Sentence, Go? What more delightful, than that pleasing Invitation, Come? They are two Words, of which nothing can be heard more affrighting than the One, nothing more rejoycing than the Other.

Aug. Soliloqu. cap. 3.

XV.

My Life is waxen Old with Heaviness, and my Years with Mourning,

Psal. xxxi. 11.

What low'ring Star rul'd my unhappy Birth,
And banish'd thence all days of Ease & Mirth?
While Expectation still deludes my Mind,
Pleas'd with vain Hope some smiling Hour to find:
But still that smiling Hour forbears to come,
And sends a row of Mourners in its room.
I hop'd alternate Courses in each Day,
And that the foul to fairer wou'd give way,
And as the Sun dispels the Clouds of Night,
When he to Heav'n restores his welcom Light;
Or as the Moon's kind Infl'ence brings again
The rising Motion of the Low-ebb'd Main:
So I, with unsuccessful Augury,
Presag'd things so as I wou'd have them be:
But, oh! my Grief exceeds in length and sum
The Widow's Tribute at her Husband's Tomb:
She, when the Author of her Joy is gone,
Is twice-six Months confin'd to Mourn alone;

Yet the last half she does not, as before,
Hide her smooth Fore-head in a close Bendore.
But all my Years are in deep Mourning spent,
There's not a Month, not one short Day exempt.
No Rules give Bounds or Measure to my Woes,
But their Increase, like the feign'd Hydra's grows.
My Life so much in Sighs and Tears is spent,
It minds that least, for which 'twas chiefly meant.

'Tis true, Storms often make the Ocean swell;
But the most violent are shortest still;
For when with eager Fury they engage,
They lose themselves in their excess of Rage.
And when their Winter-blasts Disrobe the Wood,
Their Summer-airs make all the Trespass good:
If the rough North does his black Wings display
When once he's gone, far lovelier grows the Day.
But Grief does all my hapless Years imploy,
Nor grants me one Parenthesis of Joy.
My Musick is in Sighs and Groans exprest,
With my own Hands extorted from my Breast:
This sad Diversion is my sole Delight,
My Musick this by Day, my Song by Night.
How oft' have Sighs, while I my Words confin'd,
Broke Prison, and betray'd my troubled Mind?

How oft' have I in Tears consum'd the Day,
And in Complaints pass'd the long Night away!
Oft' you, my Friends, did my wild Griefs condemn,
And I as oft' assay'd to stifle them:
Let loose the Reigns to Mirth, you always cry'd;
To loose the Reigns, (alas!) in vain I try'd:
For when with Laughter I a Sigh supprest,
It rais'd a fatal Conflict in my Breast;
And if I wish for Sleep to close my Eyes,
Still a fresh Show'r that envy'd Bliss denies;
Then if I stop its Course, impetuous grown,
'Twill force its way, and bear the Sluces down.
Each Brook, whose Stream my Tears have made to rise;
Each shady Grove, fill'd with my Mournful Cries;
Each lonely Vale, and ev'ry conscious Hill,
The kind Repeaters of my Sorrows still;
These know the Troubles which I wish'd conceal'd
Were by loud Throbbings of my Heart reveal'd;
From senseless Woods my Sorrows Pity found,
The Ecchoes oft' repeat the Mournful sound.
My secret Moans they vented o're again;
By turns we Wept, and did by turns Complain.

So, mov'd by 'her Sister's lamentable Note,
Sad Philomel unlocks her mournful Throat,

As if the eml'ous Rivals were at Strife
Whose Tongue shou'd best express the height of Grief.
The widow'd Turtle so bewails her Mate,
With Grief unalterable, as his Fate.
And so the Stars have my sad Life design'd,
That not one Minute shou'd be fair or kind.

And that my Sorrows may not find Relief,
By wanting new Occasions for my Grief,
'Tis their Decree, That, as my Infant-breath
Began with Sighs, so I shou'd Sigh to Death.

Ought we not worthily to Lament, who are in a strange Country, and Banish'd to a Climate remote from our Native Soil?

Chrysost. in Psal. 115.

DESIRES OF THE RELIGIOUS SOUL.

BOOK the Second.

I.

My Soul breaketh out for the very fervent desire that it hath always unto thy Judgments,

Psal. cxix. 20.

While Heav'n and Earth solicite me to love,
My doubtful Choice is puzzel'd wch t'approve:
Heav'n cries, Obey, while Earth proclaims, be Free,
Heav'n urges Duty, Earth pleads Liberty.
Call'd hence by Heav'n, by Earth I'm call'd again,
Tost, like a Vessel on the restless Main:
These diff'rent Loves a doubtful Combat wage,
And thus Obstruct the Choice they wou'd engage.
Ah! 'tis enough; let my long-harrast Mind
In the best Choice a quiet Haven find!
O my dear God! Let not my Soul incline
To any Love, or let that Love be thine!

'Tis true, 'tis pleasant to be free to chuse,
And when we will, accept; when not, refuse.
Freedom of Choice endures Restraint but ill;
'Tis Usurpation on th'unbounded Will.
The neighing Steed thus, loos'd from Bitt, and Rein
To his lov'd, well-known Pasture runs again.
Thus the glad Ox, from the Ploughs burthen freed,
Runs lowing on to wanton in the Mead:
And when the Hind their freedom wou'd revoke,
This scorns his Harness, That defies the Yoak.
For freedom in our Choice we count a Bliss;
Eager to chuse, tho' oft we chuse amiss.
So the young Prodigal, impatient grown
To manage his entire Estate alone,
Takes from his prudent Father's frugal Care
His Stock, by that improv'd and thriving there:
But his own Steward made, with eager haste
He does the slow-gained Patrimony waste,
Till starv'd by Riot, and with Want oppress't,
He feeds with Swine, himself the greater Beast.
Thus in Destruction often we rejoyce,
Pleas'd with our Ruin, since it was our Choice.
How do we weary Heav'n with diff'rent Prayers!
The medly, sure, ridiculous appears.
This begs a Wife, nor thinks a greater Bliss;
And that's as earnest to be rid of his:

This prays for Children; That o'er-stock'd, repines
At the too fruitful Issue of his Loins.
This asks his Father's Days may be prolong'd;
That, if his Father lives, complains he's Wrong'd:
Youth prays for good old Age, and aged Men
Wou'd cast their Skins, and fain grow young agen.
Scarce in Ten thousand any Two agree;
Nay, some dislike what they just wish'd to be.
None knows this Minute what he ought require,
Since ev'n the next begets a new Desire.
So Women pine with various Longing-fits,
When breeding has deprav'd their Appetites;
The humorsom impertinent Disease
Makes that which pleas'd them most, as much displease.

Oh! why, like them, grown restless with Desire,
Do my vain Thoughts to boundless Hopes Aspire?
Be gone false Hopes, vain Wishes, anxious Fears!
Hence, you Disturbers of my peaceful Years!
O my dear God! let not my Soul incline
To any Love, or let that Love be thine!

Allure, O Lord, my Desires with that sweetness which thou hast laid up for them that fear thee, that I may desire thee with eternal longings; lest the inward relish, being deceived, may mistake bitter for sweet, and sweet for better.

Aug. Soliloq. cap. 12.

II.

O that my ways were made so direct, that I might keep thy Statutes!

Psal. cxix. 5.

In what a maze of Error do I stray,
Where various Paths confound my doubtful Way!
This, to the Right; That to the Left-hand lies:
Here, Vales descend; there swelling Mountains rise:
This has an easie, That a rugged way;
The treach'ry This conceals, That does betray.
But Whither these so diff'rent Courses go,
Their wandring Paths forbid, till try'd, to know.
Mæander's Stream a streighter Motion steers,
Tho' with himself the Wand'rer interferes.
Not the fictitious Labyrinth of old
Did in more dubious Paths its Guests infold;
Here greater Difficulties stay my Feet,
And on each Road I thwarting Dangers meet.
Nor I the diff'rent windings only fear,
(In which the Artist's Skill did most appear:)
But, more to heighten and increase my Dread,
Darkness involves each doubtful Step I tread.

No friendly Tracts my wandring Foot-steps guide,
Nor other Feet th'untrodden Ground have try'd;
And, tho', lest on some fatal Rock I run,
With out-stretcht Arms I grope my Passage on;
Yet dare I not through Night and Danger stray,
They'arrest my cautious Steps, and stop my Way.
Like a strange Trav'ller by the Sun forsook,
And in a Road unknown by Night o're-took,
In whose lone Paths no Neighb'ring Swains reside,
No friendly Star appears to be his Guide,
No sign or tract by humane Foot-steps worn,
But solitary all, and all forlorn.
He knows not but each blind-fold Step he treads
To some wild Desart or fierce River leads:
Then calls aloud, and his hoarse Voice does strain,
In hope of Answer from some Neighb'ring Swain;
While nought but cheating Eccho calls again.

Oh! who will help a Wretch thus gone astray!
What friendly Star direct my dubious way?
A glorious Cloud conducted Israel's Flight,
By Day their Cov'ring, as their Guide by Night.
The Eastern Kings found Bethlem too from far,
Led by the shining Conduct of a Star;
Nor cou'd they in their tedious Journey Err,
Who had so bright a Fellow-Traveller.

Be thou no less Propitious Lord, to me,
Since all my Bus'ness is to Worship Thee.
See how the wand'ring Croud mistake their way,
And, tost about by their own Error, stray!
This tumbles head-long from an unseen Hill;
That lights on a blind Path, and wanders still.
With Haste, but not Good Speed, this hurries on;
That moves no faster than a Snail might run.
While to and fro another hasts in vain,
No sooner in the right, than out again.
Hear One walks on alone, whose boasted Skill,
Invites Another to attend him still;
Till among Thorns or miry Pools they tread;
This by his Guide, that by Himself misled.
Here One in a perpetual Circle moves,
Another, there, in endless Mazes roves;
And when he thinks his weary Ramble done,
He finds (alas!) he has but just begun.
Thus still, in Droves, the blinded Rabble stray,
Scarce one Thousand keeps or finds the way.

O that my Ways directed were by Thee,
From the deceits of baneful Error free!
Till all my Motion, like a Dart's, became
Swift as its Flight, unerring as its Aim,

That where thy Laws require me to Obey,
I may not loiter, nor mistake the Way.
Then be Thou, Lord, the Bow, thy Law the White,
And I the Arrow destin'd for the Flight:
And when thou'rt pleas'd to shew thy greatest Skill,
Make me the polish'd Shaft t'obey thy Will.

O Lord, who art the Light, the Way, the Truth, and the Life; in whom there is no Darkness, Error, Vanity, or Death. Say the word, O Lord, let there be Light, that I may see the Light, and shun the Darkness; that I may find the right way, and avoid the wrong; that I may follow Truth, and flee from Vanity; that I may obtain Life, and escape Death.

Aug. Soliloq. cap. 4.

III.

O hold thou up my going in thy Paths, that my Footsteps slip not,

Psal. xvii. 5.

So oft will me my faithless Feet betray,
So often stumble in so plain a way?
O thou, who all our Steps from Heav'n dost see,
O hold me up, dear Lord, who lean on Thee.

The Stork instructs her timerous Young to stray,
In hidden Tracts through Heav'ns wide pathless way:
Till the apt Brood, by bold Example led,
Perform the daring Flight they us'd to dread.

The Eagles teach their unfledg'd Young to fly,
Around th'untrodden Regions of the Sky.
Till for their Aid they now no longer care;
But fearless row, with feather'd Fins, thro' Seas of Air.
Thus Boys, when first they venture Streams unknown,
On Spungy Cork's light weight, support their own:
Till more improv'd, they their first help throw by,
Ambitious now alone the Floods to try.

And tho' a while, e'er they have Practis'd been,
Too often they'll unwelcome Draughts suck in;
Yet they, at length by use, Perfection gain,
And sport and play, wide-wandring in the Main.

Thou, who from Heav'n observ'st our Steps below,
See by what Arts thy Servant learns to go!
While all my weight on this slight Engine's laid,
I move the Wheels that do my Motion aid.
Thus feeble Age, supported by a Cane,
Is tir'd with that on which 'tis forc'd to lean.
But tho', dear Lord! ambiguous Terms I use,
I of no failure can my Feet accuse:
I can perceive no Imperfection there,
No rocky Ways, or thorny Roads they fear:
The weakness of my Mind disturbs me most,
Whose languid Feet have all their Motion lost:
All its Affections Lame and Bed-rid are,
(Those Feet, alas! which shou'd its Motion steer;)
When it shou'd move in Virtues easie road,
Alas! 'tis tir'd as soon as got abroad.
My frail, my bending Knees assistance need,
Weaker than Rushes, or the bruised Reed.
Sometimes, but rarely, it renews the Race,
And eagerly moves on, a Jehu's Pace:

But, weary of its Journey, scarce begun,
Its boasted Flame is all extinct, as soon
As smoaking Flax by rugged Whirlwinds blown.
Yet, lest I shou'd too much my Sloth betray,
I force my Steps and make some little way;
But then am cautious how my Feet I guide
Lest they shou'd chance to trip, or rove aside:
And the uncharitable World incline
To place it not on Weakness, but on Wine.
My reeling Steps move an indented pace,
As 'twere a Cripple halting o're a Race.
I will, I won't; I burn, all in a Breath;
And that's scarce out, e'er I'm as cold as Death:
And then, impatient at my fruitless Pain,
Tir'd in the mid-way, I return again:
Yet cannot then recover my first Place,
The pleasant Seat whence I began my Race.
Tost, like a Ship on the tempestuous Wave,
Which neither help of Sails nor Oars can save,
While with new vain Attemps I try again,
And would repair the Loss I did sustain,
The small Success too manifestly proves
My fruitless Labor in a Circle moves.
Thus Slaves, condemn'd to ply a toilsom Mill,
Repeat the same returning Motion still:

Tho' still the restless Engine's hurry'd round,
They by its haste gain not one Foot of Ground.

What shall I do, a Stranger to the Race,
Whose lazy Feet scarce move a Snails slow Pace?
Heav'n lies remote from this mean Globe below,
None but the swift and strong can thither go;
What then shall this my heavy Chariot do?

Thy Footsteps, Lord, o'recome the roughest way;
A Gyant's Feet move not so swift as they.
Thou with a Step dost East and West divide,
And o're the World, like a Colossus, stride.

But like the Tortoise, my dull Foot's delay'd,
Or rather like the Crab, moves retrograde.
How can I then hope to that Goal to run,
I make the Bus'ness of my Life to shun?
But do thou, Lord, my trembling Feet sustain,
Then I the Race and the Reward shall gain.

Who among so many Troubles of the Body, among so many Allurements of the World, can keep a safe and unerring Course?

Amb. de fuga fæculi, cap. 1.

IV.

My Flesh trembleth for fear of thee, and I am afraid of thy Judgments,

Psal. cxix 120.

A dread of Heav'n was by the Ancients taught,
As the first Impress on Man's infant Thought,
And he who understood it best, has said,
'Tis the prime Step that does to Wisdom lead.
Inform'd by this my early Childhood grew,
And to fear Heav'n was the first thing I knew:
But still such dark Oblivion dull'd my Mind,
I could not the repeated Alpha find.
No Stripes can punish my neglectful Crime,
Thus unimprov'd t'have trifled out my Time.
Dull Boys by Stripes with Learning are inspir'd,
By little Pains, with Industry acquir'd:
When twice or thrice they read their Letters o're,
They're as familiar as if known before:
And tho' in Colour all alike appear,
Each is distinguish'd by its Character.
May I not hope Age will compleat in me
The easie Task of tender Infancy?

In many things I no Instructer sought,
Too apt, (alas!) to Practise them untaught.
Why is not Fear as soon imbib'd, a Rule
So oft explain'd in Arts Improving School?
What I should slight, still (to my shame) I fear,
And slight that most, which I shou'd most revere.
I fear Mans Eye when I wou'd act a Sin,
But dread not Heav'n, nor the great Judge within:
For my gross Body I am still in fear,
But my pure Soul partakes not of my Care.
Thus silly Birds a harmless Scare-crow shun;
Yet boldly to the fatal Lime twigs run.
The Royal Stag thus Feathers frighten more,
Than the full cry of Hounds, that's just before.
Thus the fierce Lion, of false Fires afraid,
Flies to the Toils, in which he is betray'd.
Such Vanity has Men's dark Minds o'respread.
That less the Thunder than the Clap they dread;
Think Hell a Fable, an invented Name,
And count its Fire a harmless lambent Flame.
With brutish Rage to blackest Ills they run,
And never fear the Wickedness, till done:
But tho' this Fear did not their Crimes prevent,
'Twill come, too sure, to be their Punishment.
Then with strange Frights, from their lost Senses driv'n,
Their restless Thoughts run on offended Heav'n:

Then sudden Fears their watchful Thoughts allarm,
And call them from their lonely Beds to arm,
While their own Shadows only do them harm.
Each little thing's so magnify'd by Fear,
They dread a Lion, when a Mouse they hear.
If in the Night they hear a gentle Breeze
Begin to wisper in the murmuring Trees,
With Hair erect, and cold unnatural Sweat,
They shrink beneath the conscious Coverlet.
What do they then, when glaring Lightnings fly,
And bellowing Thunders roll along the Sky?
They think each Flash a Messenger of Death,
And at each Crack despair of longer Breath;
At every Noise they in new Fears engage,
And Ruin from each Accident presage;
Nay, ev'n of Silence, and its self afraid:
The troubled Mind's eternally dismay'd.
Such Punishments attend afflicting Guilt,
Which never Pain like its own Torments felt.
Thus trembling Cain dreads from each Hand he sees
The Fate his injur'd Brother had from his.
His crimson Soul, with Abel's Murther stain'd,
Still with the bloody Scene is entertain'd.
No more severe Correction waits on Sin,
Than its unbrib'd Upbraider still within.

Then with thy Darts, Lord, frighten me from Ill,
My Fury wants this kind Restriction still.
Fear timely comes before a Fault's begun,
He fears too late, that fears not till 'tis done.

The Holy Psalmist desires wisely to be smitten, and healthfully to be wounded, when he prays to be Transfix'd with the fear of God; for that fear is an excellent Dart, that wounds and destroys the Lusts of the Flesh, that the Spirit may be safe.

Bernard. Serm. 26.

101

V.

O turn away mine Eyes, lest they behold Vanity,

Psal. cxix. 37.

In my high Capitol two Centries still
Keep constant watch, to guard the Citadel:
If fix'd or wandring Stars, I do not know,
Tho' either Epithet becomes them too;
Each from its Duty is in straggling lost,
Yet each maintains immovably its Post;
Both swift of Motion, yet both fix'd remain:
What Sampson this dark Riddle can explain?

Ev'n You, my Eyes, are these mysterious Stars,
Fix'd in my Head, yet daily Wanderers:
Who plac'd in that exalted Tow'r of mine,
Like Torches in some lofty Pharos shine;
Or like to Watch-men on some rising place,
View every near, and every distant pass.
Yet you to me less constant prove by far,
Than those kind Guides to their Observers are;

102

Their Favours only with themselves Expire,
Unless the Hand that gave, recalls their Fire.
You, like mad Steeds, too headstrong for the Rein,
Will let no Pow'r your wandring Course restrain:
You, by whose Guidance we shou'd Danger shun,
Betray us to the Rocks on which we run.
Thus wandring Dina, led by your false Light,
Expos'd her Honour, to oblige her Sight.
Thus, while Jessides view'd the bathing Dame,
What cool'd her Heat, kindled in him a Flame.
Thus gazing on the Hebrew Matrons Eyes,
Made the Assyrian's Head her easie Prize.
Thus the fond Elders, by their Sight misled,
Pursu'd the Joys of a forbidden Bed;
Nor cou'd their lustfull Flame be disposset,
Till with a show'r of weighty Stones supprest.

More ruin'd Souls by these false Guides are lost,
Than Shipwreck'd Vessels on the Rockiest Coast.

Then Happy he, Happy alike and Wise,
Who made a timely Cov'nant with his Eyes!
And Happier he who did his Guards Disband,
Torn from their Posts by his wise fearless Hand!

103

So ill, false Centries, you your Charge perform,
You favour the Surprize, that shou'd the Camp allarm.
Did you for this the Capitol obtain?
For this the Charge of the Chief Castle gain?
That you have thus t'inferior Earth betray'd,
Man's lofty Soul, for nobler Objects made?
And do not rather raise his Thoughts on high,
Above the starry Arches of the Sky?
That Theatre will entertain his Sight
With various Scenes of suitable Delight:
But you are more on Earth than Heav'n intent,
And your industrious Search is downward bent.

What shall I do, since you unruly grow,
And will no Limits, no Confinement know?
Oh! shut the Wandrer's up in endless Night,
Or with thy Hand, dear God, contract their Sight.

Woe to the blind Eyes that see not Thee, the Sun that enlightens both Heaven and Earth! woe to the dim Eyes that cannot see Thee! wo to them that turn away their Eyes from beholding Truth! woe to them that turn not away their Eyes from beholding Vanity!

Aug. Soliloq. cap. 4.

105

VI.

O let my Heart be sound in thy Statutes, that I be not ashamed,

Psal. cxix. 89.

Cou'd I but hope my Face wou'd please my Dear,
That shou'd be all my Bus'ness, all my Care:
My first Concern shou'd for Complexion be,
The next, to keep my Skin from Freckles free:
No help of Art, or Industry I'd want,
No Beauty-water, or improving Paint,
My Dressing-boxes shou'd with Charms abound,
To make decay'd Old Flesh seem Young and Sound:
With Spanish-wool, red as the Blooming Rose,
And Cerusse, whiter than the Mountain Snows:
With all the Arts that studious Virgins know,
Who on their Beauty too much Pains bestow.
Then I'd correct each Error by my Glass,
Till not one Fault were found in all my Face.
If on my Brow one Hair amiss I spy'd,
That very Hair shou'd soon be rectify'd.
If dull my Eyes, how loudly I'd complain
Till they their wonted Lustre wore again.

106

Shou'd but one Wrinkle in my Face appear,
I'd cry, What means this swacy Wrinkle here?
Ev'n with each Mole t'offend thee I shou'd fear,
Cou'd I but think this Face to thee were dear.
For if the smallest Wart thereon shou'd rise,
I doubt t'wou'd seem a Mountain in your Eyes.
Nay, the least Fault my self wou'd Censure too,
For fear that Fault shou'd be dislik'd by you.
Thus every Grace which Nature has deny'd,
By Art's kind help shou'd amply be supply'd:
With Curls and Locks I wou'd adorn my Head,
And thick with Jewels my gay Tresses spread:
With double Pearls I'd hang my loaded Ears,
Whilst my white Neck vast Chains of Rubies wears.
Thus I among the Fairest wou'd be seen,
And dare vie Beauty, ev'n with Sheba's Queen.

But oh! no such vain Toys affect your Mind,
These meet with no Admirers, but the Blind,
Who in a Dress seek Objects of their Love,
Which once put off, the Beauties too remove.
Thus the fond Crowd's caught by a gay Attire,
The only Thing indeed they find t'admrie.

But You, my Love, no borrow'd Beauties prize,
No artificial Charms, attract your Eyes.

107

Dear as your own, you rate a spotless Heart,
And for its sake accept each other Part.

Oh that my Heart unspotted were, and free
From every Tincture of impurity!
Then in your favour I shou'd make my Boast.
And hate each Stain by which it might be lost.

O base and filthy Spots, why do you stick so long? Be gone, depart, and presume no more to offend my Beloved's Sight.

Hugo de S. Vict. in Arrha animæ.

109

VII.

Come my Beloved, let us go forth into the Fields, let us lodge in the Villages,

Cant. vii. 11,

Come, come, my Love, let's leave the busie Throng,
We trifle here our precious Time too long.
Come, let us hasten to some Field or Grove,
The fittest Theatres for Scenes of Love.
Strong Walls and Gates the City guard, 'tis true,
But what secures it thus, confines it too.
We'll reap the Pleasures of the open Field,
Which does Security with Freedom yield.
For there's I know not what, so safe, so dear
I'th' Country, as we ne'er shou'd light on here.
What tho' the City-Tow'rs the Clouds invade,
And o'er the Fields project their lofty shade?
Yet thence Content has made a far Retreat,
And chose the humble Cottages its Seat;
(Where something more divinely Sweet they breath,
Altho' all Thatch above, all Earth beneath.)

110

There the remotest Solitude enjoys
The Blessing of more Quiet, and less Noise.
Come then, my Love, and let's retire from hence,
And leave this busie fond Impertinence.
See! ev'n the Cities eldest Son and Heir,
Who gets his Gold, his dear-lov'd Idol, there;
Yet in the Country spends his City-gains,
And makes its Pleasure recompence his Pains:
And tho' the City has his publick Voice,
The Country ever is his private Choice.
Here still the Rich, the Noble, and the Great,
Unbend their Minds in a secure Retreat;
And Heavn's free Canopy yields more Delight
Than guilded Roofs and Fret-work to the Sight.
Nor can fenc'd Cities keep the Mind in Peace,
So well as open guardless Villages.
Come then, my Love, let's from the City hast,
Each Minute we spend there, is so much waste.

I have a Country-Farm, whose fertile Ground
Soft murmuring Brooks and chrystal Streams surround;
A better Air or Soil were never known,
Nor more convenient Distance from the Town:
Hither, my Love, if thou wilt take thy Flight,
The City will no more thy Sense Delight,
Driv'n from thy Thoughts as quickly as thy Sight.

111

Here in the Shades I will my Dear Caress,
At leisure to receive my kind Address.
Here, from the City and its Tumults free,
I shall enjoy more than my Self, in Thee.
As o'er our Heads, dress'd in their leavy State,
The amorous Turtle wooes his faithful Mate.
No Bus'ness shall invade our Pleasure here,
No rude Disturber of our Joys appear.
Here thou thy secret Passions shalt reveal,
And whisper in my Ear the pleasing Tale;
While in Requital I disclose my Flame,
And in the fav'ring Shades conceal my Shame.
Oh! cou'd I see that Happy Happy Day!
I know no Bliss beyond, for which to Pray.
Then to the Country let us, Dear, repair,
For Love thrives best in the clear open Air.

What dost thou? How long do the Shadows of the Houses confine thee? How long does the Prison of the smoaky City shut thee up? Believe me, I see some greater Light, and am resolv'd to throw off the burthen of the Flesh, and fly to the splendor of the purer Air.

Hieron. Ep. ad Hesiod. 1.

113

VIII.

Draw me, we will run after thee, (in the savour of thy Oyntments,)

Cant. I. 4.

See how my feeble Limbs, now giv'n in vain,
Increase the Burthen which they shou'd sustain!
While, weary of my hated Life, I lie,
A faint Resemblance of what once was I.
My Head, deprest with its one weight, hangs low,
And to themselves my Limbs a Burthen grow.
In various Postures still I seek for Ease,
But find at last not any one to please.
Now I wou'd rise, now wish my self in Bed,
Now with my Hands support my drooping Head:
Now on my Back, now on my Face I lie,
And now for Rest on either side I try:
And when my Bed I've tumbled Restless o're,
I'm still th'uneasie Wretch I was before.
Thus hinder'd by my own Infirmity,
Tho' fain I would, I cannot follow thee.
Then wilt thou go, and leave me Dying here?
Is this thy Kindness, this thy Love, my Dear;
And do I then so great a Burthen grow,
Thou wilt not stay till I can with thee go?

114

Thus Soldiers from their wounded Comrades fly
At an Allarm of any Danger nigh.
Unnat'ral Mothers thus their Babes disclaim,
Urg'd to the Sin by Poverty or Shame.
Stretch, Lord, thy Hand, and thy weak Follower meet,
Or if not reach thy Hand, yet stay thy Feet.

The grateful Stork bears o're the spacious Flood,
Its aged Dam, and Triumphs in the Load:
The Doe supports her tender Swimmers weight,
And minds her self less than her dearer Fraight.

But you, unkind! forsake your Love, alone,
In desert Fields forgotten, and unknown,
So burthensom her Company is grown:
Yet I'd not hinder or retard your Haste,
But gently draw, and I shall follow fast:
Tho' fall'n and fainting now, a little space
Shall make me out-strip the Winds impetuous Race,
Nor shall you Violence need to force me on,
Free and unurg'd, I'll close behind you run.
As, when at your Command the Net was cast,
The willing Fish leapt in with eager haste;
And unconcern'd, their own Destruction sought,
So much 'twas their Ambition to be caught.

Pleasure and Sense do all Mankind misguide,
Some by their Eyes, some by their Ears are ty'd.

115

I seek not, Lord, my Eyes or Ears to please,
Th'Arabian Sweets sute best with my Disease.
Thy Tresses of the balmy Spiknard smell,
And from thy Head the richest Oyls distill.
Choice fragrant Scents from thy lov'd Temples flow,
And on thy Lips eternal Roses grow,
Thou breath'st the Odors of the Spicy East,
In Myrrhy Dew thy fragrant Words are drest.
Thy Iv'ry Neck sweats richest Frankincense,
And ev'ry part does some rare Scent dispence.
Whate'er Perfumes in the vast World are found,
In a rich Compound mix'd, in Thee abound.
Just such a noble Smell, and rich Perfume
Was that of old fill'd the blest Virgins Room,
When Thou, the Flow'r of Jesse , began'st to Bloom.

O! might this Odor bless my longing Sense,
How wou'd it cure my feeble Impotence!
I soon shou'd conquer all my Languishment,
And swiftly follow the attractive Scent,
And my Companions the same Course wou'd move,
As the whole Flock waits on th'anointed Dove.

Love is a Cord that holds fast, and draws Affectionately, whose Words are so many Allurements. Nothing holds faster than the Band of Love, nothing Attracts more powerfully.

Gilbert. in Cant. Hom. 18.

117

IX.

O that thou wert as my Brother, that sucked the Breasts of my Mother; when I should find thee without, I would kiss thee, yet I should not be Despised,

Cant. viii. 1.

Who will enoble my unworthy Race,
And Thy great Name among their Numbers place?
Nor wish I this to raise my Pedigree,
Contented with my mean Obscurity.
Yet, tho' my Blood wou'd be a stain to Thine,
Still I must wish we had one Parent-line.
Nor wou'd I have thee grown to those brisk Years
When first the gentle budding Down appears.
But still an Infant, hanging on the Breast,
The same which I before have often prest:
A Brother such wou'd my Ambition chuse,
If Elder, I thy Converse must refuse.
My Life! be born again, and let me see,
Dear Child, those happy Cradles, blest by Thee.
Children have pretty, pleasant, charming Arts,
Above the Elder Sort, to win our Hearts;

118

And tho' each Age wou'd its own Merit prove,
Childhood is still most prevalent in Love:
Ev'n he who tames the World, tho' calm and mild
His Face appear—ev'n Love himself's a Child.
Wer't thou a Boy, drest in thy Infant Charms
Unblam'd, I'd clasp thee closely in my Arms.
My Life! be born again, and and let me see,
Dear Child, Those happy Cradles, blest by Thee:
Then I shou'd have Thee to my self alone,
Nor blam'd, nor censur'd if my Love were known.
My Arms all Day shou'd bear thy grateful Weight,
And be thy safe Enclosure all the Night.
When thy soft Cheeks or ruddy Lips I'd kiss,
No Fear or Shame shou'd interrupt the Bliss;
For none a Sister's Kindness can Upbraid,
At least when to an Infant-Brother Paid:
And tho' on thy soft Lips long time I'd dwell,
Sure a Chaste Kiss can never be but well.
O that you'd hear, ye gentle Pow'rs above,
And to my Brother thus transform my Love!
That thou, my Dear, my Brother wou'dst become,
Dear as the Off-spring of my Parents Womb.
Then all my Vows, then all my Thanks I'd pay,
Bless the glad Change, and hail the welcome Day.
What wou'd I do to make my Transport known?
What wou'd I do? What wou'd I leave undone?

119

How oft wou'd I, by stealth, ev'n when forbid,
Stand all Night Centry by the Cradle-side?
How num'rous shou'd my Services become?
Ev'n till, perhaps you thought 'em troublesom:
For when my Mother took thee from the Breast,
My Arms shou'd with the next remove be Blest:
Or if she'd have thee born to take the Air,
I'd still my self the grateful Burthen bear.
Or wou'd she have thee in the Cradle lie,
Sing thee to Sleep, and then sit watching by:
If she to take the lov'd Employment went
My eager haste shou'd her Design prevent:
But when she shou'd intrust thee to my Care,
And going forth, leave me to tend my Dear;
How great wou'd be the Pleasure of my Charge?
How wou'd I then indulge my Self at large?
Thy Mantle soon I softly wou'd remove,
Eager t'enjoy the Object of my Love;
And, favour'd by the most Commodious Light,
Feast on thy lovely Face my longing Sight.
Thy Head shou'd on my Left-hand gently rest,
While with my Right I claspt thee to my Breast;
And then so lightly I wou'd steal a Kiss,
It shou'd not interrupt thy sleeping Bliss.
Then, Dear, be pleas'd a second Birth t'allow,
That on thy Cheeks my Lips may pay their Vow.

120

And as thy growth renders thy Organs strong,
And thou beginn'st to use thy loosned Tongue;
Then thou, my Love, shalt my small Pupil be,
And as I Speak, shalt Stammer after me:
And when thou dost the help of Arms refuse,
And dar'st attempt th'assisting Wand to use,
I'll teach thee safely how to Praunce along,
And keep thy nimble Footsteps firm and strong:
And if some naughty Stone offend thy Feet,
My ready Arms their stumbling Charge shall meet:
Pleas'd with a frequent Opportunity
Of thus receiving and embracing Thee:
Nor shall I any Recompence regard,
The pleasing Service is its own Reward.

121

I was ignorant, O sweet Jesu, that thy Embraces were so pleasant, thy Touch so delightful, thy Conversation so diverting; for when I touch Thee, I am clean; when I receive Thee, I am a Virgin.

Bonavent. Soliloq. cap. 1.

123

X.

By Night on my Bed, I sought him whom my Soul loveth, I sought him, but I found him not,

Cant. iii. 1.

I treat not of inferior mortal Fires,
But chastest Sighs, and more sublime Desires;
As Bodies, so the Minds their Flames receive,
But still the grosser for the Bodies leave.
The generous Fire that warms the Soul, does prove
And that alone, the pleasing Charms of Love.
What nobler Flames the lofty Minds inspire!
How are they rais'd to more refin'd Desire!
In what Divine Embraces do they join!
What holy Hands their mutual Contracts sign!
How dear the Joys of that chast Genial Bed!
With what unspeakable Delights 'tis spread!
Where the pleas'd Soul in her Beloved's Arms,
And he in hers, gaze on each others Charms.
The Bed on which such happy Lovers rest,
Is downy Peace in its own quiet Blest.

124

Here I was wont, when Care drove Sleep away,
Pregnant with Thought, to watch the Dawning Day;
Here the dear He that stole my Virgin-heart
Did oft to me his Bosom-cares impart.
Then, then a Sacred Flame my Soul possest,
And no less Heat reign'd in his amorous Breast:
Then silent Love did all our Thoughts imploy
Tho' Dumb, our Eyes discours'd in Tears of Joy.
But now, nor know I why, my Love's estrang'd,
I fear some Fault of mine his Mind has chang'd:
For, a whole Day he has not Blest my Sight,
Nor (which he ever us'd) return'd at Night.
Or has the Faithless fickle Charmer fled,
Or for another left my Widow'd Bed?
How sadly I in Tears and Discontent
The tedious Night of his griev'd Absence spent?
'Twas now the dead low Ebb of deepest Night,
And gentle Sleep had lock'd my Drowsy Sight.
When a loud Voice surpriz'd my trembling Ear,
And call'd, Rise, Sluggard, see your Love's not here.
Straight I awake, and rub my sleepy Eyes,
Then the forsaken House I fill with Cries:
Sleep'st thou, my Love? But Answer I had none,
For He, (alas!) to whom I spoke, was gone.
Soon with a lighted Torch his Steps I Trace,
And wish I ne'er had seen them nor his Face.

125

Then on the guiltless Bed begin t'exclaim,
Ask where my Love is, and it's Silence blame.
Distracted then I search the Chamber round,
But what I sought was no where to be found.
What Tumults then were rais'd within my Breast,
Who once on Peace's downy Bed did rest?
What raging Storms then tost my troubled Mind,
Unus'd to Tempests of so fierce a Kind!
With Pain my heavy Eyes to Heav'n I raise,
And scarce my Lips can open in its Praise;
My former Strength in sacred Conflicts fails,
And what was once my Sport, my Soul bewails:
For while Success Crown'd my troubled Head,
On Golden Peace I made my easie Bed:
Then, like a Boasting Soldier, Raw and Young,
Who always is Victorious with his Tongue,
I wish'd to Exercise some Tyrant's Rage,
Or in some glorious Hazard I'd engage.
So warm a Heat within my Blood did play,
While on the easie Bed of Peace I lay:
But when this Heat forsook me with my Love,
Colder than Scythian Frosts my Blood did prove,
So Flow'rs, which gentle Zephyrs kindly rear,
Nipt by Cold Frosts, decay and disappear:
So Lamps burn bright, while Oyl maintains their Fire,
But as that ceases, Languish and Expire,

126

Alas! my Love, I sought thee in my Bed,
Who on the Cross had'st laid thy weary Head:
Peace was my Bed, while the curst Cross was Thine,
I shou'd have sought Thee by that fatal Sign,
Much Time I lost in seeking thee around,
But sought thee where thou wert not to be found.

127

Then we may be said to seek our Beloved in Bed, when being amused with any little sort of a Rest in this present Life, we yet sigh after our Redeemer, We seek him in the Night, because tho' then the Soul is waking, yet the Eye is still in Darkness.

Greg. in Ezek. Hom. 19.

129

XI.

I will rise, and go about the City in the Streets, and in the broad ways I will seek him whom my Soul loveth: I sought him, but I found him not,

Cant. iii. 2.

At last, tho' late, my Error does appear,
Had I search'd well I sure had found my Dear.
I thought him wrapt in soft Repose, in Bed
Easing his troubled Breast, and weary Head;
But there (alas!) my Love I cou'd not find,
A harder Lodging was for him design'd.

Alas! my Life, alas! what shall I do?
How can I Rest or Sleep depriv'd of You?
No, tho' a thousand Rivers murm'ring Noise
Shou'd court me to it with one lulling Voice;
Nor tho' as many whisp'ring Groves conspire,
And join the Musick of their feather'd Quire.
Scarce close my weary Eyes, with Cares opprest,
When Sorrow rushes in, and breaks my Rest.
My Eyes, my Thoughts no Night admit, but when
I tossing lie, each tedious Hour seems Ten.

130

If ever Sleep indulge my Misery,
My Sleeping Thoughts are all imploy'd on Thee:
Why then shou'd wretched I seek Rest in vain,
Since Sleep so oft denies to ease my Pain?

My Bed I quit, and ranging all the Town,
Remove as Chance or Reason leads me on:
Each Corner search, and hope in each to find
The dearest Object of my Eyes and Mind:
No Place escapes me, none so private lies,
To cheat th'Enquiry of my curious Eyes.
The eager Hound thus close his Game pursues,
While the warm Scent directs his reddy Nose:
Thro' Woods and Thickets, Bri'rs, and Thorns he runs,
No Danger dreads, or Inconvenience shuns.
Thus once the weeping Magdalen did Roam
To find her Lord, when missing in his Tomb.
What that denies, she hopes the City yields;
But there not found, she seeks him in the Fields;
No Man unask'd, no Place unsearch'd, remain'd,
Till the dear Treasure which she sought was gain'd:
Thus the griev'd Dam for her robb'd Nest complains,
And fills the Forrest with her mournful Strains;
About the Tree enrag'd she flies, and now
Lights on the top, then on some under-Bough.

131

And to her Fellows sadly does relate
Th'injurious stealth, and her lost Off-Springs Fate.
Thus have I search'd thro' ev'ry Walk and Street,
But what I sought (alas!) I cou'd not meet.
Base Walks! and hateful Streets! whose ev'ry Road
My weary Feet so oft in vain have trod!
I mist my Love in Bed, and sought him here;
But sought amiss, and still must want my Dear.

Christ is not found in the Courts nor in the Streets; Christ is no frequenter of the Courts. Christ is Peace, in the Courts are Contentions: Christ is Justice, in the Courts is Iniquity, &c. Let us shun the Courts, let us avoid the Streets.

Amb. de Virg. lib. 3.

133

XII.

Saw you him whom my Soul loveth? It was but a little that I past from them, but I found him whom my Soul loveth: I held him, and wou'd not let him go,

Cant. iii. 3, 4.

Is there a Corner left in all the Town,
Which in my weary Search I have not known?
With flaming Torches every Street was Light,
Nor did I ev'n the meanest Allies slight.
Alas! what Ground did I not Travel o're,
Till even the City had not any more?
But why shou'd I this fruitless Toil approve,
Since all my seeking does not find my Love?
Then, hopeless, back my pensive Course I steer'd,
But still no Tidings of my Lover heard;
When I at last approach'd the City-gate,
Where a strong Guard in constant Watch did wait:
Said I Perhaps my Love is hidden here:
And then I ask'd them if they saw my Dear?
They Laugh'd, and my Enquiry did deride,
And who's your Love? One of the Centries cry'd:

134

Has he no Name by which he may he known?
How can we tell, since you have giv'n us none?
Excuse, said I, my rude Simplicity,
I thought him known to all the World, as Me:
And that our Love, so much the talk of Fame,
Had made it needless to declare his Name;
And tho' you wou'd pretend this Ign'rance now,
I'm Confident you cannot chuse but know:
Then pray be pleas'd in Earnest to declare
If you have seen him lately passing here:
Him, whom above my Life I dearly Prize,
And him who loves me more than his own Eyes?
Say, when he went, what Stay he made with you,
And whither he pretended he wou'd go?
Unto the Right or Left-hand is he gone?
Or had he Company, or was h' alone?
The sportful Watch, regardless of my Cares,
Answer with Laughter, and deride my Tears.
From them I go, hopeless my Love to find,
Whiles Tides of Grief o'rewhelm'd my sinking Mind.
But while my Soul such painful Thoughts imploy,
(Nor dar'd I let it hope so vast a Joy:)
My Love, the same I sought the City round,
Now, unexpected and unsought, was found.

135

Lost between Joy and Fear in the Surprize,
I durst not well give credit to my Eyes.
And have I thee again? I wou'd have cry'd,
But as I strove, my faultring Tongue deny'd.
As when some mournful Wife sees by her Bed
Her Husband long by Fame reported Dead;
Amaz'd to meet what she had giv'n for lost,
She flies his Arms, and takes him for a Ghost:
Nor dares, till his known Voice the Truth assure,
The Sight of what she most desires, endure:
And still she fears lest she too easie prove,
Betray'd to this Credulity by Love.
Thus while I trembling stand, again I try;
Again my Life salutes my joyful Eye.
Toss'd between Doubt, and Hope, and Love, and Fear,
Are you my Love, I cry, or in his Shape appear?
My Dear! — ah no! alas! you are not He;
Yet sure you are — Yes, yes, you are, I see.
My Love, My Life, I see and know you now,
My secret Ecstacy discovers you.
Pleas'd with your Voice, and ravish'd with your Face,
I fly uncall'd to your belov'd Embrace.
Thus, thus I'll bind you to me, and prevent
A second Search, the Soldiers Merriment.
O that my Arms were Chains, and each part else,
Feet, Hands and all, were Gyves and Manacles!

136

Then with a triple Band my Love I'd bind,
Close as the Elm is by the Vine entwin'd;
The snaky Ivy shou'd not closer crawl
About the Ruines of its dear lov'd Wall.
And while my busie Hands your Neck enclose,
Think that no Burthen which their Kindness shows!
Remember, Love, you have been absent long,
And Time that did it must repair the wrong:
But of the Recompence you soon complain,
And e'er my Joys begin, are gone again.
But stay! ah too unkind, ungrateful! stay!
Nor shall you fly, unless you force your way.

137

When I had found him, I held him so much the faster, by how much the longer I was in finding him.

Beda in Cant. cap. 3.

139

XIII.

But it is good for me to hold me fast by God, to put my Trust in the Lord God,

Psal. lxxiii. 27.

Thro' what strange turns of Fortune have I gone,
Just as a Ball from Hand to Hand is thrown?
Wars loud Allarms were first my sole Delight,
And hope of Glory led me out to Fight:
Arms rais'd my Courage, Arms were all my care,
As if I had no other Bus'ness here.
Oft with a Song I past my tedious Hour,
While I stood Centry on some lofty Tow'r:
Oft I the Enemies Intent betray'd,
And shew'd their Motions by the Signs I made.
I learnt t'intrench a Camp, and Bulwarks rear,
With all the Cunning of an Engineer.
I ever forward was, and bold in Fight,
And did to Action the faint Troops Excite.
None better understood the Art of War,
None more the Soldiers or Commanders Care:
Oft in the Lybian Desart did I Sweat,
Tir'd with the Sand, and melted with the Heat;

140

Choak'd with the Dust, yet no kind Fountain nigh,
The Place as little Moisture had as I.

How oft have I swam mighty Rivers o'er,
With heavy Armour loaden, tir'd, and sore?
And still my Sword across my Mouth have laid,
Whene'er I did the adverse Stream invade.
Thus long the Camp has had my Company,
A Foot-man first, then of the Cavalry.
My Breast-plate has ten Shots of Arrows born,
Nor fewer Stroaks my batter'd Helmet torn.
Thrice was my Horse shot under me, my Crest
Four times struck off, and I as oft Distrest.
Yet boldly I expos'd my Self to harm,
And in my En'mies Blood my Hand was warm.
But on my Back I did no Wounds receive,
My ready Breast met all my Foes durst give:
For boldly against Fire and Sword I stood,
And flights of Arrows which the Sky did cloud:
On Heads of Men, slain by my Sword I trod,
And as I mov'd, my ways with Corps I strow'd.
But yet the Man that did these Conquests gain,
Cou'd not, with all his Pow'r, his Wish obtain;
With all his Lawrels won, and Foes o'er-come,
His Crowns deserv'd, and Trophies too brought home:

141

One Fault did all his former Triumphs blast,
And blotted out their Memory at last.
The General cashier'd me with a Word,
And o'er my Head broke my once useful Sword.
And thus in publick Scorn my Fame expir'd,
With the dear Purchase of my Blood acquir'd;
O my dear God! had I born Arms for Thee,
Thy Favour had not thus deserted me.
What Hopes are plac'd on Thee can never fail,
Firm as an Anchor fix'd within the Vail.
Behind thy Altar then I'll lay my Arms,
And bid a long Adieu to War's Allarm's.
But soon my Mind on Gain was all intent,
Gain to my Thoughts such Sweets did represent.
A Ship I bought, which when I Fraighted well,
Abroad I steer'd, to Purchase and to Sell.
In both the Indies I expos'd my Ware,
No Port was known but I had Trafick there:
For from small Ventures, large Acquests to gain,
Was all the busie Study of my Brain.
Wealth now came flowing in with such a Tide,
It wou'd not in my strained Chests abide.
My Ships came loaden from the Indian-shoar;
But next return they Perish'd at my Door.
My Books with Debtors Names still larger grew;
But they Forswore, and so I lost my Due.

142

Thus Salt, made in the Sea, does there decay,
Thus where 'twas gain'd, my Wealth all melts away

How peaceful is the Man, and how secure,
Whom War did ne'er delight, nor Gain Allure?
No more shall Gain my cheated Fancy please,
That cannot purchase one short Minutes Ease.
What shall I do, since my Attempts are vain?
In War, no Fame; in Trade, no Wealth I gain?
Then to the Court I hastily repair,
My Fame as soon finds kind Reception there.
I'm brought before the King, and kiss his Hand,
He likes my Person, gives me a Command.
Now grown his Fav'rite, I have all his Ear;
Whate'er I Speak, he eagerly does Hear:
And to new Honours does me still Advance,
Not the effect of Merit, but of Chance.
But, whether his Mistake, or my Desert,
I'm now indear'd, and wound into his Heart.
Oft in Discourse we spent the busie Day,
And ne'er regarded how it past away.
Nay, without me, he wou'd not Play nor Eat,
My Presence gave a Relish to his Meat:
No Fav'rite e'er was dearer to his Prince;
No Prince such Favours ever did Dispense.

143

Sejanus rul'd not thus his Master's Heart;
His wary Lord allow'd him but a Part:
Nor Clytu's self cou'd greater Honours have,
Tho' the World's Conqu'ror was almost his Slave.
This new Advancement pleas'd my Thoughts, 'tis true,
(For there are secret Charms in all things new.)
The Courtiers envy, and the Crowds admire
To see the King my Company desire.
But, oh! on Kings 'tis Folly to depend,
Whose Pow'r, much more their Favours, quickly end.
The King to Frowns does all his Smiles convert,
And as he lov'd, so hates, without desert.
His Favour sow'rs to Rage, and I am sent
Far from my Native Soil to Banishment.
My fall to Hist'ry adds one Story more,
A Story I for ever must deplore.
Sejanus had not a severer Fate,
Nor Clytu's Happiness a shorter Date.
O God! how great is their Security,
Whose Hopes and Wishes all are fix'd on Thee?

Forsake all other Loves; he is fairer who Created Heaven and Earth.

Aug. in Psal. 36.

145

XIV.

I sate down under his Shadow (whom I loved) with great Delight,

Cant. iii. 3.

In a long Journey to an unknown Clime,
Much Ground I Travell'd, and consum'd much Time;
Till weary grown, computing in my Mind,
I thought the shortest of my Way behind.
But when I better had survey'd the Race,
I found there still remain'd the greater Space.
Then my faint Limbs grew feeble with Despair,
Discourag'd at a Journey so severe:
With Hands and Eyes erect, I vent my Grief
To Heav'n, in hope from thence to find Relief.

Oh! who will shade me from this scorching Heat?
See on my Head how the fierce Sun-beams beat!
While by their Fervor parch'd, the burning Sand
Torments my Feet, and scarce will let me stand.
Then you I praise, dear Groves, and shady Bowers,
Blest with cool Springs, and sweet refreshing Flow'rs.

146

Then wish th'expanded Poplar wou'd o'erspread,
Or leavy Apple shade my weary Head.

The God whose Aid I oft had sought before,
As often found, now adds this Favour more.
Whither your hast Designs, says he, I know;
Know what you want, and how you want it too.
I know you seek Jerusalem above,
Thither your Life and your Endeavours move:
But with the tedious Pilgrimage dismay'd,
Implore Refreshment from the Apple's shade.
See, see, I come to bring your Pains Relief!
Beneath my Shadow ease your weary Grief.
Behold my Arms stretch'd on the fatal Tree!
With these extended Boughs I'll cover Thee:
Behold my bleeding Feet, my gaping Side!
In these free Coverts thou thy Self mayst hide.
This Shade will grant thee thy desir'd Repose,
This Tree alone for that kind Purpose grows.

Thus spoke the God, whose Favour thus Exprest,
With Strength inspir'd my Limbs, with Hope my Breast.
I rais'd my Eyes, and there my Love I spy'd;
But, oh! my Love, my Love was Crucify'd!
O what a dismal Scene (I all dismaid
Cry'd out) presents me this unnat'ral Shade.

147

What Comfort can it yield to wretched Me,
While Thou art hung on this accursed Tree?
Curs'd Tree! and more curs'd Hand by which 'twas set!
The bloody Stains are reeking on it yet!
Yet this fair Tree projects its spreading Boughs,
And with kind cooling Shades invites Repose:
But what it offers still it self denies,
And more to Tears than Sleep inclines my Eyes.

Blest Tree! and happy Hand that fix'd thee here!
That Hand deserves the Honour of a Star!
Now, now, my Love, I thy Resemblance know,
My cool, kind, shady Residence below.
As the large Apple spreads its loaden Boughs,
From whose rare Fruit a pleasing Liquor flows:
And, more than all its fellows of the Wood,
Allows the weary Rest, the hungry Food:
Thus thou art, Lord, my Covert in the Heat;
My Drink when Thirsty, and when Hungry, Meat.
How oft, my Love, how oft with earnest Pray'r,
Have I invok'd thy Shade, to Rest me there?
There pensive I'll bewail my wretched State,
Like a sad Turtle widow'd of her Mate;
I'll bathe thy pale dead Lips in a warm Flood,
And from thy Locks I'll wash the clotted Blood:

148

Thy hanging Head my Hands shall gently raise,
And to my Cheek I'll lay thy gory Face;
Thy wounded Side with watry Eyes I'll view,
And as thy Blood, my Tears shall ever flow:
Flow till my Sight, by their kind Flood reliev'd,
With the sad Object be no longer griev'd.

Yet this one Wound in me will many make,
Till Prostrate at thy Feet my Place I take:
Then I'll embrace again the fatal Tree,
And write this sad Inscription under Thee:
Two Lovers see, who their own Deaths conspire!
She drowns in Tears, while He consumes in Fire.

149

A shadow is made of a Body and Light, and is the Traveller's Covert from the Heat, his Protection from the Storm. The Tree of Life, to wit, the Apple-Tree, is the Holy-Cross; its Fruit is Christ, its Shadow the Refreshment and Defence of Mankind,

Honorius in cap. 2. Cant. apud Delr.

151

XV.

How shall we sing the Lords Song in a strange Land?

Psal. cxxxvii. 4.

Oh! why, my Friends, am I desir'd to Sing?
How can I raise a Note, or touch a String?
Musick requires a Soul to Mirth inclin'd,
And sympathizes with the troubled Mind.

But you reply, Such Seasons most require
The kind Diversion of the warbling Lyre;
When Grief wou'd strike you Dumb, 'tis time to Sing,
Then strain the Voice, and strike the trembling String;
Lest then the Mind o'erwhelm'd in Sorrow lie,
Too much intent on its own Misery.

You urge, this Remedy will Grief asswage,
And with Examples prove what you alledge.
You say, This tunes the weary Sailors Note,
While o're Long Seas their nimble Vessels Float:
You say, This makes the artful Shepherd play,
Whose tuneful Pipes the tedious Hours betray,

152

And that the Trav'llers Journey easi'st proves,
When to the Musick of his Voice he moves.
And Soldiers when with Night or Labour tir'd
By Singing, with new Vigour are inspir'd.
I'll not Perversly blame this Art in them,
Nor th'inoffensive Policy condemn;
But know my Tongue, long practis'd in Complaint,
Is skill'd in Grief, in Lamentations quaint.
Scarce my lost Skill cou'd I to Practice bring,
And Musick seem'd a strange unusual Thing;
And as one blinded long scarce brooks the Light,
So pleasing Ayres my uncouth Tongue affright.
When I my slighted Numbers wou'd retrieve,
And make the speaking Chords appear to live;
When I wou'd raise the murmuring Viol Voice,
Or make the Lute in brisker Sounds rejoyce;
When on my Pipe attempt a shriller Note,
Or join my Harp in Consort with my Throat:
My Voice (alas!) in floods of Tears is drown'd,
And boistrous Sighs disperse the fainting sound.
Again to Sing, again to Play I try'd;
Again my Voice, again my Hand deny'd:
Slow and Unactive by Disuse so long,
Their Art's forgot both by my Hand and Tongue:
And now with these Allays I try too late
To mollifie my hard, my rigid Fate.

153

Grant I excell'd in Musick, and in Song,
And warbled swift Division with my Tongue;
Cou'd I with Israel's sweetest Singer vie,
Or touch the Harp with more Success than He:
Will Musick or Complaint best suit my Woe,
Who never had more cause to Weep, than Now?
But Sorrow has my tuneful Harp unstrung,
And Grief's become habitual to my Tongue:
Nor do the Place or Time such Mirth allow;
But grant they did, my Sorrows answer no.
For wou'd you have an exil'd Stranger Sing
His Country Songs under a Foreign King?
Forbear; my Fate and this loath'd Place conspire
To Silence me, and hinder your Desire.
Tears drown my Eyes, exhausted by my Wrongs,
Then, ah! how am I fit for jocund Songs?
Harsh Fortune's wounded Captive kindly spare!
My Voice has lost its pleasing Accents here.
Sorrow disorders and distorts my Face,
I cannot give my Songs their former Grace.
Shou'd I begin to Sing or Play, 'twou'd be
Some doleful Emblem of my Misery.
My Thoughts are all on my lost State intent,
And close Companions of my Banishment.
Then why am I desir'd to Play or Sing,
Now Grief has broke my Voice, and slackned ev'ry String?

154

Oh! my lov'd Country, when I think on Thee,
My Lute, my Voice, my Mind, all lose their Harmony:
But if to Thee I happily return,
Then they shall all Rejoyce, as much as now they Mourn.

155

O that I could say such Things as the Hymn-singing Choire of Angels! How willingly would I pour forth my Self in thy Praises!

Aug. Medit. cap. 35.

157

ECSTACIES OF THE ENAMOUR'D SOUL.

BOOK the Third.

I.

I charge you, O Daughters of Jerusalem, if you find my Beloved, that you tell him that I am sick of Love,

Cant. v. 8.

Blest Residents in those bright Courts above
Those Starry Temples where you Sing and Love:
By sacred Verse I you adjure and bind,
If by a happy Chance my Love you find;
To him my strong, my restless Passion bear,
And gently whisper't in his sacred Ear;
How I each Moment in soft Sighs Expire,
And Languish in the Flames of my Desire.
How I am scorch'd in Love's fierce torrid Zone,
As withering Flow'rs before the raging Sun.

158

For scattering round his Darts, among the rest
He shot himself into my Love-sick Breast;
Thro'Blood and Bones the Shaft like Lightning stole,
And with strange Infl'ence seiz'd my melting Soul:
Now in a Flame unquenchable I burn,
And feel my Breast t'another Ætna turn.
If a more full Account he wou'd receive,
(For Lovers always are inquisitive:)
Tell him how Pale, how Lanquishing I look,
And how I fainted when I wou'd have spoke.
If he enquires what pace my Fever moves,
O! tell him, I no Fever feel, but Love's:
Or if he asks what danger of my Death,
Tell him—I cou'd not tell, for want of Breath.
Tell him no Message you from me Relate,
But gasping Sounds, that spoke approaching Fate
Yet, if he questions how in Death I look,
Say how my Beauty has my Face forsook.
Say how I'm strangely all Transform'd with Woe
That he my Suff'rings and their Cause may know.
Tell him I lie seiz'd with a deadly Swound,
A Bloodless Corps stretch'd on the naked Ground.
Tell him my Eyes swim round my dizzy Head,
And on my Breast my feeble Hands are spread,
The Coral of my Lips grow sickly pale,
And on my Cheeks the withering Roses fail;

159

My Veins, tho' Chaf'd, have lost their Azure hue,
And their Decay shews Nature failing too:
Nor any Signs express remaining Life,
But the worst Symptoms, Sighs that vent my Grief.
And yet I cannot any Reason feign,
Why, tho' unhurt, so often I complain;
Unless some treach'rous Sigh unruly prove,
Betray my blushing Soul, and own 'tis Love.
This, this was sure my Sorrows only cause;
I lov'd, yet knew not what a Lover was.
This from my Breast extorted frequent Sighs,
And prest the Tears from my o'erflowing Eyes.
This was the cause, that when I strove to frame
Remote Discourse, it ended with his Name.
Oh! then —
Tell the lov'd Object of my Thought and Eye,
How I his Martyr and his Victim die.
Distill'd in Love's Alembick, I Expire,
Parch'd up, like Roses, by too warm a Fire;
Or dry'd, like Lilies, which have long in vain
Begg'd the refreshment of a gentle Rain.
Tell him, the cause of all my Grief will prove,
Without his help, my Death; for, oh! 'tis Love.

Tell him, That I am sick of Love, through the great Desire I have of seeing his Face: I endure the weariness of Life, and I can hardly bear the Delay of my present Exile.

Rupert in Cant.

161

II.

Stay me with Flagons, comfort me with Apples, for I am sick of Love,

Cant. ii. 5.

How strangely, Love, dost thou my Will controul?
Thou pleasing Tyrant of my captiv'd Soul!
Oh! wou'dst thou have thy welcom Torments last,
Slacken their Heat, for I consume too fast.
On other Hearts thy fiery Arrows show'r,
For mine (alas!) has now no room for more.
O spare thy own Artill'ry, and my Breath!
For the next Shaft comes wing'd with certain Death:
Oh! I am lost, and from my self estrang'd,
To Love, my Voice; to Love, my Blood is chang'd:
From part to part insensibly he stole,
Till the sly Conqu'ror had subdu'd the whole.

Alas! will no one pity my Distress?
Will neither Earth nor Heav'n afford Redress?
Canst Thou, the Author of my Miseries,
Canst Thou behold me with relentless Eyes?

162

Oh! haste, you bright Inhabitants above,
My Fellow Patients in this Charming Love;
Rifle the Gardens, and disrobe the Fields,
Bring all the Treasure Natures Store-house yields;
Bind fragrant Rose-buds to my Temples first,
Then with cool Apples quench my fiery Thirst.
These may allay the Fever of my Blood.
Oh no! there's nothing, nothing does me good.
Against Loves force what Salve can Roses make,
Since ev'n themselves may hide the pois'nous Snake?
And Apples sure can small assistance give,
In one of them th'Old Serpent did deceive.
O then! to slacken this tormenting Fire,
The Rose of Sharon only I desire:
And for an Apple to asswage my Grief,
Give it, oh! give it from the Tree of Life!
Then strow them gently on my Virgin-Bed!
And as the withering Rose declines it Head,
Compos'd to Death's long Sleep my Rest I'll take,
Dream of my Love, and in his Arms awake.

163

It is certainly a good Languishment, when the Disease is not to Death, but Life, that God may be glorified by it: When that Heat and Fever does not proceed from a consuming, but rather from an improving Fire.

Gislen in Cant. cap. 2.

165

III.

My Beloved is mine, and I am his; he feedeth among the Lilies

Cant. ii. 16.

Blest Souls, whose Hearts burn with such equal Fire,
As never, but together, will Expire!
To your Content I wou'd not Crowns prefer,
For all Heav'ns Blessings are dilated there:
And when with equal Flames two Souls engage,
That happy Minute is Love's golden Age.
Such Bliss I wish'd, when Love at first possest,
And spread his Ensigns o'er my trembling Breast:
How oft I pray'd, whene'er in Love I burn,
Grant me, great Pow'r, to find a just return!
The God return'd this Answer to my Pray'r,
Love first, and never then of Love Despair!
The sudden Sound invades my frightned Ear,
I trembled when I knew the God was near.
Is it thy Will, Almighty Love (I cry'd)
To list a Soldier, in thy Wars untry'd?
'Tis true, my Fellow-Maids have told me long
The promis'd Joys of thy adoring throng:

166

But oft my Nurse, acquainted with the Cheat,
Told me, 'twas all Delusion and Deceit;
And that the Oracle too true wou'd prove,
Which thus declar'd the ill effects of Love:
“Num'rous as Atho's Hares, or Hybla's Swarms,
“Or as the Shells, or Sands, or Loves Allarms,
“Or Olive-berries on the loaden Tree,
“Abounding still with Fear and Misery.
For still this Fear the Wretches entertain,
Lest all their Love shou'd meet unjust Disdain.
Of happy Lovers no Records can boast;
Their Bliss was Counterfeit, or short at most:
The airy God's unsettled Motion shews
That Love's a Tide that always Ebbs and Flows.

Go then and trust those dying Flames that will,
Since Love's a wand'rer and uncertain still.
“Than his own Feathers is he lighter far,
“And all his promis'd Faith but empty Air.
By Oaths and Vows let no one be betray'd,
Which vanish in the Breath with which th'are made,
His Cheeks are with unusual Blushes drest,
And his quick Flight, this mighty Truth confest:
And now his Fraud, and Treachery I knew,
To all his Pow'r I bid a last Adieu.

To Thee, thou Heav'n-born Love, my Soul I'll join,
Be thou my Flame, Dear Lord! and I'll be thine!

167

While Day and Night successively return,
Our mutual Fires shall never cease to burn,
O the sweet Balm distilling from each Kiss!
How vast the Pleasure, how divine the Bliss!
What new Delights from Heav'nly Love still flow,
They only, who enjoy the Blessing, know.
But, oh! to Love, or be Belov'd of Thee,
Is the great Myst'ry of Felicity:
And, more t'inhance and recommend the Joy,
'Tis such as Time does Heighten, not Destroy.
My Love, my Life in Thee all Hybla's Sweets,
In Thee all Ophir's richest Treasure meets.
With what repeated Exstacies possest,
We vent our Passions in each others Breast!
O how unspeakable's the Bliss to me,
To lose my Self in thoughts of its Eternity!
This Love is subject to no anxious Cares,
Too Blest for Troubles, too secure for Fears.
In Paradises of Delight it feeds,
Where whitest Lilies deck th'enamell'd Meads:
Among which Emblems of our pure Desires,
We in chast Pleasures quench our mutual Fires.

Thou who hearest, or readest this, take care to have the Lilies in thee, if thou wouldst have this dweller among the Lilies visit thee.

Bernard. in Cant. Serm. 71.

169

IV.

I am my Beloved's, and his Desire is towards me,

Cant. vii. 10.

Thro' the thick shades of a cool Cypress Grove,
Weeping I wander'd to bewail my Love;
A briny Torrent rowl'd adown my Breast,
And weighty Grief my sinking Soul Opprest.
In my sad Arms an Ivory Lute I bore,
My Sorrows sure Physician heretofore.
Tir'd with my Grief, on a soft Turf I Rest,
And thus unload my over-burthen'd Breast.

Must I my Days consume in lonesom Grief,
And cruel Love deny me all Relief?
O let that Curse attend my Enemies,
Be they still Strangers to Love's envy'd Bliss!
“For not to Love, is surely not to Live,
“Since Life's chief Blessings we in Love receive:
“The whole design of Living is to Love,
“And who Loves most, does best his Life improve.

170

Bodies of Earth down to their Centre tend
And Seeds of Fire to theirs above ascend.
So our soft Hearts to Love are still inclin'd,
Urg'd by a vi'lent impulse of the Mind.
Ev'n mine too, kindled by an innate Flame,
Is eager to deserve a Lover's Name.
But where shall I my kindling Flames impart,
Where yield the Virgin-fortress of my Heart?
Shall I descend to a low mortal Love,
I, the Companion of blest Minds above?
Or shall I with inferiour Creatures Sport,
Whom their Creator not disdains to Court?
No, no my Soul, fix thou thy Thoughts on high?
Thou hast no equal Match beneath the Sky.
My Hymen shall no other Torches bear,
Than what have each been lighted at a Star.
Angels shall my Epithalamium Sing,
Conducting me in Triumph to their King.
Him, Him alone of all I can approve
The noblest Object of the purest Love.
His dear-lov'd Image still salutes my Eye,
Nor can his Absence this Delight deny.
No envious Distance can prevail to part
His dear resembling Impress from my Heart.
With him, methinks, in sweet Discourse I walk,
Pleas'd with the Sound of his imagin'd Talk.

171

So, by strange sympathy, the faithful Steel
Does the lov'd Pole's magnetick infl'ence feel,
By whose kind Conduct the safe Pilot steers
A steddy Course, till the wish'd Port appears.
So the fond Hyacinth pursues the Sun,
Pleas'd at his Rise, griev'd when his Race is done:
So is He waited on by the pale Moon,
Who from his Beams Reflections guilds her own.
Like these, Almighty Love to Thee I flie;
If thou withdraw'st thy Face, I Pine, I Die.
O then, since all my Joys on that depend,
Let the blest Vision never never end!

172

The same, by another Hand.

A Cypress Grove (whose melancholy shade
To sute the Temper of the sad was made.)
I chose for my Retreat, there laid me down,
Hoping my Sorrows in my Tears to drown:
They vainly flow'd; and now o'rewhelm'd with Grief,
From Musicks charming Sounds I sought Relief.
This Song Compos'd, I strike my Lyre, and Sing,
Soft Notes rebounding from each Silver String.
Ah! shall my wasted days no Passion Crown;
And must my empty years roul useless on!
So hard a fate I'd wish my greatest Foes!
He lives not, who the flames of Love ne'er knows:
Stupid his Soul lies hid in darkest Night,
Who is not chear'd with Love's transpiercing Light:
He bears no Image of the God above,
Whose icy Breast's insensible to Love.
The pond'rous Earth, by'ts proper weight deprest,
Beneath all other Elements doth rest;
While pointed Flames do thro' the solid Mass
Force their bright way, and unresisted pass:
So thro' the solid lump of Man, the Soul
Sends forth those Fires that all the Frame controul;

173

And his Desires do hurry him away,
Where-e're those Flames direct th'obedient Clay.
And now I feel an unknown warmth all o'er;
I burn, I melt, but know not from what Pow'r:
These sharp quick Fires are urg'd thro' ev'ry Vein,
Mingling at once such Pleasure and such Pain.
Ah! whither will this furious Passion drive?
(In vain against Love's raging force we strive.)
Shall my aspiring Soul, like vulgar Hearts,
Complain of shameful Wounds from Cupid's Darts?
If I shou'd be embrac'd by mortal Arms,
They'd fade my Beauties, fully all my Charms:
My rising Mind soars vast Degrees above
Terrestrial Charms, they're much beneath my Love:
These gross Desires my purer Soul disdains;
She'll be His Spouse who ev'ry Being frames.
Agnes, of Rome the Wonder and the Pride,
Her Charms to an Ausonian Youth deny'd,
And in these Terms refus'd to be his Bride:
“If I have kindled Fires within your Breast,
“I cannot Grant, but Pity your Request:
“Nor can you justly my Refusal blame,
“Since I burn with a much Diviner Flame;
“For my Creator hath engag'd my Heart,
“My Soul from such a Spouse can ne'er depart:

174

“His lovely Image still is in my Sight,
“And at this Distance He's my sole Delight:
“In Absence we Converse; I speak in Pray'rs,
“And he in Absence Charms my listning Ears.
So by the Loadstones unseen wondrous force
The faithful Needle steers the Seaman's Course:
Tow'rds its lov'd North it constantly doth rise,
Guiding their secret Course where-e'er it lies.
So does the Flow'r of Phœbus twice a Day
Turn tow'rds her Sun, and her glad Leaves Display.
Fair Cynthia thus regards her Brother's Beams,
Renews her Beauty from his borrow'd Flames.
I am thy Clytie (Spouse) thou art my Sun,
I Cynthia, always tow'rds thy Light must run.
My Spouse, my Helice, with longing I
(Where-e're thou draw'st) tow'rds thee in Raptures flie.
What wonder if in mutual Love We burn,
Since Steel can tow'rds the senseless Loadstone turn?

175

My Heart passes through many Things, seeking about where it may take its Rest; but finds nothing that pleases it, till it returns to God.

Bernard. Medit. cap. 9.

177

V.

My Soul melted as my Beloved spoke,

Cant. v. 6.

What Hills, what Rocks, what Deserts have I trod,
Only for one short view of Thee, my God?
How for one Word from those dear Lips of Thine,
My Feet a tiresom Pilgrimage injoin!
O'er craggy Rocks of such stupendious height,
Th'ascent does ev'n the climbing Deer afright:
Yet cannot my unwearied Haste delay,
For mighty Love conducts me all the way.
Tho' from these heights I all Things else descry.
The dear-lov'd Object shuns my longing Eye.
Distracted then, thro' ev'ry Den I rave,
Search each Recess, and visit ev'ry Cave.
In vain those unfrequented Paths I wear,
I only find thou art a Stranger there.
Sometimes into the open Plain I rove,
But there am lost in Error as in Love.
To Heav'n I look, and thro' the Fields complain,
But both unkindly answer not again.

178

Wandring from thence I find a shady Vale,
There on my Love (but still in vain) I call.
Not far from hence a close thick Covert grows,
Where panting Beasts fly for a cool Repose:
Here, here, said I, perhaps He's laid to rest;
But, oh! no sign of Thee was here imprest.
Then, stung with Passion and o'erwhelm'd with Grief,
I coast the Shoar, and thence expect Relief.
Here a high Tow'r exalts its lofty Head,
By whose kind Light the wandring Sailor's led:
Here I ascend, and view the Ocean round,
While my Complaints o'er all the Shoar resound:
Tell me, you Shoars, you Seas, and tell me true,
Is not my Love conceal'd in some of You?
As to each other you wou'd constant be,
Discover, and be just to Love and Me!
Scarce had the Shoar receiv'd the mournful Noise
When it return'd a loud redoubled Voice:
But that some sporting Eccho I believe,
That fools the Wretch'd, and dallies with their Grief.
Again the Shoar I rend; the Shoar does hear,
And the kind Voice again salutes my Ear;
A Voice, a well-known Voice! 'twas Thine, my Life,
Whose pleasing Accents soon dispell'd my Grief.
Now I reviv'd: One such immortal Breath
Had pow'r enough to rescue me from Death.

179

Thy Voice, like Lightning, unperceiv'd, unfelt,
By a strange infl'ence thro' the Soul can melt.
So thy Disciples Hearts were fir'd within,
When on the way thou didst Discourse begin;
The secret Charms of Thy prevailing Voice
Caus'd unaccountable, yet mighty Joys.
'Twas the same Heav'nly Sound that answer'd me,
And all dissolv'd me into Exstacy,
That kindled such a Fire within my Soul,
Whose ardent Heat an Ocean cannot cool.
See how my melting Passions hast and run,
Like Virgin-wax before the scorching Sun!
O might I be so Blest to mix with Thee,
Our Life the same, the same our Love shou'd be.

What is this that I feel? What Fire is it that warms my Heart? What Light is it that enlightens it? O thou Fire which always burnest, and art never extinguished! do thou inflame me!

Aug. Soliloq. cap. 34.

181

VI.

Whom have I in Heaven but thee? And there is none upon Earth that I desire in comparison of thee,

Psal. lxxiii. 24.

What shall I seek, great God, in Heav'n above,
Or Earth, or Sea, whereon to fix my Love?
Tho' I shou'd ransack Heav'n, and Earth, and Sea,
All they can boast, is nothing without Thee.

I know what mighty Joys in Heav'n abound,
What Treasures in the Earth and Sea are found;
Yet without Thee, my Love! t'enrich their Store,
All, all their Glories are but Mean and Poor.
O Heav'n! O Earth! O vast capacious Main!
Three famous Realms where Wealth and Plenty reign!
Tho' in one heap your triple Pleasures lay,
They were no Pleasures, were my Lord away.
My Thoughts, I own, have often rang'd the Deep,
Search'd Earth and Heav'n, and in no Bounds wou'd keep;
But when they wandred the Creation round,
No equal Object in the Whole they found.

182

Sometimes I thought to rip the pregnant Earth,
And give its rich and long-born Burthen Birth;
Gold, Silver, Brass, Seeds of the shining Vein,
And each bright Product of the fertile Mine:
For these we dig and tear our Mother's Womb,
Till for our boundless Treasures we want room:
To what advantage? Tho', o'ercharg'd with Gold,
Your bursting Coffers can't their Burthen hold;
Yet this can ne'er your troubled Mind appease,
Nor buy your Sorrows ev'n a Minutes ease.

Here disappointed, to the Deep I go,
Whose secret Chambers dusky Indians know.
Pleas'd with its Gemmy store my Self to load,
I dive, and visit its conceal'd abode:
Then the scarce Burret seek, whose Bloods rich dye
Is the great Ornament of Majesty.
Then scatter'd Pearls I gather on the Shoar
Where rich Hydaspes casts his shining Oar.

Alas! these Jewels brought from several Coasts
All that each River, or the Ocean boasts;
The Saphyr, Jasper, and the Chrysolite,
Can't quench my Thirst, or stay my Appetite.
Then, since the Earth and Sea content deny,
Heav'ns lofty Fabrick I resolve to try.

183

With wonder I the vast Machine survey,
With glorious Stars all studded, bright and gay:
Amaz'd their still unalter'd Course I view,
And how their daily Motions they renew.
But among all the Pensile-fires above,
None warm'd my Breast, none rais'd my Soul to Love:
But I beheld at distance from below;
Then farewel Earth, up to their Orbs I go.
Now less'ning Cities leave my distant Sight,
And now the Earths whole Globe is vanish'd quite;
Above the Sun and Planets I am born,
And their inferior Influences scorn.
Now the bright pavement of the Stars I tread,
Once the high cov'ring of my humble Head.
Now o'er the lofty flaming Wall I flie,
And Heav'ns bright Court lies open to my Eye.
Now curious Crowds of the Wing'd Quire above
Tow'rds the new Guest with dazling Splendor move:
Hymns well compos'd to Ayres Divine they Sing,
New tune their Harps, and scrue up ev'ry String;
Then in brisk Notes triumphant Anthems play,
While Heav'n resounds, as if 'twere Holy-day.

O glorious Mansions fill'd with shining Fires!
O Courts fit only for your Starry Quires!

184

My ravish'd Soul's in strange Amazement lost;
Sure no Delight is wanting on this Coast.
Ah!—Said I no Delight was wanting here?
Yes, you want All; alas! you want my Dear.
Farewel you Stars, and you bright Forms adieu;
My Bus'ness here was with my Love, not You.
There's nothing good below without my Love,
Nor any thing worth a faint Wish above.

One World subdu'd, the Conqu'ror did deplore
That Niggard Fate had not allow'd him more:
My vaster Thoughts a thousand Worlds despise,
Nor lose one Wish on such a worthless Prize.
Not all the Universe from Pole to Pole,
Heav'n, Earth, and Sea, can fill my boundless Soul.
What neither Earth's wide Limits can contain,
Nor the large Empire of the spreading Main;
Nor Heav'n, whose vaster Globe does both inclose;
That's the sole Object my Ambition knows.
Till now, alas! my Soul at Shadows caught,
And always was deceiv'd in what it sought:
Thou, Lord, alone art Heav'n, Earth, Sea, to me:
Thou, Lord, art All, all nothing without Thee.

185

Whatever is contained within the compass of Heaven, is beneath the Soul of Man, which was made to enjoy the chiefest Good above, in whose Possession alone it can be Happy.

Aug. Soliloq. cap. 20.

187

VII.

Wo is me, that I am constrained to dwell with Mesech, and to have my Habitation among the Tents of Kedar!

Psal. cxx. 4.

Still does the Sun with usual Motion steer
The Revolutions of the circling Year?
Or Gibeon's wondrous Solstice is renew'd,
When at the mighty Joshua's Beck he stood?
Or is his Motion now grown Retrograde,
As when he turn'd the Hebrew Dial's shade?
Why else shou'd I, who now am past the Age
Allow'd to tread this World's unhappy Stage?
Why shou'd I be deny'd an Exit, now
I've play'd my part, and have no more to do?
Is there on Earth a Blessing to repair
Th'injurious force of my Detainer there?
How wou'd I welcom any fav'ring Death,
To ease me of the burthen of my Breath?
By one sure stroke, kind Fate, my Soul reprieve!
For 'tis continual Dying here to Live.

188

Here our chief Bliss is an uncertain Joy,
Which swift vicissitudes of Ill destroy:
Just as the Sun, who rising bright and gay,
In Clouds and Show'rs concludes the weeping Day.
So boist'rous Gusts oft tender Flow'rs invade,
By tempting Winds too soon abroad betray'd.

Here, envious of each others Settlement,
All Things contend each other to Supplant:
The second Minute drives the first away,
And Night's impatient to succeed the Day:
The eager Summer thinks the Spring too long,
And Autumn frets that Summer is not gone:
But Autumn's self to Winter must give way,
Lest its cold Frosts o'ertake and punish his delay.

Behold you Sea, how smooth, without a frown?
See, while I speak, how curl'd, how rough 'tis grown?
Look, how serene's the Sky, how calm the Air?
Now, hark, it thunders round the Hemisphere!
This great unconstancy of humane State
Corrupts each Minute of our happy Fate.
But, oh! the worst of Ills is still behind,
The rav'nous Converse with our Beastly kind.
Sure Nature first in Anger did intend
A plague of Monsters o'er the World to send;

189

Then brought forth her most brutish Off-spring Men,
And turn'd each House into a savage Den.
In this rapacious Species we may find
All that's destructive in the preying kind;
Lion, Woolf, Tyger, Bear, and Crocodile,
Strong to devour, and cunning to beguile:
These Beasts are led to Prey by appetite,
And that once pleas'd, no more in Blood delight;
But Man, like Hell, has an insatiate Thirst,
And still is keenest when so full to burst.
This raises Fraud, makes Treach'ry fine and gay,
While banish'd Justice flies disrob'd away:
This fills the World with loud Allarms of War,
And turns the peaceful Plow-share to a hostile Spear.
Who wou'd be Slave to such a tyrant Life,
That still engages him in Noise and Strife?
Long since, alas! I did my Years compleat,
And serv'd for Freedom, still deny'd by Fate.
When I compute to what a Price amount
My mispent Days, I'm Bankrupt in th'Account.
Oh! what strange Frenzy does those Men possess,
Who rashly deem long Life a Happiness?
They sure are Strangers to the Joys above,
Who more than Home a wretched Exile love.
But Heav'n's remote, and its far-distant Bliss
Appears Minute to our mistaken Eyes.

190

Ah! why, my Country, art thou plac'd so far,
That I am still a tedious Wanderer?

Happier the Exiles of old Heathen Rome,
Whom only Tiber did divide from Home!
While to remoter Banishment design'd,
A vast Abyss 'twixt Heav'n and Me I find.
The Hebrew Slaves were freed i'th' Jubilee;
Unhappier Vassal! I shall ne'er be free.
The swift fore runner of the welcom Spring
Finds after Winter's cold a time to Sing:
She who did long in dark Recesses lie,
Now flies abroad, and re-salutes the Sky.
But still I live excluded from above,
Deny'd the Object of my Bliss and Love.
Haste, haste my God, and take me up to Thee;
There let me live, where I was made to be:
Or if my Body's freedom's not design'd,
So soon, at least, I will be there in Mind.

191

There are two Tormentors of the Soul, which do not torture it together, but by turns; their names are Fear and Grief: When it is well with you, you fear; when ill, you grieve.

Aug. Serm. 43.

193

VIII.

O wretched Man that I am! who shall deliver me from the body of this Death?

Rom. vii. 24.

Where are the lost Delights for which I grieve,
But which my Sorrows never can retrieve?
Such vast Delights—but mention not the Loss,
Whose sad Remembrance is thy greatest Cross:
And Fate is kindest when it robs us so,
To take away our Sense of suffering too.
On our first Parents Folly we exclaim,
As if They only were, as first, to blame:
On Eve and Adam we discharge our Rage,
And thus expose our naked Parentage.
Tho' thou who thy First Parents dost condemn,
Thou ought'st to blame thy Self as well as Them.
When Life at one rash Cast was thrown away,
Thou didst, as well as thy Forefather, play.
But I (alas!) condemn not Them alone,
Nor while I mind their Fall, forget my Own.
With Eve I was consenting to the Cheat,
Impos'd on Adam, and helpt him to Eat.

194

Hence I my Nakedness and Shame deriv'd,
And Skins of Beasts to cover Both receiv'd:
Was from my forfeit Eden justly driv'n,
The Curse of Earth, and the Contempt of Heav'n.
Nor do I now the general Loss bemoan;
My Grief's too little to bewail my Own.
The tragick Story from my Birth I'll take,
For early Grief did my first Silence break.
'Twas July's Month, the loveliest of the Year,
(Tho' all my Life December did appear:)
The Twenty-seventh; Oh! had it been my last,
I had not Mourn'd, nor that made too much haste.
That was the fatal Day that gave me Breath,
Which prov'd almost my teeming Parent's Death.
And still, as then, to her (alas!) I've been
A true Benoni, not a Benjamin.
No sooner was I for the Cradle drest,
But a strange Horror all around possest;
Who with one dire prophetick Voice presage
Th'attending Mis'ries of my growing Age.
Why did'st thou give me Life, more fatal Day
Than that which took th'Ægyptian Males away?
No more be numbred in the Calendar,
But in thy Place let a large Blot appear!
Or if thou must thy annual Station keep,
Let each Hour Thunder, and each Minute Weep:

195

Let, as on Cain, some Mark be fix'd on Thee,
That giving Life, didst worse than Murder Me.
Now, Friends, I find your fatal Aug'ry true;
My Woes each other, like my Hours pursue.
Hence the large Sources of my Tears arise,
And no dry Minute wipes my flowing Eyes.
No sooner had I left my childish Plays,
The harmless Pastimes of my happiest Days:
Now past a Child, yet still in Judgment so,
I study'd first what I was not to know.
And my first Grief was to lament my Fate,
And yet 'twas seldom I had time for that.
My stubborn Soul a long Resistance made,
Impatient thus by Nature to be sway'd:
Oft strove to Heav'n to raise its lofty Flight,
As oft supprest by its gross Body's Weight:
But what it cou'd not reach, its Eyes pursue;
Then cry'd, Ah God! and shed a briny Dew.
Twice more it wou'd repeat the pleasing Noise,
But struggling Sighs restrain'd th'imprison'd Voice.
Such sure were felt in Babels Monarchs Breast,
When of his Throne and Nature dispossest:
But conquer'd Patience yields at last to Grief,
And thus I vent my Woe, and beg Relief.

196

Blest Author of my Life, hear my Complaint,
And free this Captive from its loath'd Restraint!
Speak but the Word, thy Servant shall be free!
Thou mad'st me thus, O thus unbody me!
Or if thou wilt not this Relief afford,
Grant some kind Poison, or some friendly Sword!
Dying I'd hug the Author of my Death,
And beg his Pardon with my latest Breath.
But to save Man the Guilt, send some Disease!
Death in the most affrighting shape will please.
Were I to act Perillu's scorching Scene,
I shou'd rejoyce to hear my Self complain.
Oh Heav'n! my Patience is o'ercome by Grief!
Is there above no Succour, no Relief?
The mercy Death is all I thee implore;
Lord! grant it soon, lest I Blaspheme thy Pow'r.
When for dispatch tormented Wretches pray,
No Cruelty's so barb'rous as Delay.
Why am I to this noisom Carcass ty'd,
Whose stench is Death in all its ghastly Pride?
Then speak the Word, and I shall soon be free;
Thou form'st me thus, O thus unbody Me!

197

How does that Soul Live, that is inclosed in a covering of Death?

Amb. in Psal. cxviii.

199

IX.

I am in a Straight between Two, having a desire to be Dissolved, and to be with Christ,

Philip. i. 23.

How shall I do to fix my doubtful Love?
Shall I remain below, or soar above?
Here Earth detains me, and retards my Flight;
There Heav'n invites me to sublime Delight:
Heav'n calls aloud, and bids me haste away;
While Earth allures, and gently whispers, stay!
But hence thou sly Inchantress of my Heart!
I'll break thy Fetters, and despise thy Art.
Haste, haste, kind Fate, unlock my Prison Door!
Were I releas'd, how I aloft wou'd Soar?
See, Lord! my struggling Arms tow'rds Thee are sent,
And strive to grasp thee in their wide Extent.
Oh! had I pow'r to mount above the Pole,
And touch the Center of my longing Soul!
Tho' torn in sunder by the Flight I be,
I'd lose one half, might t'other reach but Thee.

200

But thou above derid'st my weak Designs,
And still opposest what thy Word injoins.
Vainly I beg what thou dost still deny,
And stretch my Hands to reach what's plac'd too high.
Oft to my Self false Hopes of Thee I feign,
And think thou kindly com'st to break my Chain.
Now, now, I cry, my Soul shall soar above!
But this (alas!) was all dissembled Love.
Sure this Belief some Pity might obtain;
Thou shou'dst at least for this have broke my Chain.
But if I'm still confin'd, my Wings I'll try;
And if I fail, in great Attempts I die.

But see! He comes, and as he glides along,
He beckons me, and seems to say, Come on.
I'll rise, and flie into his lov'd Embrace,
And snatch a Kiss, a thousand, from his Face.
Now, now he's near, his sacred Robe I touch,
And I shall grasp him at the next approach:
But he (alas!) has mock'd my vain Design,
And fled these Arms, these slighted Arms of mine:
For tho' the Distance ne'er so little be,
It seems th'Extremes of the vast Globe to me.
Thus does my Love my Longing tantalize,
And bids me follow, while too fast he flies.

201

Thus sportive Love delights in little Cheats,
Which oft are punish'd with severe Deceits.

The World has an Original in Me,
To paint deluded Lovers Misery:
And he who has his easie Fair betray'd,
Finds all his Falshood with large Int'rest paid.
I ne'er suspected thou cou'dst Faithless be,
But sad Experience has instructed me.

As a chain'd Mastiff, begging to be loose,
With restless Clamours fills the deafned House;
But if deny'd, his Teeth the Chain engage,
And vent on that their inoffensive Rage:
So I Complain, Petition to be freed,
And humbly Prostrate beg the Help I need.
But when you Frown, and my Request deny,
Deaf as the Rocks to my repeated Cry;
Then I against my hated Clog exclaim,
And on my Chain lay all the guilty Blame.
Thus Grief pretends, by giving Passion vent,
To ease the pain of my Imprisonment.
But I unjustly blame the Chain alone,
And spare the cruel Hand that ty'd it on.
Well might the barb'rous load of Chains I bear
Become a Renegado Slave to wear;

202

But why this harsh ill Usage, Love, to Me,
Whose whole endeavour is to come to Thee?
But when my Soul attempts that lofty Flight,
'Tis still supprest by a gross Bodies Weight.
So fare young Birds, by Nature wing'd in vain,
Whom sportful Boys with scanty Threads restrain;
When eager to retrieve their Native Air,
They rise a little height, and flutter there:
But having to their utmost Limits flown,
The more they strive to mount, they fall the faster down.
Each, tho' it sleeps in its young Tyrants Breast,
And is with Banquets from his Lips Carest;
Yet prizes more the freedom of the Wood,
Than all the Dainties of its dear bought Food.
Could Tears dissolve my Chains, O with what ease
I'd weep a Deluge for a quick release?
But Tears are vain, reach, Lord! thy Hands to me,
And in return I'll stretch my Chains to thee.
Thou, only thou canst loose my Bands; for none
Can take them off, but he that put them on.

203

How long shall we be fastned here? We stick to the Earth, and as if we should always live there, we wallow in the Mire. God gave us Bodies of Earth, that we should carry them to Heaven, not that we should by them debase our Souls to the Earth.

Chrysost. hom. 55. ad pop. Antioch.

205

X.

Bring my Soul out of Prison, that I may praise thy Name,

Psal. cxlii. 9

I who did once thro' Heav'ns wide Regions rove,
Free Denizen of those vast Realms above;
Now to a narrow Dungeon am confin'd,
A Cave that darkens and restrains my Mind.
When first my Soul put on its fleshly Load,
It was Imprison'd in the dark Abode;
My Feet were Fetters, my Hands Manacles,
My Sinews Chains, and all Confinement else;
My Bones the Bars of my loath'd Prison grate;
My Tongue the Turn-key, and my Mouth the Gate.

Why from my Native Station am I sent
A Captive to this narrow Tenement?
How oft wou'd I attempt a shameful Flight,
In Fire or Water bid the World good Night?
How oft have I their happy Fate admir'd,
Who by the Sword or Poison have expir'd?

206

But to gain Heav'n, we must Heav'ns leisure stay,
Such rash Attempters have mistook the way.
As only Heav'n our Beings did bestow,
'Tis Heav'ns sole right to countermand them too:
And when to take what That first gave we strive,
We impiously encroach on God's Prerogative;
And on our Souls by this unlawful Act,
In breaking Pris'n we a new Guilt contract:
While th'impious Course we take to set us free,
Betrays us to a greater Slavery.
Had I some winding Lab'rinth for my Jail,
I then might hope for Freedom to prevail:
But while imbody'd in this Flesh I lie,
Heav'n must be the Deliverer, not I.
Let the mistaken Wretch his Pris'n accuse,
Which for his Flight did no kind Means refuse.
Wou'd some kind Chink one heavenly Ray admit
To bless my Eyes, how wou'd I honour it?
But while confin'd to this dark Cell I lie,
My captive Soul can't reach its native Sky,
Here, even my Will's a slave to Passions made,
Passions which have its Liberty betray'd.
When piously it is inclin'd to good,
'Tis by repugnant Passions still withstood.
Thus Israel in th'Ægyptian Bondage far'd,
While from the Service of their God debarr'd;

207

When to his Worship they desir'd to go,
The Tyrant Phar'oh always answer'd, No.
Oh my dear God! visit this humble Cell,
And see within what narrow Walls I dwell.
But if the Locks, and Bars, and Grates afright,
Command them all to open at thy sight.
Command them, Lord, to set thy Servant free;
Nor will this Deed without Example be:
Angels have left their Thrones and Bliss above,
To ransom those whom thou art pleas'd to Love:
Thus Peter did his op'ning Prison view,
Yet scarce believ'd the Miracle was true.
But no such Favour is indulg'd to me,
I want (alas!) such happy Liberty.
Come, my dear Lord! unlock my Prison Gate,
And let my Soul tow'rd Heav'n expatiate:
In triumph tho' thy Slave conducted be,
I'll bless the Chains that bind me close to Thee.
To Thee my Hands are thro' the Gates addrest;
O that I cou'd but follow with the rest!
The captive Bird about its Cage will fly,
And the least way for its Escape espy,
And with its Bill gnaws thro' the Twiggy Grate
A secret Passage to its first free State.
Can'st thou, my God! be deaf to all my Cries,
And more obdurate than my Prison is?

208

Nor for my Self, but Thee do I complain,
Thy sacred Praise, which I wou'd Sing, in vain;
For here (alas!) I cannot once rejoyce,
Nor touch my Strings, nor raise my tuneful Voice.
For Birds confin'd, to rage convert their Notes,
Or sullen grown, lock up their silent Throats.
Come then, my God, unlock my Prison-gate,
And let my Soul tow'rds Heaven Expatiate!
There my loud Voice in joyful Notes I'll raise,
And sing Eternal Anthems to thy Praise.
But if thou wilt not this Request allow,
At thy own Glory thou must envious grow.

209

Man is imprisoned, because by proficiency in Virtue he often strives to rise on high, but is kept down by the Corruption of his Flesh.

Greg. in cap. 7. Job.

211

XI.

Like as the Hart desireth the Water-Brooks, so longeth my Soul after thee, O God!

Psal. xlii. 1.

Lord! wou'dst thou know my Breasts consuming Fire,
And how I pine and languish in Desire?
The withering Vi'lets no resemblance yield,
Nor can I take it from the Sun-burnt Field;
Nor by that Heat can I express my Pain,
That melts us in the fiery Dog-star's Reign.
The Lybian Sands, where the Sun's warm salute
With barren Drouth destroys all hope of Fruit,
Ev'n they, compar'd with me, are moist and cool;
Such raging Flames have seiz'd my hectick Soul.
But wou'dst thou have an Emblem of my Pains,
Regard then how the wounded Hart Complains,
While in his Side th'envenom'd Arrow lies,
His Blood boils over, and his Marrow fries:
Thus thro' the Woods he takes a nimble Flight,
Till some cool Stream salutes this distant Sight:

212

Then with redoubled Speed he Pants and Brays,
Till there his Thirst and Fever he allays.
Thus, thus transfix'd with an Infernal Dart,
I feel the Poison raging in my Heart.
Th'envenom'd Blood with vi'lent Fury burns,
And to a Thousand diff'rent Tortures turns.
The Tyrant Lust now thro' my Body reigns,
And now Intemp'rance bursts my glutted Veins.
Now Pride's rank Poison swells my heaving Breast,
And curs'd Ambition robs me of my Rest.
Oh! from what Stream shall I a Med'cine find
To ease these restless Torments of my Mind?
Thou, thou, my God! alone canst ease my Grief,
From the pure Waters of the Well of Life.
My panting Soul laments and pines for them,
As the chas'd Hart for the refreshing Sream.

Shunning the quick-nos'd Hounds afrighting cries
With timorous haste oft to the Toils he flies:
And when he finds himself too close beset,
With active Speed o'er-leaps th'extended Net:
But hotly by his num'rous Foes pursu'd,
He seeks the Succour of some sheltring Wood;
And on his Neck, lest it retard his Speed,
Casts back the useless Armour of his Head:

213

Which, since he has not Courage to employ,
Assists his Foes its Owner to destroy.
Sometimes he thinks the deep-mouth'd Foe is near
From strong impressions of remaining Fear:
Again he stands and listens for their Cries,
Then, almost spent, thro' the close Thickets flies
To the clear Springs: And as he pants for them,
So pines my Soul for the Cœlestial stream;
There he renews his Strength, and lays his Heat,
And rowls and wantons in the cool Retreat.

Lord! Hell's great Nimrod holds my Soul in chase,
To shun whose Hounds I fly from place to place;
But closely they my weary Steps pursue,
No means of Succour or Escape I view.
Tir'd with my Flight, and faint with constant Sweat,
I wish to Rest, I wish to lay my Heat:
But where, O where can this Refreshment be?
'Tis no where, Lord! 'tis no where but with Thee.
With Thee an ever-bubbling Fountain flows,
The remedy of all thy Servants Woes:
Pleasing its Taste, its Vertue Sanative;
Nor Health alone, but endless Life 'twill give.
Then tell not me of Tagus Golden Flood,
Whose rowling Sands raise a perpetual Mud:

214

There shou'd I drink insatiate till I Burst,
Each greedy Draught wou'd re-inflame my Thirst.
No, to the pleasing Springs above I'll go,
The Springs that in the heavenly Canaan flow.
My panting Soul laments and pines for them,
As the chas'd Hart for the refreshing Stream.

215

It is an excellent Water that allays the pernicious thirst of this World, and the heat of Vice; that washes off all the stains of Sin; that waters and improves the Earth in which our Souls inhabit; and restores the mind of Man, that thirsts with an earnest desire after its God.

Cyril. in Joan. lib. 3. cap. 10.

217

XII.

When shall I come and appear before the presence of God?

Psal. lxii. 2.

With promis'd Joys my Ears thou oft did'st fill,
But they are only Joys of Promise still.
Did'st thou not say thou soon wou'dst call me home?
Be just, my Love, and kindly bid me come!
“Expecting Lovers count each Hour a Day,
“And Death to them's less dreadful than Delay.
A tedious train of Months and Years is gone,
Since first you bid me hope, yet gave me none.
Why with delays dost thou abuse my Love,
And fail my vain Expectancies above?
While thus th'insulting Crowd derides my Woe,
Where's now your Love? how well he keeps his Vow?

Haste then, and home thy longing Lover take;
If not for mine, yet for thy Promise sake.

218

When shall I come before thy Throne, and see
Thy glorious Scepter kindly stretch'd to me?
For Thee I pine, for Thee I am undone,
As drooping Flow'rs that want their Parent Sun.
O cruel Tort'rer of my wounded Soul,
Grant me thy Presence, and I shall be Whole!
O when, thou Joy of all admiring Eyes,
When shall I see thee on thy Throne of Bliss?

As when unwelcom Night begins its sway,
And throws its sable Mantle o'er the Day;
The withering Glories of the Garden fade,
And weeping Groves bewail their lonely shade;
To melancholy Silence Men retire,
And no sweet Note sounds from the feather'd Quire:
But hardly can the rising Morn display
The purple Ensigns of approaching Day;
But the glad Gardens deck themselves anew,
And the cheer'd Groves shake off their heavy Dew:
To daily Labour Man himself devotes,
And Birds in Anthems strain their tuneful Throats.
So without Thee, I Grieve, I Pine, I Mourn;
So Triumph, so Revive at Thy Return.
But Thou, unkind, bid'st me delight my Eyes
With other Beauties, other Rarities.

219

Sometimes thou bid'st me mark the flow'ry Field;
What various scent and shews the Meadows yield;
Then to the Stars thou dost direct my Sight,
For they from Thine derive their borrow'd Light.
Then sayst, Contemplate Man! in Him thou'lt see
The great Resemblance of thy Love and Me.
Why wou'dst thou thus deceive me with a Shade,
A trifling Image, that will quickly fade?
My Fancy stoops not to a mortal Aim,
Thou, thou hast kindled, and must quench my Flame.

O glorious Face, worthy a Pow'r Divine,
Where Love and Awe with equal Mixture shine!
Triumphant Majesty of that bright Ray
Where blushing Angels prostrate Homage pay!
We in thy Works thy fix'd Impressions trace,
Yet still but faint Reflections of thy Face.
When this inchanted World's compar'd with Thee,
Its boasted Beauty's all Deformity:
Thy Stars no such transcending Glories own
As Thine, whose Light exceeds all theirs in one.
This Truth some one of them can best declare,
Who on the Mount thy blest Spectators were:
Who on Thy Glories were allow'd to gaze,
And saw Heav'n open'd in Thy wondrous Face.

220

Thy shining Visage all the God confest,
In beauteous Lambent Flames were thy bright Temples drest.

Nor can we blame thy great Apostle's Zeal,
To whom thou did'st that happy Sight reveal;
That slighting all before accounted dear,
He was for building Tabernacles here.
Yet he beheld Thee then within a Veil,
The killing Rays thou kindly did'st conceal:
He saw a milder Flame thy Face surround,
Thy Temples with rebated Glories Crown'd:
As when the Silver Moon's reflected Beams,
In some clear Evening gild the smiling Streams:
Or cloud-born Lightning in its nimble Race
Paints on a trembling Wave Heav'ns blushing Face.
How had he wondred at the nobler Light,
Whose bare Reflection was so Heav'nly bright?
But, oh! That's inaccessible to humane Sight!
Then me, oh! me to that blest State receive,
Where I may see thee all, and seeing live!
When will that happy Day of Vision be,
When I shall make a near approach to Thee,
Be wrapt in Clouds, and lost in Mystery?

'Tis true, the Sacred Elements impart
Thy virtual Presence to my faithful Heart;
But to my Sense still unreveal'd thou art.

221

This, tho' a great, is an imperfect Bliss,
T'embrace a Cloud for the bright God I wish;
My Soul a more exalted Pitch wou'd fly,
And view Thee in the heights of Majesty.

Oh! when shall I behold Thee all serene,
Without one envious Cloud, or Veil between?
When distant Faith shall in near Vision cease,
And still my Love shall with my Sight increase?
That happy Day dear as these Eyes shall be,
And more than all the dearest Things, but Thee.

If thou findest any thing better than to behold the Face of God, haste thee thither. Wo be to that Love of thine, if thou dost but imagine any thing more beautiful than He, from whom all Beauty that delights thee is derived.

Aug. in Psal. 42.

223

XIII.

O that I had the wings of a Dove! for then I would fly away, and be at rest,

Psal. lv. 6.

Tho' Great Creator! I receive from Thee
All that I am, and all I hope to be;
Yet might thy humble Clay Expostulate,
I wou'd complain of my defective State.

To Man th'ast given the boundless Regency
Of three vast Realms, the Ocean, Earth, and Sky:
But, oh; how shall this ample Pow'r be try'd,
When still the means to use it are deny'd?

Pardon my hasty Censure of thy Skill,
Who think thy mighty Work defective still!
Nor am I forward to Correct thy Art,
By wishing Man a Casement in his Heart,
Whose dark Recesses all the World might see;
That prospect justly is reserv'd for Thee:
But the defect I Mourn is greater far;
Of Fins to cut the Waves, and Wings the Air.

224

Inferior Creatures no Perfection want,
To hinder their Enjoyment of Thy Grant:
The scaly Race have nimble Fins allow'd,
With which they range about their native Flood:
And all the feather'd Tenants of the Air,
Born up on tow'ring Wings, expatiate there.
Thus ev'ry Creature finds a blest Content
Adapted to its proper Element:
But Man, for the Command of all design'd,
Is still to One injuriously confin'd;
While Nature often is extravagant,
And gives his Subjects more than what they want.
Some of the watry kind, we know, can fly,
And visit, when they please, the lofty Sky;
And, in exchange, some of the aery Brood,
Descend, and turn bold Pirates in the Flood:
While still to Man Heav'n does all Means deny
To exercise his vain Authority.
Ev'n buzzing Insects with light Wings are blest,
In whose small frame Heav'n has much Art exprest:
But Man, the great, the noble Master piece,
Wants a Perfection that abounds in these.
Nay some, the meanest of the Feather'd kind,
For neither Profit nor Delight design'd,
Stretch their Dominions to a vast Extent,
Nor pleas'd with Two, range a third Element;

225

Sometimes on Earth they walk with stately Pace,
And sport and revel on the tender Grass;
Then for the liquid Stream exchange the Shoar,
And dally there as wanton as before:
But wearied, thence their moistned Wings they rear,
To take their wild Diversion in the Air.
Sure these to rule the triple World were sent,
And denizon'd of every Element:
But Man, excluded both the Sea and Air,
Can make small use of his Dominion there.
Nor yet repine I that the Earth's alone
Man's Element, since I desire but One;
My whole Ambition's to exchange my Place,
Tho' with the meanest of the feather'd Race.
Grant me but Wings that I may upwards soar,
I'll forfeit them if e'er I covet more.
Nor canst thou, Lord! my just Petition blame,
When thou regard'st the end of all my aim:
The Miseries below, and Joys above,
Recal from hence, and thither point my Love.
The Earth (alas!) no settled Station knows,
So fast the Deluge of its Ruin flows:
Numberless Troubles and Calamities
Increase the Flood, too apt it self to rise.
Tir'd with long Flight, my weary Soul can meet
No friendly Bough to entertain her Feet.

226

Here no blest sign of Peace or Plenty is;
All lie o'erwhelm'd in the profound Abyss.
O whither then shall I for safety go?
I must not hope so great a Good below.
Vainly to Honour or to Wealth I fly,
These cannot be their own Security;
My sole dependance is the Sacred Ark,
There, there my Soul in safety may embarque:
Thou send'st her thence, Lord, call her home again,
And stretch thy favouring Hand to take her in!
But she's (alas!) too weak for such a Flight,
Her flagging Wings are baffled by its height.
Wou'dst thou vouchsafe to imp them, she wou'd fly,
And brave the tow'ring Monarch of the Sky;
Then she wou'd haste to her eternal Rest,
And build above the Clouds her lofty Nest;
There basking in the splendor of thy Beams,
Be all imploy'd on bright Angelick Themes;
In which th'adulterate World shall have no part,
That sly Debaucher of my wandring Heart:
But in seraphick Flames for Thee I'll burn,
And never, never think of a Return.

227

Nothing can fly but what is Pure, Light, and Subtile, and whose Purity is not corrupted by Intemperance, nor its Cheerfulness or Swiftness retarded by any Weight.

Amb. Hom. 7.

229

XIV.

O how amiable are thy Tabernacles: Thou Lord of Hosts!

Psal. lxxxiv. 1.

Great Leader of the Starry Hosts that stand
In shining order on thy either Hand!
Such bright Magnificence adorns Thy Throne,
That hence my ravish'd Soul wou'd fain be gone,
To offer there her low Devotion.
Hail glorious Palace, which a lofty Mound
Of shining Jasper closely does surround!
Where the blew Saphyre and clear Chrysolite
At once astonish and affect the Sight!
Where sparkling Topas-thresholds kiss the Feet
Of all who come towards the Almighty's Seat!
By doors of dazling Adamant let in,
Where Golden Roofs on Emerald Pillars shine!
This lofty Structure, this divine Abode,
Becomes the Presence of its Founder, God.

230

Here purest Ayrs, fann'd in by Angels Wings,
Breathe all the Odours of ten thousand Springs.
Here no benumming Frosts dare once be rude,
Nor piercing Snows within these Courts intrude.
The torrid Zone is far remote from hence,
This Climate feels a gentler influence.
This true Elizium's Pleasures ne'er decay,
Whose time is all but One eternal Day.

Bright Resident of the Cœlestial Spheres!
How despicable's Earth, when Heav'n appears?
The very name of Grief's a Stranger here,
And nothing can beget a thought of Fear.
Here undisturb'd Tranquillity presides,
And entrance to all jarring Foes forbids.
Hence every Passion, Frailty, and Disease,
All that may injure, trouble, or displease,
All that may discompose th'exalted Mind,
Are to eternal Banishment confin'd.

Bright Resident of the Cœlestial Spheres!
How despicable's Earth, when Heav'n appears?
Here feasting Souls perpetual Revels keep,
And never are concern'd for Food or Sleep;
With indefatigable Zeal they move,
Born on the wings of Duty and of Love.

231

Dissolv'd in Hymns, here Quires of Angels lie,
And with loud Halelujah's fill the Sky.
Here new-come Saints with wreaths of Light are crown'd,
While Iv'ry Harps and Silver Trumpets sound.
Here ruddy Cherubs sacred Hymns begin,
And smiling Seraphs loud Responses sing;
While echoing Angels the blests Ayrs retort,
Follow'd by a loud Chorus of the Universal Court:
While, to compleat the Musick of the Quire
The Royal Psalmist tunes his Sacred Lyre.

Such was the mighty Joy, when they caress'd
The Royal CHARLES, their welcom martyr'd Guest.
Such Songs of Triumph fill'd Heav'ns space around,
When in his room his God-like Son was crown'd:
Him, for whose safety they were oft employ'd,
And blest the grateful Orders they obey'd:
Him, for whose sake they did loud Storms asswage,
And still'd the more tumultuous Peoples rage;
Knowing His Reign such Blessings wou'd dispence,
To make their Pains a glorious Recompence:
So mild, so good—such Woes his Exit brings,
When they look on, they sigh, and flag their Wings.
O that my ravish'd Soul could mount the Skyes,
To hear the Musick of their Psalmodies!

232

The meanest Seat in this bright Court I'd chuse,
Before the best Preferment Earth bestows;
For one short Days sublime Enjoyment here
Exceeds an Age of the chief Pleasure there.
Haste then, my Soul! to those blest Mansions fly,
With those bright Objects please thy wondring Eye!
With their sweet Ayrs fill thy attentive Ear,
Till thou hast learnt to chant glad Anthems there!
Till thou, instructed in the Heav'nly Art,
May'st in their Consort bear an humble Part!
Blest Resident of the Cœlestial Spheres!
How despicable's Earth, when Heav'n appears?
What pure Delights that happy Place allows?
How many Mansions in my Father's House?
My flaming Soul can thence no longer stay;
If none goes there and lives, I'll die to find the way.

233

O my Soul! what can I say when I behold the Joy to come? I am lost in Admiration, because the Joy will be within and without, above and below, about and beside us.

Bonavent. Soliloq. cap. 4.

235

XV.

Make haste, my Beloved, and be like the Roe or the young Hart upon the Mountains of Spices,

Cant. viii. 14.

Haste, my bright Sun! hast from my dazzel'd Sight,
Too tender to endure thy streaming Light:
How does my Tongue my Love-sick Soul betray?
This bids him fly, whom that wou'd beg to stay.
For why shou'd I his Absence thus engage,
Which Grant will make one tedious Hour an Age?
Yet his too beauteous Beams forbid his stay;
Fly then, my Love, or lay those Beams away!
Hadst thou on me this harsh Injunction laid,
The killing sound at once had struck me Dead:
But thy own Flame, not I, wou'd have it so,
I shou'd be Ages in pronuncing Go!
I wou'd not wish what now I do intreat;
Then stay, and let me not perswade Thee yet!
Stay, stay my Life, and turn the deafned Ear!
Sure what I wou'd not Speak, you shou'd not Hear.

236

Hence let the Wind my feign'd Petition bear!
'Twas Fear, not I, that form'd the hasty Pray'r.
Yet (oh!) this melting Heat forbids your stay;
Fly, fly, my Love, I burn if you delay.
Oh! let your Haste outstrip the hunted Hind;
But that's too slow; fly like the nimble Wind!
Fly till thou leav'st ev'n flagging thought behind!
Yet in thy Flight a longing Look bestow,
A speaking Glance, to shew thee loath to go.
But that once cast, renew your Speed away:
Fly, fly, my Love, there's Death in your delay!
Behold those lofty Sky-saluting Hills,
Where rich Perfume from weeping Trees distills!
Where Lawrels, Cedars, and soft Myrtles grow,
And all the Spice Arabia can bestow:
To their high tops direct thy nimble Flight,
Till thou, like them, art vanish'd from my Sight!
Fly to the heights where the gay Seraphs Sing,
And the young Cherubs exercise their Wing!
Fly till the Stars appear as much below
Thy Station, as they are above it now!
Those places are inur'd to Heat and Fire,
And what I dread, is what they most desire.
One Spark's sufficient to inflame my Soul;
Oh! do not then consume me with the whole!

237

Then let thy haste the hunted Hind out-go!
And yet, methinks, thou shoud'st not leave me so!
Fly where thou often may'st with ease look back,
Nor from my Sight too far a Journey take:
But keep such distance as the glorious Sun,
When with most Light he gilds the pale-fac'd Moon!
Ah! this discov'ry of my Soul forgive!
I cannot with thee, nor without thee, live.
If thou art near, I burn; remote, I freeze;
And either distance does alike displease.
Then so approach me, Lord, I thee desire,
That I may feel thy Warmth, but not thy Fire.
Fly, then, my Life! fast as the hunted Deer;
But go no more too far, than stay too near!
And when th'art gone, on reedy Pipes I'll play,
And sing thy Praises in an amourous Lay;
And when I've wearied out the tedious Night,
With a new Task I will my Self Delight.
I'll carve at large on ev'ry spreading Tree
Our Loves Original and History.
What Time remains I'll dedicate to Sleep,
Yet still my waking Thoughts lov'd Object keep.

But see how while I speak I melt away!
Haste your ungrateful Flight without delay!
Yet go as tho' you this Departure mourn,
And all your haste were for a quick Return.

268

The Soul desires that her Beloved would be gone, because now she is able to follow him in his Flight.

Amb. de bono Mortis, cap. 5.

FINIS.