1296.
[Ah, simple souls, who fondly dream]
Ah, simple souls, who fondly dream
Of instantaneous holiness!
Though pride and self extinguish'd seem,
While all within is joy and peace,
Ye soon shall own, with shame compell'd,
The' original wound was slightly heal'd.
It cannot heal your sloth, to say
“Ye need not suffer first, or grieve,
Ye need not fight so long, or pray,
But now, ye novices believe,
But now the crown of victory seize,
But now be perfect—if you please!”
It cannot heal your pride, to praise,
And part you from the grovelling crowd,
To set you up for fools to gaze
At the strange miniatures of God,
Sinners transform'd by fancy's power
To saints, and perfect in an hour!
Rather a thousand-fold increase
Your flatter'd vanity obtains,
While in perfection's glorious dress
The self-exalting nature reigns,
And all your grace so highly prized
Is only Antichrist disguised!
