Silex Scintillans :: :: University of Virginia Library

Where is God my Maker, who giveth Songs in the night?
Who teacheth us more then the beasts of the earth, and maketh us wiser then the fowle of heaven?
Job chap. 35. ver. 10, 11.

[A wit most worthy in tryed Gold to shine]

A wit most worthy in tryed Gold to shine,
Immortal Gold! had he sung the divine
Praise of his Maker: to whom he preferr'd
Obscene, vile fancies, and prophanely marr'd
A rich, rare stile with sinful, lewd contents;
No otherwise, then if with Instruments
Of polish'd Ivory, some drudge should stir
A dirty sink, &c.—

To my most merciful, my most loving, and dearly loved Redeemer, the ever blessed, the onely Holy and Just One, JESVS CHRIST, The Son of the living GOD, And the sacred Virgin Mary.

I.

My God! thou that didst dye for me,
These thy deaths fruits I offer thee;
Death that to me was life and light,
But dark and deep pangs to thy sight.

Some drops of thy all-quickning blood
Fell on my heart; those made it bud
And put forth thus, though Lord, before
The ground was curst, and void of store.
Indeed I had some here to hire
Which long resisted thy desire,
That ston'd thy servants, and did move
To have the murthred for thy love;
But Lord, I have expell'd them, and so bent,
Beg, thou wouldst take thy Tenants Rent.

II.

Dear Lord, 'tis finished! and now he
That copyed it, presents it thee.
'Twas thine first, and to thee returns,
From thee it shin'd, though here it burns;
If the Sun rise on rocks, is't right,
To call it their inherent light?
No, nor can I say, this is mine,
For, dearest Jesus, 'tis all thine.
As thy cloaths, (when thou with cloaths wert clad)
Both light from thee and virtue had,
And now (as then within this place)
Thou to poor rags dost still give grace.
This is the earnest thy love sheds,
The Candle shining on some heads,

Till at thy charges they shall be,
Cloath'd all with immortality.

My dear Redeemer, the worlds light,
And life too, and my hearts delight!
For all thy mercies and thy truth
Shew'd to me in my sinful youth,
For my sad failings and my wilde
Murmurings at thee, when most milde:
For all my secret faults, and each
Frequent relapse and wilful breach,
For all designs meant against thee,
And ev'ry publish'd vanity
Which thou divinely hast forgiven,
While thy blood wash'd me white as heaven:
I nothing have to give to thee,
But this thy own gift, given to me;
Refuse it not! for now thy Token
Can tell thee where a heart is broken.

Unto him that loved us, and washed us from our sins in his own blood.

And hath made us Kings and Priests unto God and his Father; to him be glory and dominion, for ever and ever. Amen.

Behold, he cometh with clouds, and every eye shall see him, and they also which pierced him; and all kinreds af the earth shall wail because of him: even so. Amen.

Revel. cap. 1. ver. 5, 6, 7.

[Vain Wits and eyes]

Vain Wits and eyes
Leave, and be wise:
Abuse not, shun not holy fire,
But with true tears wash off your mire.
Tears and these flames will soon grow kinde,
And mix an eye-salve for the blinde.
Tears cleanse and supple without fail,
And fire will purge your callous veyl.
Then comes the light! which when you spy,
And see your nakedness thereby,
Praise him, who dealt his gifts so free
In tears to you, in fire to me.

Ascension-day.

Lord Jesus! with what sweetness and delights,
Sure, holy hopes, high joys and quickning flights
Dost thou feed thine! O thou! the hand that lifts
To him, who gives all good and perfect gifts.
Thy glorious, bright Ascension (though remov'd
So many Ages from me) is so prov'd
And by thy Spirit seal'd to me, that I
Feel me a sharer in thy victory.
I soar and rise
Up to the skies,
Leaving the world their day,
And in my flight,
For the true light
Go seeking all the way;
I greet thy Sepulchre, salute thy Grave,
That blest inclosure, where the Angels gave
The first glad tidings of thy early light,
And resurrection from the earth and night.

I see that morning in thy Converts tears,
Fresh as the dew, which but this dawning wears?
I smell her spices, and her ointment yields,
As rich a scent as the now Primros'd-fields:
The Day-star smiles, and light with the deceast,
Now shines in all the Chambers of the East.
What stirs, what posting intercourse and mirth
Of Saints and Angels glorifie the earth?
What sighs, what whispers, busie stops and stays;
Private and holy talk fill all the ways?
They pass as at the last great day, and run
In their white robes to seek the risen Sun;
I see them, hear them, mark their haste, and move
Amongst them, with them, wing'd with faith and love,
Thy forty days more secret commerce here,
After thy death and Funeral, so clear
And indisputable, shews to my sight
As the Sun doth, which to those days gave light.
I walk the fields of Bethani which shine
All now as fresh as Eden, and as fine.
Such was the bright world, on the first seventh day,
Before man brought forth sin, and sin decay;
When like a Virgin clad in Flowers and green
The pure earth sat, and the fair woods had seen
No frost, but flourish'd in that youthful vest,
With which their great Creator had them drest:
When Heav'n above them shin'd like molten glass,
While all the Planets did unclouded pass;
And Springs, like dissolv'd Pearls their Streams did pour
Ne'r marr'd with floods, nor anger'd with a showre.
With these fair thoughts I move in this fair place,
And the last steps of my milde Master trace;
I see him leading out his chosen Train,
All sad with tears, which like warm Summer rain
In silent drops steal from their holy eyes,
Fix'd lately on the Cross, now on the skies.

And now (eternal Jesus!) thou dost heave
Thy blessed hands to bless, these thou dost leave;
The cloud doth now receive thee, and their sight
Having lost thee, behold two men in white!
Two and no more: what two attest, is true,
Was thine own answer to the stubborn Jew.
Come then thou faithful witness! come dear Lord
Upon the Clouds again to judge this world!

St. Mary Magdalene.

Ascension Hymn.

Dust and clay
Mans antient wear!
Here you must stay,
But I elsewhere;
Souls sojourn here, but may not rest;
Who will ascend, must be undrest.

And yet some
That know to die
Before death come,
Walk to the skie
Even in this life; but all such can
Leave behinde them the old Man.

If a star
Should leave the Sphære,
She must first mar
Her flaming wear,
And after fall, for in her dress
Of glory, she cannot transgress.

Man of old
Within the line

Of Eden could
Like the Sun shine
All naked, innocent and bright,
And intimate with Heav'n, as light;

But since he
That brightness soil'd,
His garments be
All dark and spoil'd,
And here are left as nothing worth,
Till the Refiners fire breaks forth.

Then comes he!
Whose mighty light
Made his cloathes be
Like Heav'n, all bright;
The Fuller, whose pure blood did flow
To make stain'd man more white then snow.

Hee alone
And none else can
Bring bone to bone
And rebuild man,
And by his all subduing might
Make clay ascend more quick then light.

They are all gone into the world of light!
And I alone sit lingring here;
Their very memory is fair and bright,
And my sad thoughts doth clear.

It glows and glitters in my cloudy brest
Like stars upon some gloomy grove,

Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest,
After the Sun's remove.

I see them walking in an Air of glory,
Whose light doth trample on my days:
My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,
Meer glimering and decays.

O holy hope! and high humility,
High as the Heavens above!
These are your walks, and you have shew'd them me
To kindle my cold love,

Dear, beauteous death! the Jewel of the Just,
Shining no where, but in the dark;
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust;
Could man outlook that mark!

He that hath found some fledg'd birds nest, may know
At first sight, if the bird be flown;
But what fair Well, or Grove he sings in now,
That is to him unknown.

And yet, as Angels in some brighter dreams
Call to the soul, when man doth sleep:
So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted theams,
And into glory peep.

If a star were confin'd into a Tomb
Her captive flames must needs burn there;
But when the hand that lockt her up, gives room,
She'l shine through all the sphære.

O Father of eternal life, and all
Created glories under thee!
Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall
Into true liberty.

Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill
My perspective (still) as they pass,
Or else remove me hence unto that hill,
Where I shall need no glass.

White Sunday.

VVellcome white day! a thousand Suns,
Though seen at once, were black to thee;
For after their light, darkness comes,
But thine shines to eternity.

Those flames which on the Apostles rush'd
At this great feast, and in a tyre
Of cloven Tongues their heads all brush'd,
And crown'd them with Prophetic fire:

Can these new lights be like to those,
These lights of Serpents like the Dove?
Thou hadst no gall, ev'n for thy foes,
And thy two wings were Grief and Love.

Though then some boast that fire each day,
And on Christs coat pin all their shreds;
Not sparing openly to say,
His candle shines upon their heads:

Yet while some rays of that great light
Shine here below within thy Book,
They never shall so blinde my sight
But I will know which way to look.

For though thou doest that great light lock,
And by this lesser commerce keep:

Yet by these glances of the flock
I can discern Wolves from the Sheep.

Not, but that I have wishes too,
And pray, These last may be as first,
Or better; but thou long ago
Hast said, These last should be the worst.

Besides, thy method with thy own,
Thy own dear people pens our times,
Our stories are in their set down
And penalties spread to our Crimes.

Again, if worst and worst implies
A State, that no redress admits,
Then from thy Cross unto these days
The rule without Exception fits.

And yet, as in nights gloomy page
One silent star may interline:
So in this last and lewdest age,
Thy antient love on some may shine.

For, though we hourly breath decays,
And our best note and highest ease
Is but meer changing of the keys,
And a Consumption that doth please;

Yet thou the great eternal Rock
Whose height above all ages shines,
Art still the same, and canst unlock
Thy waters to a soul that pines.

Since then thou art the same this day
And ever, as thou were of old,
And nothing doth thy love allay
But our hearts dead and sinful cold:

As thou long since wert pleas'd to buy
Our drown'd estate, taking the Curse
Upon thy self, so to destroy
The knots we tyed upon thy purse,

So let thy grace now make the way
Even for thy love; for by that means
We, who are nothing but foul clay,
Shal be fine gold, which thou didst cleanse.

O come! refine us with thy fire!
Refine us! we are at a loss.
Let not thy stars for Balaams hire
Dissolve into the common dross!

The Proffer.

Be still black Parasites,
Flutter no more;
Were it still winter, as it was before,
You'd make no flights;
But now the dew and Sun have warm'd my bowres,
You flie and flock to suck the flowers.

But you would honey make:
These buds will wither,
And what you now extract, in harder weather
Will serve to take;
Wise husband will (you say) there wants prevent,
Who do not so, too late repent.

O poys'nous, subtile fowls!
The flyes of hell
That buz in every ear, and blow on souls
Until they smell

And rot, descend not here, nor think to stay,
I've read, who 'twas, drove you away.

Think you these you longing eyes,
Though sick and spent,
And almost famish'd, ever will consent
To leave those skies,
That glass of souls and spirits, where well drest
They shine in white (like stars) and rest.

Shall my short hour, my inch,
my one poor sand,
And crum of life, now ready to disband
Revolt and flinch,
And having born the burthen all the day,
Now cast at night my Crown away?

No, No; I am not he;
Go seek elsewhere.
I skill not your fine tinsel, and false hair,
Your Sorcery
And smooth seducements: I'le not stuff my story
With your Commonwealth and glory.

There are, that will sow tares
And scatter death
Amongst the quick, selling their souls and breath
For any wares;
But when thy Master comes, they'l finde and see
There's a reward for them and thee.

Then keep the antient way!
Spit out their phlegm
And fill thy brest with home; think on thy dream:
A calm, bright day!
A Land of flowers and spices! the word given,
If these be fair, O what is Heaven!

Cock-crowing.

Father of lights! what Sunnie seed,
What glance of day hast thou confin'd,
Into this bird? To all the breed
This busie Ray thou hast assign'd;
Their magnetisme works all night,
And dreams of Paradise and light.

Their eyes watch for the morning-hue,
Their little grain expelling night
So shines and sings, as if it knew
The path unto the house of light.
It seems their candle, howe't done,
Was tinn'd and lighted at the sunne.

If such a tincture, such a touch,
So firm a longing can impowre
Shall thy own image think it much
To watch for thy appearing hour?
If a meer blast so fill the sail,
Shall not the breath of God prevail?

O thou immortall light and heat!
Whose hand so shines through all this frame,
That by the beauty of the seat,
We plainly see, who made the same.
Seeing thy seed abides in me,
Dwell thou in it, and I in thee.

To sleep without thee, is to die;
Yea, 'tis a death partakes of hell:
For where thou dost not close the eye
It never opens, I can tell.
In such a dark, Ægyptian border,
The shades of death dwell and disorder.

If joyes, and hopes, and earnest throws,
And hearts, whose Pulse beats still for light
Are given to birds; who, but thee, knows
A love-sick souls exalted flight?
Can souls be track'd by any eye
But his, who gave them wings to flie?

Onely this Veyle which thou hast broke,
And must be broken yet in me,
This veyle, I say, is all the cloke
And cloud which shadows thee from me.
This veyle thy full-ey'd love denies,
And onely gleams and fractions spies.

O take it off! make no delay,
But brush me with thy light, that I
May shine unto a perfect day,
And warme me at thy glorious Eye!
O take it off! or till it flee,
Though with no Lilie, stay with me!

The Starre.

What ever 'tis, whose beauty here below
Attracts thee thus & makes thee stream & flow,
And wind and curle, and wink and smile,
Shifting thy gate and guile:

Though thy close commerce nought at all imbarrs
My present search, for Eagles eye not starrs,
And still the lesser by the best
And highest good is blest:

Yet, seeing all things that subsist and be,
Have their Commissions from Divinitie,
And teach us duty, I will see
What man may learn from thee.

First, I am sure, the Subject so respected
Is well-disposed, for bodies once infected,
Deprav'd or dead, can have with thee
No hold, nor sympathie.

Next, there's in it a restless, pure desire
And longing for thy bright and vitall fire,
Desire that never will be quench'd,
Nor can be writh'd, nor wrench'd.

These are the Magnets which so strongly move
And work all night upon thy light and love,
As beauteous shapes, we know not why,
Command and guide the eye.

For where desire, celestiall, pure desire
Hath taken root, and grows, and doth not tire,
There God a Commerce states, and sheds
His Secret on their heads.

This is the Heart he craves; and who so will
But give it him, and grudge not; he shall feel
That God is true, as herbs unseen
Put on their youth and green.

The Palm-tree.

Deare friend sit down, and bear awhile this shade
As I have yours long since; This Plant, you see
So prest and bow'd, before sin did degrade
Both you and it, had equall liberty

With other trees: but now shut from the breath
And air of Eden, like a male-content
It thrives no where. This makes these weights (like death
And sin) hang at him; for the more he's bent

The more he grows. Celestial natures still
Aspire for home; This Solomon of old
By flowers and carvings and mysterious skill
Of Wings, and Cherubims, and Palms foretold.

This is the life which hid above with Christ
In God, doth always (hidden) multiply,
And spring, and grow, a tree ne'r to be prick'd,
A Tree, whose fruit is immortality.

Here Spirits that have run their race and fought
And won the fight, and have not fear'd the frowns
Nor lov'd the smiles of greatness, but have wrought
Their masters will, meet to receive their Crowns.

Here is the patience of the Saints: this Tree
Is water'd by their tears, as flowers are fed
With dew by night; but One you cannot see
Sits here and numbers all the tears they shed.

Here is their faith too, which if you will keep
When we two part, I will a journey make
To pluck a Garland hence, while you do sleep
And weave it for your head against you wake.

Joy.

Be dumb course measures, jar no more; to me
There is no discord, but your harmony.
False, jugling sounds; a grone well drest, where care
Moves in disguise, and sighs afflict the air:
Sorrows in white; griefs tun'd; a sugerd Dosis
Of Wormwood, and a Deaths-head crown'd with Roses.
He weighs not your forc'd accents, who can have
A lesson plaid him by a winde or wave.
Such numbers tell their days, whose spirits be
Lull'd by those Charmers to a Lethargy.

But as for thee, whose faults long since require
More eyes then stars; whose breath could it aspire
To equal winds: would prove too short: Thou hast
Another mirth, a mirth though overcast
With clouds and rain, yet full as calm and fine
As those clear heights which above tempests shine.
Therefore while the various showers
Kill and cure the tender flowers,
While the winds refresh the year
Now with clouds, now making clear,
Be sure under pains of death
To ply both thine eyes and breath.
As leafs in Bowers
Whisper their hours,
And Hermit-wells
Drop in their Cells:
So in sighs and unseen tears
Pass thy solitary years,
And going hence, leave written on some Tree,
Sighs make joy sure, and shaking fastens thee.

The Favour.

O thy bright looks! thy glance of love
Shown, & but shown me from above!
Rare looks! that can dispense such joy
As without wooing wins the coy,
And makes him mourn, and pine and dye
Like a starv'd Eaglet, for thine eye
Some kinde herbs here, though low & far,
Watch for, and know their loving star.
O let no star compare with thee!
Nor any herb out-duty me!
So shall my nights and mornings be
Thy time to shine, and mine to see.

The Garland.

Thou, who dost flow and flourish here below.
To whom a falling star and nine dayes glory,
Or some frail beauty makes the bravest shew,
Hark, and make use of this ensuing story.

When first my youthfull, sinfull age
Grew master of my wayes,
Appointing errour for my Page,
And darknesse for my dayes;
I flung away, and with full crie
Of wild affections, rid
In post for pleasures; bent to trie
All gamesters that would bid.
I played with fire, did counsell spurn,
Made life my common stake;
But never thought that fire would burn,
Or that a soul could ake.
Glorious deceptions, gilded mists,
False joyes, phantastick flights,
Peeces of sackcloth with silk lists:
These were my prime delights.
I sought choice bowres haunted the spring,
Cull'd flowres and made me posies:
Gave my fond humours their full wing,
And crown'd my head with Roses.
But at the height of this Careire
I met with a dead man,
Who noting well my vain Abear,
Thus unto me began:
Desist fond fool, be not undone,
What thou hast cut to day

Whll fade at night, and with this Sun
Quite vanish and decay.

Flowres gather'd in this world, die here; if thou
Wouldst have a wreath that fades not, let them grow,
And grow for thee; who spares them here, shall find
A Garland, where comes neither rain, nor wind.

Love-sick.

Iesus, my life! how shall I truly love thee?
O that thy Spirit would so strongly move me,
That thou wert pleas'd to shed thy grace so farr
As to make man all pure love, flesh a star!
A star that would ne'r set, but ever rise,
So rise and run, as to out-run these skies,
These narrow skies (narrow to me) that barre,
So barre me in, that I am still at warre,
At constant warre with them. O come and rend,
Or bow the heavens! Lord bow them and descend,
And at thy presence make these mountains flow,
These mountains of cold Ice in me! Thou art
Refining fire, O then refine my heart,
My foul, foul heart! Thou art immortall heat,
Heat motion gives; Then warm it, till it beat,
So beat for thee, till thou in mercy hear,
So hear that thou must open: open to
A sinfull wretch, A wretch that caus'd thy woe,
Thy woe, who caus'd his weal; so far his weal
That thou forgott'st thine own, for thou didst seal
Mine with thy blood, thy blood which makes thee mine,
Mine ever, ever; And me ever thine.

Trinity-Sunday.

O holy, blessed, glorious three,
Eternall witnesses that be
In heaven, One God in trinitie!

As here on earth (when men with-stood,)
The Spirit, Water, and the Blood,
Made my Lords Incarnation good:

So let the Anty-types in me
Elected, bought and seal'd for free,
Be own'd, sav'd, Sainted by you three!

Psalme 104.

Up, O my soul, and blesse the Lord. O God,
My God, how great, how very great art thou!
Honour and majesty have their abode
With thee, and crown thy brow.

Thou cloath'st thy self with light, as with a robe,
And the high, glorious heav'ns thy mighty hand
Doth spread like curtains round about this globe
Of Air, and Sea, and Land.

The beams of thy bright Chambers thou dost lay
In the deep waters, which no eye can find;
The clouds thy chariots are, and thy path way
The wings of the swift wind.

In thy celestiall, gladsome messages
Dispatch'd to holy souls, sick with desire

And love of thee, each willing Angel is
Thy minister in fire.

Thy arm unmoveable for ever laid
And founded the firm earth; then with the deep
As with a vail thou hidst it, thy floods plaid
Above the mountains steep.

At thy rebuke they fled, at the known voice
Of their Lords thunder they retir'd apace:
Some up the mountains past by secret ways,
Some downwards to their place.

For thou to them a bound hast set, a bound
Which (though but sand) keeps in and curbs whole seas:
There all their fury, some and hideous sound
Must languish and decrease.

And as thy care bounds these, so thy rich love
Doth broach the earth, and lesser brooks lets forth,
Which run from hills to valleys, and improve
Their pleasure and their worth.

These to the beasts of every field give drink;
There the wilde asses swallow the cool spring:
And birds amongst the branches on their brink
Their dwellings have and sing.

Thou from thy upper Springs above, from those
Chambers of rain, where Heav'ns large bottles lie,
Doest water the parch'd hills, whose breaches close
Heal'd by the showers from high.

Grass for the cattel, and herbs for mans use
Thou mak'st to grow; these (blest by thee) the earth
Brings forth, with wine, oyl, bread: All which infuse
To mans heart strength and mirth.

Thou giv'st the trees their greenness, ev'n to those
Cedars in Lebanon, in whose thick boughs
The birds their nests build; though the Stork doth choose
The fir-trees for her house.

To the wilde goats the high hills serve for folds,
The rocks give Conies a retyring place:
Above them the cool Moon her known course holds,
And the Sun runs his race.

Thou makest darkness, and then comes the night;
In whose thick shades and silence each wilde beast
Creeps forth, and pinch'd for food, with scent and sight
Hunts in an eager quest.

The Lyons whelps impatient of delay
Roar in the covert of the woods, and seek
Their meat from thee, who doest appoint the prey
And feed'st them all the week.

This past, the Sun shines on the earth, and they
Retire into their dens; Man goes abroad
Unto his work, and at the close of day
Returns home with his load.

O Lord my God, how many and how rare
Are thy great works! In wisdom hast thou made
Them all, and this the earth, and every blade
Of grass, we tread, declare.

So doth the deep and wide sea, wherein are
Innumerable, creeping things both small
And great: there ships go, and the shipmens fear
The comely spacious Whale.

These all upon thee wait, that thou maist feed
Them in due season: what thou giv'st, they take;

Thy bounteous open hand helps them at need,
And plenteous meals they make.

When thou doest hide thy face (thy face which keeps
All things in being) they consume and mourn:
When thou with-draw'st their breath, their vigour sleeps,
And they to dust return.

Thou send'st thy spirit forth, and they revive,
The frozen earths dead face thou dost renew.
Thus thou thy glory through the world dost drive,
And to thy works art true.

Thine eyes behold the earth, and the whole stage
Is mov'd and trembles, the hills melt & smoke
With thy least touch: lightnings and winds that rage
At thy rebuke are broke.

Therefore as long as thou wilt give me breath
I will in songs to thy great name imploy
That gift of thine, and to my day of death
Thou shalt be all my joy.

Ile spice my thoughts with thee, and from thy word
Gather true comforts; but the wicked liver
Shall be consum'd. O my soul, bless thy Lord!
Yea, blesse thou him for ever!

The Bird.

Hither thou com'st: the busie wind all night
Blew through thy lodging, where thy own warm wing
Thy pillow was. Many a sullen storm
(For which course man seems much the fitter born,)
Rain'd on thy bed
And harmless head.

And now as fresh and chearful as the light
Thy little heart in early hymns doth sing
Unto that Providence, whose unseen arm
Curb'd them, and cloath'd thee well and warm.
All things that be, praise him; and had
Their lesson taught them, when first made.

So hills and valleys into singing break,
And though poor stones have neither speech nor tongue
While active winds and streams both run and speak,
Yet stones are deep in admiration.
Thus Praise and Prayer here beneath the Sun
Make lesser mornings, when the great are done.

For each inclosed Spirit is a star
Inlightning his own little sphære,
Whose light, though fetcht and borrowed from far,
Both mornings makes, and evenings there.

but as these Birds of light make a land glad,
Chirping their solemn Matins on each tree:
So in the shades of night some dark fowls be,
Whose heavy notes make all that hear them, sad.

The Turtle then in Palm-trees mourns,
While Owls and Satyrs howl;
The pleasant Land to brimstone turns
And all her streams grow foul.

Brightness and mirth, and love and faith, all flye,
Till the Day-spring breaks forth again from high.

The Timber.

Sure thou didst flourish once! and many Springs,
Many bright mornings, much dew, many showers
Past ore thy head: many light Hearts and Wings
Which now are dead, lodg'd in thy living bowers.

And still a new succession sings and flies;
Fresh Groves grow up, and their green branches shoot
Towards the old and still enduring skies,
While the low Violet thrives at their root.

But thou beneath the sad and heavy Line
Of death, dost waste all senseless, cold and dark;
Where not so much as dreams of light may shine,
Nor any thought or greenness, leaf or bark.

And yet (as is some deep hate and dissent,
Bred in thy growth betwixt high winds and thee,
Were still alive) thou dost great storms resent
Before they come, and know'st how near they be.

Else all at rest thou lyest, and the fierce breath
Of tempests can no more disturb thy ease;

But this thy strange resentment after death
Means onely those, who broke (in life) thy peace.

So murthered man, when lovely life is done,
And his blood freez'd, keeps in the Center still
Some secret sense, which makes the dead blood run
At his approach, that did the body kill.

And is there any murth'rer worse then sin?
Or any storms more foul then a lewd life?
Or what Resentient can work more within,
Then true remorse, when with past sins at strife?

He that hath left lifes vain joys and vain care,
And truly hates to be detain'd on earth,
Hath got an house where many mansions are,
And keeps his soul unto eternal mirth.

But though thus dead unto the world, and ceas'd
From sin, he walks a narrow, private way;
Yet grief and old wounds make him sore displeas'd,
And all his life a rainy, weeping day.

For though he should forsake the world, and live
As meer a stranger, as men long since dead;
Yet joy it self will make a right soul grieve
To think, he should be so long vainly lead.

But as shades set off light, so tears and grief
Though of themselves but a sad blubber'd story
By shewing the sin great, shew the relief
Far greater, and so speak my Saviors glory.

If my way lies through deserts and wilde woods;
Where all the Land with scorching heat is curst;
Better, the pools should flow with rain and floods
To fill my bottle, then I die with thirst.

Blest showers they are, and streams sent from above
Begetting Virgins where they use to flow;
And trees of life no other waters love,
These upper springs and none else make them grow.

But these chaste fountains flow not till we dye;
Some drops may fall before, but a clear spring
And ever running, till we leave to fling
Dirt in her way, will keep above the skie.

[_]

He that is dead, is freed from sin. Rom. Cap. 6. ver. 7.

The Jews.

VVhen the fair year
Of your deliverer comes,
And that long frost which now benums
Your hearts shall thaw; when Angels here
Shall yet to man appear,
And familiarly confer
Beneath the Oke and Juniper:
When the bright Dove
Which now these many, many Springs
Hath kept above,
Shall with spread wings
Descend, and living waters flow
To make drie dust, and dead trees grow;

O then that I
Might live, and see the Olive bear
Her proper branches! which now lie
Scattered each where,

And without root and sap decay
Cast by the husband-man away.
And sure it is not far!
For as your fast and foul decays
Forerunning the bright morning-star,
Did sadly note his healing rayes
Would shine elsewhere, since you were blind,
And would be cross, when God was kinde:
So by all signs
Our fulness too is now come in,
And the same Sun which here declines!
And sets, will few hours hence begin
To rise on you again, and look
Towards old Mamre and Eshcols brook.
For surely he
Who lov'd the world so, as to give
His onely Son to make it free,
Whose spirit too doth mourn and grieve
To see man lost, will for old love
From your dark hearts this veil remove.

Faith sojourn'd first on earth in you,
You were the dear and chosen stock:
The Arm of God, glorious and true,
Was first reveal'd to be your rock.

You were the eldest childe, and when
Your stony hearts despised love,
The youngest, ev'n the Gentiles then
Were chear'd, your jealousie to move.

Thus, Righteous Father! doest thou deal
With Brutish men; Thy gifts go round
By turns, and timely, and so heal
The lost Son by the newly found.

Begging.

I do not go! thou know'st, I'le dye!
My Spring and Fall are in thy book!
Or, if thou goest, do not deny
To lend me, though from far, one look!

My sins long since have made thee strange,
A very stranger unto me;
No morning meetings since this change,
Nor evening-walks have I with thee.

Why is my God thus slow and cold,
When I am most, most sick and sad?
Well fare those blessed days of old
When thou didst hear the weeping Lad!

O do not thou do as I did,
Do not despise a Love-sick heart!
What though some clouds defiance bid
Thy Sun must shine in every part.

Though I have spoil'd, O spoil not thou!
Hate not thine own dear gift and token!
Poor birds sing best, and prettiest show,
When their nest is faln and broken.

Dear Lord! restore thy ancient peace,
Thy quikning friendship, mans bright wealth!
And if thou wilt not give me ease
From sicknesse, give my spirit health!

Palm Sunday.

Come, drop your branches, strow the way
Plants of the day!
Whom sufferings make most green and gay.

The King of grief, the man of sorrow
Weeping still, like the wet morrow,
Your shades and freshness comes to borrow.

Put on, put on your best array;
Let the joy'd rode make holy-day,
And flowers that into fields do stray,
Or secret groves, keep the high-way.

Trees, flowers & herbs; birds, beasts & stones,
That since man fell, expect with groans
To see the lamb, which all at once,
Lift up your heads and leave your moans!
For here comes he
Whose death will be
Mans life, and your full liberty.

Hark! how the children shril and high
Hosanna cry,
Their joys provoke the distant skie,
Where thrones and Seraphins reply,
And their own Angels shine and sing
In a bright ring:
Such yong, sweet mirth
Makes heaven and earth
Joyn in a joyful Symphony,

The harmless, yong and happy Ass,
Seen long before

Zechariah, chap. 9. ver. 9.

this came to pass,
Is in these joys an high partaker
Ordain'd, and made to bear his Maker.

Dear feast of Palms, of Flowers and Dew!
Whose fruitful dawn sheds hopes and lights;
Thy bright solemnities did shew,
The third glad day through two sad nights.

I'le get me up before the Sun,
I'le cut me boughs off many a tree,
And all alone full early run
To gather flowers to wellcome thee.

Then like the Palm, though wrong, I'le bear,
I will be still a childe, still meek
As the poor Ass, which the proud jear,
And onely my dear Jesus seek.

If I lose all, and must endure
The proverb'd griefs of holy Job,
I care not, so I may secure
But one green Branch and a white robe.

Jesus weeping.

[_]

S. Luke 19. ver. 41.

Blessed, unhappy City? dearly lov'd
But still unkinde! art this day nothing mov'd!
Art senseless still? O can'st thou sleep
When God himself for thee doth weep!
Stiff-necked Jews! your fathers breed
That serv'd the calf, not Abr'ams seed,
Had not the Babes Hosanna cryed,
The stones had spoke, what you denyed

Dear Jesus weep on! pour this latter
Soul quickning rain, this living water
On their dead hearts; but (O my fears!)
They will drink blood, that despise tears.
My dear, bright Lord! my Morning-star!
Shed this live-dew on fields which far
From hence long for it! shed it there,
Where the starv'd earth groans for one tear!

This land, though with thy hearts blest extract fed,
Will nothing yield but thorns to wound thy head.

The Daughter of Herodias.

[_]

St. Matth. chap. 14. ver. 6. &c.

Vain, sinful Art! who first did fit
Thy lewd loath'd Motions unto sounds,
And made grave Musique like wilde wit
Erre in loose airs beyond her bounds?

What fires hath he heap'd on his head?
Since to his sins (as needs it must,)
His Art adds still (though he be dead,)
New fresh accounts of blood and lust.

Leave then

Her name was Salome; in passing over a frozen river, the ice broke under her, and chopt off her head.

yong Sorceress; the Ice
Will those coy spirits cast asleep,
Which teach thee now to please

Herod Antipas.

his eyes
Who doth thy lothsome mother keep.

But thou hast pleas'd so well, he swears,
And gratifies thy sin with vows:
His shameless lust in publick wears,
And to thy soft arts strongly bows.

Skilful Inchantress and true bred!
Who out of evil can bring forth good?
Thy mothers nets in thee were spred,
She tempts to Incest, thou to blood.

Jesus weeping.

[_]

St. John chap. 11. ver. 35.

My dear, Almighty Lord! why dost thou weep?
Why dost thou groan and groan again,
And with such deep,
Repeated sighs thy kinde heart pain,
Since the same sacred breath which thus
Doth Mourn for us,
Can make mans dead and scatter'd bones
Unite, and raise up all that dyed, at once?

O holy groans! Groans of the Dove!
O healing tears! the tears of love!
Dew of the dead! which makes dust move
And spring, how is't that you so sadly grieve,
Who can relieve?

Should not thy sighs refrain thy store
Of tears, and not provoke to more?
Since two afflictions may not raign
In one at one time, as some feign.
Those blasts, which o'r our heads here stray,
If showers then fall, will showers allay,
As those poor Pilgrims oft have tryed,
Who in this windy world abide.

Dear Lord! thou art all grief and love,
But which thou art most, none can prove.
Thou griev'st, man should himself undo,
And lov'st him, though he works thy wo.

'Twas not that vast, almighty measure
Which is requir'd to make up life,

(Though purchas'd with thy hearts dear treasure,)
Did breed this strife
Of grief and pity in thy brest,
The throne where peace and power rest:
But 'twas thy love that (without leave,)
Made thine eyes melt, and thy heart heave;
For though death cannot so undo
What thou hast done, (but though man too
Should help to spoil) thou canst restore
All better far then 'twas before;
Yet, thou so full of pity art
(Pity which overflows thy heart!)
That, though the Cure of all mans harm
Is nothing to thy glorious arm,
Yet canst not thou that free Cure do,
But thou must sorrow for him too.

Then farewel joys! for while I live,
My business here shall be to grieve:
A grief that shall outshine all joys
For mirth and life, yet without noise.
A grief, whose silent dew shall breed
Lilies and Myrrhe, where the curs'd seed
Did sometimes rule. A grief so bright
'Twill make the Land of darkness light;
And while too many sadly roam,
Shall send me (Swan-like) singing home.

[_]

Whom have I in heaven but thee? and there is none upon earth, that I desire besides thee. Psal. 73. ver. 25.

Providence.

Sacred and secret hand!
By whose assisting, swift command
The Angel shewd that holy Well,
Which freed poor Hagar from her fears,
And turn'd to smiles the begging tears
Of yong, distressed Ishmael.

How in a mystick Cloud
(Which doth thy strange sure mercies shroud)
Doest thou convey man food and money
Unseen by him, till they arrive
Just at his mouth, that thankless hive
Which kills thy Bees, and eats thy honey!

If I thy servant be
(Whose service makes ev'n captives free,)
A fish shall all my tribute pay,
The swift-wing'd Raven shall bring me meat,
And I, like Flowers shall still go neat,
As if I knew no moneth but May.

I will not fear what man,
With all his plots and power can;
Bags that wax old may plundered be,
But none can sequester or let
A state that with the Sun doth set
And comes next morning fresh as he.

Poor birds this doctrine sing,
And herbs which on dry hills do spring
Or in the howling wilderness
Do know thy dewy morning-hours,

And watch all night for mists or showers,
Then drink and praise thy bounteousness.

May he for ever dye
Who trusts not thee! but wretchedly
Hunts gold and wealth, and will not lend
Thy service, nor his soul one day:
May his Crown, like his hopes, be clay,
And what he saves, may his foes spend!

If all my portion here,
The measure given by thee each year
Were by my causless enemies
Usurp'd; it never should me grieve
Who know, how well thou canst relieve,
Whose hands are open as thine eyes.

Great King of love and truth!
Who would'st not hate my froward youth,
And wilt not leave me, when grown old;
Gladly will I, like Pontick sheep,
Unto their wormwood-diet keep
Since thou hast made thy Arm my fold.

The Knot.

Bright Queen of Heaven! Gods Virgin Spouse!
The glad worlds blessed maid!
Whose beauty tyed life to thy house,
And brought us saving ayd.

Thou art the true Loves-knot; by thee
God is made our Allie,
And mans inferior Essence he
With his did dignifie.

For Coalescent by that Band
We are his body grown,
Nourished with favors from his hand
Whom for our head we own.

And such a Knot, what arm dares loose,
What life, what death can sever?
Which us in him, and him in us
United keeps for ever.

The Ornament.

The lucky world shewd me one day
Her gorgeous Mart and glittering store,
Where with proud haste the rich made way
To buy, the poor came to adore.

Serious they seem'd and bought up all
The latest Modes of pride and lust,
Although the first must surely fall,
And the last is most loathsome dust.

But while each gay, alluring wear
With idle hearts and busie looks
They viewd, (for idleness hath there
Laid up all her Archives and books.)

Quite through their proud and pompous file
Blushing, and in meek weeds array'd
With native looks, which knew no guile,
Came the sheep-keeping Syrian Maid.

Whom strait the shining Row all fac'd
Forc'd by her artless looks and dress,
While once cryed out, We are disgrac'd!
For she is bravest, you confess.

St. Mary Magdalen.

Dear, beauteous Saint! more white then day,
When in his naked, pure array;
Fresher then morning-flowers which shew
As thou in tears dost, best in dew.
How art thou chang'd! how lively-fair,
Pleasing and innocent and air,
Not tutor'd by thy glass, but free,
Native and pure shines now in thee!
But since thy beauty doth still keep
Bloomy and fresh, why dost thou weep?

This dusky state of sighs and tears
Durst not look on those smiling years,
When Magdal-castle was thy seat,
Where all was sumptuous, rare and neat.
Why lies this Hair despised now
Which once thy care and art did show?
Who then did dress the much lov'd toy,
In Spires, Globes, angry Curls and coy,
Which with skill'd negligence seem'd shed
About thy curious, wilde, yong head?
Why is this rich, this Pistic Nard
Spilt, and the box quite broke and marr'd?
What pretty sullenness did hast
Thy easie hands to do this waste?
Why art thou humbled thus, and low
As earth, thy lovely head dost bow?
Dear Soul! thou knew'st, flowers here on earth
At their Lords foot-stool have their birth;
Therefore thy wither'd self in haste
Beneath his blest feet thou didst cast,
That at the root of this green tree
Thy great decays restor'd might be.
Thy curious vanities and rare;
Odorous ointments kept with care,
And dearly bought, (when thou didst see
They could not cure, nor comfort thee,)
Like a wise, early Penitent
Thou sadly didst to him present,
Whose interceding, meek and calm
Blood, is the worlds all-healing Balm.
This, this Divine Restorative
Call'd forth thy tears, which ran in live
And hasty drops, as if they had
(Their Lord so near) sense to be glad.
Learn, Ladies, here the faithful cure
Makes beauty lasting, fresh and pure;
Learn Marys art of tears, and then
Say, You have got the day from men.

Cheap, mighty Art! her Art of love,
Who lov'd much, and much more could move;

Her Art! whose memory must last
Till truth through all the world be past,
Till his abus'd, despised flame
Return to Heaven, from whence it came,
And send a fire down, that shall bring
Destruction on his ruddy wing.

Her Art! whose pensive, weeping eyes,
Were once sins loose and tempting spies,
But now are fixed stars, whose light
Helps such dark straglers to their sight.

Self-boasting Pharisee! how blinde
A Judge wert thou, and how unkinde?
It was impossible, that thou
Who wert all false, should'st true grief know;
Is't just to judge her faithful tears
By that foul rheum thy false eye wears?

This Woman (say'st thou) is a sinner:
And sate there none such at thy dinner?
Go Leper, go; wash till thy flesh
Comes like a childes, spotless and fresh;
He is still leprous, that still paints:
Who Saint themselves, they are no Saints.

The Rain bow.

Still yong and fine! but what is still in view
We flight as old and soil'd, though fresh and new.
How bright wert thou, when Shems admiring eye
Thy burnisht, flaming Arch did first descry!
When Terah, Nahor, Haran, Abram, Lot,
The youthful worlds gray fathers in one knot,
Did with intentive looks watch every hour
For thy new light, and trembled at each shower!
When thou' dost shine darkness looks white and fair,
Forms turn to Musick, clouds to smiles and air:
Rain gently spends his honey-drops, and pours
Balm on the cleft earth, milk on grass and flowers.
Bright pledge of peace and Sun-shine! the sure tye
Of thy Lords hand, the object of his eye.
When I behold thee, though my light be dim,
Distant and low, I can in thine see him,
Who looks upon thee from his glorious throne
And mindes the Covenant 'twixt All and One.
O foul, deceitful men! my God doth keep
His promise still, but we break ours and sleep.
After the Fall, the first sin was in Blood,
And Drunkenness quickly did succeed the flood;
But since Christ dyed, (as if we did devise
To lose him too, as well as Paradise,)
These two grand sins we joyn and act together,
Though blood & drunkeness make but foul, foul weather
Water (though both Heavens windows and the deep,
Full forty days o'r the drown'd world did weep,)
Could not reform us, and blood (in despight)
Yea Gods own blood we tread upon and slight.

So those bad daughters, which God sav'd from fire,
While Sodom yet did smoke, lay with their fire.

Then peaceful, signal bow, but in a cloud
Still lodged, where all thy unseen arrows shrowd,
I will on thee, as on a Comet look,
A Comet, the sad worlds ill-boding book;
Thy light as luctual and stain'd with woes
I'le judge, where penal flames sit mixt and close.
For though some think, thou shin'st but to restrain
Bold storms, and simply dost attend on rain,
Yet I know well, and so our sins require,
Thou dost but Court cold rain, till Rain turns Fire.

Gen. chap. 9. ver. 16.

The Seed growing secretly.

[_]

S. Mark 4. 26.

If this worlds friends might see but once
What some poor man may often feel,
Glory, and gold, and Crowns and Thrones
They would soon quit and learn to kneel.

My dew, my dew! my early love,
My souls bright food, thy absence kills!
Hover not long, eternal Dove!
Life without thee is loose and spills.

Somthing I had, which long ago
Did learn to suck, and sip, and taste,
But now grown sickly, sad and slow,
Doth fret and wrangle, pine and waste.

O spred thy sacred wings and shake
One living drop! one drop life keeps!
If pious griefs Heavens joys awake,
O fill his bottle! thy childe weeps!

Slowly and sadly doth he grow,
And soon as left shrinks back to ill;
O feed that life, which makes him blow
And spred and open to thy will!

For thy eternal, living wells
None stain'd or wither'd shall come near:
A fresh, immortal green there dwells,
And spotless white is all the wear.

Dear, secret Greenness! nurst below
Tempests and windes, and winter-nights,
Vex not, that but one sees thee grow,
That One made all these lesser lights.

If those bright joys he singly sheds
On thee, were all met in one Crown,
Both Sun and Stars would hide their heads;
And Moons, though full, would get them down.

Let glory be their bait, whose mindes
Are all too high for a low Cell:
Though Hawks can prey through storms and winds,
The poor Bee in her hive must dwel.

Glory, the Crouds cheap tinsel still
To what most takes them, is a drudge;
And they too oft take good for ill,
And thriving vice for vertue judge.

What needs a Conscience calm and bright
Within it self an outward test?

Who breaks his glass to take more light,
Makes way for storms into his rest.

Then bless thy secret growth, nor catch
At noise, but thrive unseen and dumb;
Keep clean, bear fruit, earn life and watch,
Till the white winged Reapers come!

As time one day by me did pass
Through a large dusky glasse
He held, I chanc'd to look
And spyed his curious book
Of past days, where sad Heav'n did shed
A mourning light upon the dead.

Many disordered lives I saw
And foul records which thaw
My kinde eyes still, but in
A fair, white page of thin
And ev'n, smooth lines, like the Suns rays,
Thy name was writ, and all thy days.

O bright and happy Kalendar!
Where youth shines like a star
All pearl'd with tears, and may
Teach age, The Holy way;
Where through thick pangs, high agonies
Faith into life breaks, and death dies.

As some meek night-piece which day quails,
To candle-light unveils:
So by one beamy line
From thy bright lamp did shine;

In the same page thy humble grave
Set with green herbs, glad hopes and brave.

Here slept my thoughts dear mark! which dust
Seem'd to devour, like rust;
But dust (I did observe)
By hiding doth preserve,
As we for long and sure recruits,
Candy with sugar our choice fruits.

O calm and sacred bed where lies
In deaths dark mysteries
A beauty far more bright
Then the noons cloudless light;
For whose dry dust green branches bud
And robes are bleach'd in the Lambs blood

Sleep happy ashes! (blessed sleep!)
While haplesse I still weep;
Weep that I have out liv'd
My life, and unreliev'd
Must (soul-lesse shadow!) so live on,
Though life be dead, and my joys gone.

Fair and yong light! my guide to holy
Grief and soul-curing melancholy;
Whom living here I did still shun
As sullen night-ravens do the Sun,
And lead by my own foolish fire
Wandred through darkness, dens and mire.
How am I now in love with all
That I term'd then meer bonds and thrall,

And led by my own foolish fire,
Wandred through darkness dens and mire.
How am I now in love withal
That I term'd then mere bonds and thrall,
And to thy name, which still I keep,
Like the surviving turtle, weep!
O bitter curs'd delights of men!
Our souls diseases first, and then
Our bodies; poysons that intreat
With fatal sweetness, till we eat;
How artfully do you destroy,
That kill with smiles and seeming joy?
If all the subtilties of vice
Stood bare before unpractic'd eyes,
And every act she doth commence
Had writ down its sad consequence,
Yet would not men grant, their ill fate
Lodged in those false looks, till too late.
O holy, happy, healthy heaven,
Where all is pure, where all is even,
Plain, harmless, faithful, fair and bright,
But what Earth breaths against thy light!
How blest had men been, had their Sire
Liv'd still in league with thy chaste fire,
Nor made life through her long descents,
A slave to lustful Elements!
I did once read in an old book
Soil'd with many a weeping look,
That the seeds of foul sorrows be
The finest things that are, to see.
So that fam'd fruit which made all dye
Seem'd fair unto the womans eye.
If these supplanters in the shade
Of Paradise, could make man fade,
How in this world should they deter
This world, their fellow-murtherer!
And why then grieve we to be sent
Home by our first fair punishment,

Without addition to our woes
And lingring wounds from weaker foes?
Since that doth quickly freedom win,
For he that's dead, is freed from sin.

O that I were winged and free
And quite undrest just now with thee,
Where freed souls dwel by living fountains
On everlasting, spicy mountains!
Alas! my God! take home thy sheep;
This world but laughs at those that weep.

The Stone.

[_]

Josh. chap. 24. ver. 27.

I have it now:
But where to act, that none shall know,
Where I shall have no cause to fear
An eye or ear,
What man will show?
If nights, and shades, and secret rooms,
Silent as tombs,
Will nor conceal nor assent to
My dark designs, what shall I do?
Man I can bribe, and woman will
Consent to any gainful ill,
But these dumb creatures are so true,
No gold nor gifts can them subdue.
Hedges have ears, said the old sooth,
And ev'ry bush is somethings booth;

This cautious fools mistake, and fear
Nothing but man, when ambush'd there.

But I (Alas!)
Was shown one day in a strange glass
That busie commerce kept between
God and his Creatures, though unseen.

They hear, see, speak,
And into loud discoveries break,
As loud as blood Not that God needs
Intelligence, whose spirit feeds
All things with life, before whose eyes,
Hell and all hearts stark naked lyes.
But he that judgeth as he hears,
He that accuseth none, so steers
His righteous course, that though he knows
All that man doth, conceals or shows,
Yet will not he by his own light
(Though both all-seeing and all right,)
Condemn men; but will try them by
A process, which ev'n mans own eye
Must needs acknowledge to be just.
Hence sand and dust
Are shak'd for witnesses, and stones
Which some think dead, shall all at once
With one attesting voice detect
Those secret sins we least suspect.
For know, wilde men, that when you erre
Each thing turns Scribe and Register,
And in obedience to his Lord,
Doth your most private sins record.

The Law delivered to the Jews,
Who promis'd much, but did refuse

Performance, will for that same deed
Against them by a stone proceed;
Whose substance, though 'tis hard enough,
Will prove their hearts more stiff and tuff.
But now, since God on himself took
What all mankinde could never brook,
If any (for he all invites)
His easie yoke rejects or slights,
The Gospel then (for 'tis his word
And not himself

St. John, chap. 12. ver. 47, 48.

shall judge the world)
Will by loose Dust that man arraign,
As one then dust more vile and vain.

John chap. 5. ver. 30. 45.

The dwelling-place.

[_]

S. John, chap. 1. ver. 38, 39.

What happy, secret fountain,
Fair shade, or mountain,
Whose undiscover'd virgin glory
Boasts it this day, though not in story,
Was then thy dwelling? did some cloud
Fix'd to a Tent, descend and shrowd
My distrest Lord? or did a star
Becken'd by thee, though high and far,
In sparkling smiles haste gladly down
To lodge light, and increase her own?
My dear, dear God! I do not know
What lodgd thee then, nor where, nor how,
But I am sure, thou dost now come
Oft to a narrow, homely room,
Where thou too hast but the least part,
My God, I mean my sinful heart.

The Men of War.

[_]

S. Luke, chap. 23. ver. 11.

If any have an ear
Saith holy John, then let him hear.
He that into Captivity
Leads others, shall a Captive be.
Who with the sword doth others kill,
A sword shall his blood likewise spill.
Here is the patience of the Saints,
And the true faith, which never faints.

Were not thy word (dear Lord!) my light,
How would I run to endless night,
And persecuting thee and thine,
Enact for Saints my self and mine.
But now enlighten'd thus by thee,
I dare not think such villany;
Nor for a temporal self-end
Successful wickedness commend.
For in this bright, instructing verse
Thy Saints are not the Conquerers;
But patient, meek, and overcome
Like thee, when set at naught and dumb.
Armies thou hast in Heaven, which fight,
And follow thee all cloath'd in white,
But here on earth (though thou hast need)
Thou wouldst no legions, but wouldst bleed.
The sword wherewith thou dost command
Is in thy mouth, not in thy hand,

And all thy Saints do overcome
By thy blood, and their Martyrdom.
But seeing Soldiers long ago
Did spit on thee, and smote thee too;
Crown'd thee with thorns, and bow'd the knee,
But in contempt, as still we see,
I'le marvel not at ought they do,
Because they us'd my Savior so;
Since of my Lord they had their will,
The servant must not take it ill.

Dear Jesus give me patience here,
And faith to see my Crown as near
And almost reach'd, because 'tis sure
If I hold fast and slight the Lure.
Give me humility and peace,
Contented thoughts, innoxious ease,
A sweet, revengeless, quiet minde,
And to my greatest haters kinde.
Give me, my God! a heart as milde
And plain, as when I was a childe;
That when thy Throne is set, and all
These Conquerors before it fall,
I may be found (preserv'd by thee)
Amongst that chosen company,
Who by no blood (here) overcame
But the blood of the blessed Lamb.

Revel. cap, 13. ver. 10.

The Ass.

[_]

St. Matt. 21.

Thou! who didst place me in this busie street
Of flesh and blood, where two ways meet:
The One of goodness, peace and life,
The other of death, sin and strife;
Where frail visibles rule the minde,
And present things finde men most kinde:
Where obscure cares the mean defeat,
And splendid vice destroys the great;
As thou didst set no law for me,
But that of perfect liberty,
Which neither tyres, nor doth corrode,
But is a Pillow, not a Load:
So give me grace ever to rest,
And build on it, because the best;
Teach both mine eyes and feet to move
Within those bounds set by thy love;
Grant I may soft and lowly be,
And minde those things I cannot see;
Tye me to faith, though above reason,
Who question power, they speak treason:
Let me thy Ass be onely wise
To carry, not search mysteries;
Who carries thee, is by thee lead,
Who argues, follows his own head.
To check bad motions, keep me still
Amongst the dead, where thriving ill
without his brags and conquests lies,
And truth (opprest here) gets the prize.
At all times, whatsoe'r I do,
Let me not fail to question, who

Shares in the act, and puts me to't?
And if not thou, let not me do't.
Above all, make me love the poor,
Those burthens to the rich mans door,
Let me admire those, and be kinde
To low estates, and a low minde.
If the world offers to me ought,
That by thy book must not be sought,
Or thought it should be lawful, may
Prove not expedient for thy way;
To shun that peril, let thy grace
Prevail with me to shun the place.
Let me be wise to please thee still,
And let men call me what they will.

When thus thy milde, instructing hand
Findes thy poor foal at thy command,
When he from wilde is become wise,
And slights that most, which men most prize
When all things here to thistles turn
Pricking his lips, till he doth mourn
And hang the head, sighing for those
Pastures of life, where the Lamb goes:
O then, just then! break or untye
These bonds, this sad captivity,
This leaden state, which men miscal
Being and life, but is dead thrall.
And when (O God!) the Ass is free,
In a state known to none but thee;
O let him by his Lord be led,
To living springs, and there be fed
Where light, joy health and perfect peace
Shut out all pain and each disease;
Where death and frailty are forgotten,
And bones rejoyce, which once were broken!

The hidden Treasure.

[_]

S. Matt. 13. 44.

VVhat can the man do that succeeds the King?
Even what was done before, and no new thing.
Who shews me but one grain of sincere light?
False stars and fire drakes, the deceits of night
Set forth to fool and foil thee, do not boast;
Such Coal-flames shew but Kitchin-rooms at most.
And those I saw search'd through; yea those and all
That these three thousand years time did let fall
To blinde the eyes of lookers-back, and I
Now all is done, finde all is vanity.
Those secret searches, which afflict the wise,
Paths that are hidden from the Vulturs eyes
I saw at distance, and where grows that fruit
Which others onely grope for and dispute.

The worlds lov'd wisdom (for the worlds friends think
There is none else) did not the dreadful brink
And precipice it leads to, bid me flie
None could with more advantage use, then I.

Mans favorite sins, those tainting appetites
Which nature breeds, and some fine clay invites,
With all their soft, kinde arts and easie strains
Which strongly operate, though without pains,
Did not a greater beauty rule mine eyes,
None would more dote on, nor so soon entice.
But since these sweets are sowre, and poyson'd here
Where the impure seeds flourish all the year,
And private Tapers will but help to stray
Ev'n those, who by them would finde out the day,

I'le seal my eyes up, and to thy commands
Submit my wilde heart, and restrain my hands;
I will do nothing, nothing know, nor see
But what thou bidst, and shew'st, and teachest me.
Look what thou gav'st; all that I do restore
But for one thing, though purchas'd once before.

Ecclesiastes, chap. 2. 12.

Childe-hood.

I cannot reach it; and my striving eye
Dazles at it, as at eternity.
Were now that Chronicle alive,
Those white designs which children drive,
And the thoughts of each harmless hour,
With their content too in my pow'r,
Quickly would I make my path even,
And by meer playing go to Heaven.

Why should men love
A Wolf, more then a Lamb or Dove?
Or choose hell-fire and brimstone streams
Before bright stars, and Gods own beams?
Who kisseth thorns, will hurt his face,
But flowers do both refresh and grace,
And sweetly living (fie on men!
Are when dead, medicinal then.
If seeing much should make staid eyes,
And long experience should make wise;
Since all that age doth teach, is ill,
Why should I not love childe-hood still?
Why if I see a rock or shelf,
Shall I from thence cast down my self,

Or by complying with the world,
From the same precipice be hurl'd?
Those observations are but foul
Which make me wise to lose my soul.

And yet the Practice worldlings call
Business and weighty action all,
Checking the poor childe for his play,
But gravely cast themselves away.

Dear, harmless age! the short, swift span,
Where weeping virtue parts with man;
Where love without lust dwells, and bends
What way we please, without self-ends.

An age of mysteries! which he
Must live twice, that would Gods face see;
Which Angels guard, and with it play,
Angels! which foul men drive away.

How do I study now, and scan
Thee, more then ere I studyed man,
And onely see through a long night
Thy edges, and thy bordering light!
O for thy Center and mid day!
For sure that is the narrow way.

The Night.

[_]

John 2. 3.

Through that pure Virgin-shrine,
That sacred vail drawn o'r thy glorious noon
That men might look and live as Glo-worms shine,
And face the Moon:
Wise Nicodemus saw such light
As made him know his God by night.

Most blest believer he!
Who in that land of darkness and blinde eyes
Thy long expected healing wings could see,
When thou didst rise,
And what can never more be done,
Did at mid-night speak with the Sun!

O who will tell me, where
He found thee at that dead and silent hour!
What hallow'd solitary ground did bear
So rare a flower,
Within whose sacred leafs did lie
The fulness of the Deity.

No mercy-seat of gold,
No dead and dusty Cherub, nor carv'd stone,
But his own living works did my Lord hold
And lodge alone;
Where trees and her{b}s did watch and peep
And wonder, while the Jews did sleep.

Dear night! this worlds defeat;
The stop to busie fools; cares check and curb;
The day of Spirits; my souls calm retaeat
Which none disturb!
Christs

Mark, chap. 1. 35. S. Luke, chap. 21. 37.

progress, and his prayer time;
The hours to which high Heaven doth chime.

Gods silent, searching flight:
When my Lords head is fill'd with dew, and all
His locks are wet with the clear drops of night;
His still, soft call;
His knocking time; The souls dumb watch,
When Spirits their fair kinred catch.

Were all my loud, evil days
Calm and unhaunted as is thy dark Tent,
Whose peace but by some Angels wing or voice
Is seldom rent;
Then I in Heaven all the long year
Would keep, and never wander here.

But living where the Sun
Doth all things wake, and where all mix and tyre
Themselves and others, I consent and run
To ev'ry myre,
And by this worlds ill-guiding light,
Erre more then I can do by night.

There is in God (some say)
A deep, but dazling darkness; As men here
Say it is late and dusky, because they
See not all clear;
O for that night! where I in him
Might live invisible and dim.

Abels blood.

Sad, purple well! whose bubling eye
Did first against a Murth'rer cry;
Whose streams still vocal, still complain
Of bloody Cain,
And now at evening are as red
As in the morning when first shed.
If single thou
(Though single voices are but low,)
Could'st such a shrill and long cry rear
As speaks still in thy makers ear,
What thunders shall those men arraign
Who cannot count those they have slain,
Who bath not in a shallow flood,
But in a deep, wide sea of blood?
A sea, whose lowd waves cannot sleep,
But Deep still calleth upon deep:
Whose urgent sound like unto that
Of many waters, beateth at
The everlasting doors above,
Where souls behinde the altar move,
And with one strong, incessant cry
Inquire How long? of the most high.
Almighty Judge!
At whose just laws no just men grudge;
Whose blessed, sweet commands do pour
Comforts and joys, and hopes each hour
On those that keep them; O accept
Of his vow'd heart, whom thou hast kept
From bloody men! and grant, I may
That sworn memorial duly pay
To thy bright arm, which was my light
And leader through thick death and night!

I may that flood,
That proudly spilt and despis'd blood,
Speechless and calm, as Infants sleep!
Or if it watch, forgive and weep
For those that spilt it! May no cries
From the low earth to high Heaven rise,
But what (like his, whose blood peace brings)
Shall (when they rise) speak better things.
Then Abels doth! may Abel be
Still single heard, while these agree
With his milde blood in voice and will,
Who pray'd for those that did him kill!

Righteousness.

Fair, solitary path! Whose blessed shades
The old, white Prophets planted first and drest:
Leaving for us (whose goodness quickly fades,)
A shelter all the way, and bowers to rest.

Who is the man that walks in thee? who loves
Heavens secret solitude, those fair abodes
Where turtles build, and carelese sparrows move
Without to morrows evils and future loads?

Who hath the upright heart, the single eye,
The clean, pure hand, which never medled pitch?
Who sees Invisibles, and doth comply
With hidden treasures that make truly rich?

He that doth seek and love
The things above,

Whose spirit ever poor, is meek and low;
Who simple still and wise,
still homewards flies,
Quick to advance, and to retreat most slow.

Whose acts, words and pretence
have all one sense,
One aim and end; who walks not by his sight:
Whose eyes are both put out,
And goes about
Guided by faith, not by exterior light.

Who spills no blood, nor spreds
Thorns in the beds
Of the distrest, hasting their overthrow;
Making the time they had
Bitter and sad
Like Chronic prayers, which surely kill, though slow.

Who knows earth nothing hath
Worth love or wrath,
But in his hope and Rock is ever glad.
Who seeks and follows peace,
when with the ease
And health of conscience it is to be had.

Who bears his cross with joy
And doth imploy
His heart and tongue in prayers for his foes;
Who lends, not to be paid,
And gives full aid
Without that bribe which Usurers impose.

Who never looks on man
Fearful and wan,
But firmly trusts in God; the great mans measure
Though high and haughty must
Be ta'en in dust,
But the good man is Gods peculiar treasure.

Who doth thus, and doth not
These good deeds blot
With bad, or with neglect; and heaps not wrath
By secret filth, nor feeds
Some snake, or weeds,
Cheating himself; That man walks in this path.

Anguish.

My God and King! to thee
I bow my knee,
I bow my troubled soul, and greet
With my foul heart thy holy feet.
Cast it, or tread it! It shall do
Even what thou wilt, and praise thee too.

My God, could I weep blood,
Gladly I would;
Or if thou wilt give me that Art,
Which through the eyes pours out the hart,
I will exhaust it all, and make
My self all tears, a weeping lake.

O! 'tis an easie thing
To write and sing;
But to write true, unfeigned verse
Is very hard! O God, disperse
These weights, and give my spirit leave
To act as well as to conceive!

O my God, hear my cry;
Or let me dye!—

Tears.

O when my God, my glory brings
His white and holy train,
Unto those clear and living Springs,
Where comes no stain!

Where all is light, and flowers, and fruit,
And joy, and rest,
Make me amongst them ('tis my suit!)
The last one, and the least.

And when they all are fed, and have
Drunk of thy living stream,
Bid thy poor Ass (with tears I crave!)
Drink after them.

Thy love claims highest thanks, my sin
The lowest pitch:
But if he pays, who loves much, then
Thou hast made beggers rich.

Jacobs Pillow, and Pillar.

I see the Temple in thy Pillar rear'd,
And that dread glory, which thy children fear'd;
In milde, clear visions, without a frown,
Unto thy solitary self is shown.
'Tis number makes a Schism: throngs are rude,
And God himself dyed by the multitude.
This made him put on clouds, and fire and smoke,
Hence he in thunder to thy Off spring spoke;
The small, still voice, at some low Cottage knocks,
But a strong wind must break thy lofty rocks.

The first true worship of the worlds great King
From private and selected hearts did spring,
But he most willing to save all mankinde,
Inlarg'd that light, and to the bad was kinde.
Hence Catholick or Universal came
A most fair notion, but a very name
For this rich Pearl, like some more common stone,
When once made publique is esteem'd by none.
Man slights his Maker, when familiar grown,
And sets up laws, to pull his honor down.
This God foresaw: And when slain by the crowd
(Under that stately and mysterious cloud
Which his death scatter'd) he foretold the place,
And form to serve him in, should be true grace
And the meek heart, not in a Mount, nor at
Jerusalem, with blood of beasts, and fat.
A heart is that dread place, that awful Cell,
That secret Ark, where the milde Dove doth dwell
When the proud waters rage: when Heathens rule
By Gods permission, and man turns a Mule.

This litle Goshen, in the midst of night.
And Satans seat, in all her Coasts hath light,
Yea Bethel shall have Tithes (saith Israels stone)
And vows and visions, though her foes crye, None.
Thus is the solemn temple sunk agen
Into a Pillar, and conceal'd from men.
And glory be to his eternal Name!
Who is contented, that this holy flame
Shall lodge in such a narrow pit, till he
With his strong arm turns our captivity.

But blessed Jacob, though thy sad distress
Was just the same with ours, and nothing less,
For thou a brother, and blood-thirsty too
Didst flye,

Obadiah chap. 1. 11. Amos chap. 1. 11.

whose children wrought thy childrens wo.
Yet thou in all thy solitude and grief,
On stones didst sleep and found'st but cold relief;
Thou from the Day-star a long way didst stand
And all that distance was Law and command.
But we a healing Sun by day and night,
Have our sure Guardian, and our leading light;
What thou didst hope for and believe, we finde
And feel a friend most ready, sure and kinde.
Thy pillow was but type and shade at best,
But we the substance have, and on him rest.

The Agreement.

I wrote it down. But one that saw
And envyed that Record, did since
Such a mist over my minde draw,
It quite forgot that purpos'd glimpse.
I read it sadly oft, but still
Simply believ'd, 'twas not my Quill,

At length, my lifes kinde Angel came,
And with his bright and busie wing
Scatt'ring that cloud, shewd me the flame
Which strait, like Morning stars did sing,
And shine, and point me to a place,
Which all the year sees the Suns face.

O beamy book! O my mid-day
Exterminating fears and night!
The mount, whose white Ascendents may
Be in conjunction with true light!
My thoughts, when towards thee they move,
Glitter and kindle with thy love.

Thou art the oyl and the wine-house:
Thine are the present healing leaves,
Blown from the tree of life to us
By his breath whom my dead heart heaves.
Each page of thine hath true life in't,
And Gods bright minde exprest in print.

Most modern books are blots on thee,
Their doctrine chaff and windy fits:
Darken'd along, as their scribes be,
With those foul storms, when they were writ;
While the mans zeal lays out and blends
Onely self-worship and self-ends.

Thou art the faithful, pearly rock,
The Hive of beamy, living lights,
Ever the same, whose diffus'd stock
Entire still, wears out blackest nights.
Thy lines are rays, the true Sun sheds;
Thy leaves are healing wings he spreads.

For until thou didst comfort me,
I had not one poor word to say:
Thick busie clouds did multiply,
And said, I was no childe of day;
They said, my own hands did remove
That candle given me from above.

O God! I know and do confess
My sins are great and still prevail,
Most heynous sins and numberless!
But thy Compassions cannot fail.
If thy sure mercies can be broken,
Then all is true, my foes have spoken.

But while time runs, and after it
Eternity, which never ends,
Quite through them both, still infinite
Thy Covenant by Christ extends;
No sins of frailty, nor of youth
Can foil his merits, and thy truth.

And this I hourly finde, for thou
Dost still renew, and purge and heal:
Thy care and love, which joyntly flow
New Cordials, new Catharties deal.
But were I once cast off by thee
I know (my God!) this would not be.

Wherefore with tears (tears by thee sent)
I beg, my faith may never fail!

And when in death my speech is spent,
O let that silence then prevail!
O chase in that cold calm my foes,
And hear my hearts last private throws!

So thou, who didst the work begin
(For I till

St. John, chap. 6. ver. 44. 65.

drawn came not to thee)
Wilt finish it, and by no sin
Will thy free mercies hindred be.
For which, O God, I onely can
Bless thee, and blame unthankful man.

The day of Judgement.

O day of life, of light, of love!
The onely day dealt from above!
A day so fresh, so bright, so brave
Twill shew us each forgotten grave,
And make the dead, like flowers, arise
Youthful and fair to see new skies:
All other days, compar'd to thee,
Are but lights weak minority,
They are but veils, and Cypers drawn
Like Clouds, before thy glorious dawn.
O come, arise, shine, do not stay
Dearly lov'd day!
The fields are long since white, and I
With earnest groans for freedom cry,
My fellow creatures too say, Come!
And stones, though speechless, are not dumb.

When shall we hear that glorious voice
Of life and joys?
That voice, which to each secret bed
Of my Lords dead,
Shall bring true day, and make dust see,
The way to immortality.
When shall those first white Pilgrims rise,
Whose holy, happy Histories
(Because they sleep so long) some men
Count but the blots of a vain pen?
Dear Lord! make haste,
Sin every day commits more waste,
And thy old enemy, which knows
His time is short, more raging grows.
Nor moan I onely (though profuse)
Thy Creatures bondage and abuse;
But what is highest sin and shame,
The vile despight done to thy name;
The forgeries, which impious wit
And power force on Holy Writ,
With all detestable designs
That may dishonor those pure lines.
O God! though mercy be in thee
The greatest attribute we see,
And the most needful for our sins;
Yet, when thy mercy nothing wins
But meer disdain, let not man say
Thy arm doth sleep; but write this day
Thy judging one: Descend, descend!
Make all things new! and without end!

Psalm 65.

Sions true, glorious God! on thee
Praise waits in all humility.
All flesh shall unto thee repair,
To thee, O thou that hearest prayer!
But sinful words and works still spread
And over-run my heart and head;
Transgressions make me foul each day,
O purge them, purge them all away!

Happy is he! whom thou wilt choose
To serve thee in thy blessed house!
Who in thy holy Temple dwells,
And fill'd with joy, thy goodness tells!
King of Salvation! by strange things
And terrible, Thy Justice brings
Man to his duty. Thou alone
Art the worlds hope, and but thee, none.
Sailers that flote on flowing seas.
Stand firm by thee, and have sure peace.
Thou still'st the loud waves, when most wild
And mak'st the raging people mild.
Thy arm did first the mountains lay
And girds their rocky heads this day.
The most remote, who know not thee,
At thy great works astonish'd be.

The outgoings of the Even and Dawn,
In Antiphones sing to thy Name
Thou visit'st the low earth, and then
Water'st it for the sons of men,

Thy upper river, which abounds
With fertil streams, makes rich all grounds,
And by thy mercies still supplied
The sower doth his bread provide.
Thou water'st every ridge of land
And settlest with thy secret hand
The furrows of it; then thy warm
And opening showers (restrain'd from harm)
Soften the mould, while all unseen
The blade grows up alive and green.
The year is with thy goodness crown'd,
And all thy paths drop fatness round,
They drop upon the wilderness,
For thou dost even the desarts bless,
And hills full of springing pride,
Wear fresh adornments on each side.
The fruitful flocks fill every Dale,
And purling Corn doth cloath the Vale;
They shout for joy, and joyntly sing,
Glory to the eternal King!

The Throne.

[_]

Revel. chap. 20. ver. 11.

When with these eyes clos'd now by thee,
But then restor'd,
The great and white throne I shall see
Of my dread Lord:
And lowly kneeling (for the most
Stiff then must kneel)
Shall look on him, at whose high cost
(Unseen) such joys I feel.

What ever arguments, or skill
Wise heads shall use,
Tears onely and my blushes still
I will produce.
And should those speechless beggers fail,
Which oft have won;
Then taught by thee, I will prevail,
And say, Thy will be done!

Death.

Though since thy first sad entrance by
Just Abels blood,
'Tis now six thousand years well nigh,
And still thy sov'rainty holds good:
Yet by none art thou understood.

We talk and name thee with much ease
As a tryed thing,
And every one can slight his lease
As if it ended in a Spring,
Which shades & bowers doth rent-free bring.

To thy dark land these heedless go:
But there was One,
Who search'd it quite through to and fro,
And then returning, like the Sun,
Discover'd all, that there is done.

And since his death, we throughly see
All thy dark way;
Thy shades but thin and narrow be,
Which his first looks will quickly fray:
Mists make but triumphs for the day.

As harmless violets, which give
Their virtues here
For salves and syrups, while they live,
Do after calmly disappear,
And neither grieve, repine, nor fear:

So dye his servants; and as sure
Shall they revive.
Then let not dust your eyes obscure,

But lift them up, where still alive,
Though fled from you, their spirits hive.

The Feast.

O come away,
Make no delay,
Come while my heart is clean & steddy!
While Faith and Grace
Adorn the place,
Making dust and ashes ready.

No bliss here lent
Is permanent,
Such triumphs poor flesh cannot merit;
Short sips and sights
Endear delights,
Who seeks for more, he would inherit.

Come then true bread,
Quickning the dead,
Whose eater shall not, cannot dye,
Come, antedate
On me that state
Which brings poor dust the victory.

I victory
Which from thine eye
Breaks as the day doth from the east,
When the spilt dew,
Like tears doth shew
The sad world wept to be releast.

Spring up, O wine,
And springing shine
With some glad message from his heart,
Who did, when slain,
These means ordain
For me to have in him a part.

Such a sure part
In his blest heart,
The well, where living waters spring,
That with it fed
Poor dust though dead
Shall rise again, and live and sing.

O drink and bread
Which strikes death dead,
The food of mans immortal being!
Under veyls here
Thou art my chear,
Present and sure without my seeing.

How dost thou flye
And search and pry
Through all my parts, and like a quick
And knowing lamp
Hunt out each damp,
Whose shadow makes me sad or sick?

O what high joys
The Turtles voice
And songs I hear! O quickning showers
Of my Lords blood
You make rocks bud
And crown dry hils with wells & flowers!

For this true ease
This healing peace,
For this taste of living glory,

My soul and all,
Kneel down and fall
And sing his sad victorious story.

O thorny crown
More soft then down!
O painful Cross, my bed of rest!
O spear, the key
opening the way!
O thy worst state, my onely best!

Oh! all thy griefs
Are my reliefs,
And all my sins, thy sorrows were!
And what can I,
To this reply;
What (O God!) but a silent tear?

Some toil and sow,
That wealth may flow,
And dress this earth for next years meat:
But let me heed,
Why thou didst bleed,
And what in the next world to eat.

[_]

Blessed are they, which are called unto the marriage Supper of the Lamb! Revel. chap. 19. ver. 9.

The Obsequies.

Since dying for me, thou didst crave no more
Then common pay,
Some few true tears, and those shed for
My own ill way;
With a cheap, plain remembrance still
Of thy sad death,
Because forgetfulness would kill
Even lifes own breath:
I were most foolish and unkinde
In my own sense,
Should I not ever bear in minde
If not thy mighty love, my own defense.
Therefore, those loose delights and lusts, which here
Men call good chear,
I will close girt and tyed
For mourning sack-cloth wear, all mortified.

Not but that mourners too, can have
Rich weeds and shrouds;
For some wore White ev'n in thy grave,
And Joy, like sight, shines oft in clouds:
But thou, who didst mans whole life earn,
Doest so invite, and woo me still,
That to be merry I want skill,
And time to learn.
Besides, those Kerchiefs sometimes shed
To make me brave,
I cannot finde, but where thy head
Was once laid for me in thy grave.
Thy grave! To which my thoughts shal move
Like Bees in storms unto their Hive,
That from the murd'ring worlds false love
Thy death may keep my soul alive.

The Water-fall.

With what deep murmurs through times silent stealth
Doth thy transparent, cool and watry wealth
Here flowing fall,
And chide, and call,
As if his liquid, loose Retinue staid
Lingring, and were of this steep place afraid,
The common pass
Where, clear as glass,
All must descend
Not to an end:
But quickned by this deep and rocky grave,
Rise to a longer course more bright and brave.

Dear stream! dear bank, where often I
Have sate, and pleas'd my pensive eye,
Why, since each drop of thy quick store
Runs thither, whence it flow'd before.
Should poor souls fear a shade or night,
Who came (sure) from a sea of light?
Or since those drops are all sent back
So sure to thee, that none doth lack,
Why should frail flesh doubt any more
That what God takes, hee'l not restore?

O useful Element and clear!
My sacred wash and cleanser here,
My first consigner unto those
Fountains of life, where the Lamb goes?
What sublime truths, and wholesome themes,
Lodge in thy mystical, deep streams!

Such as dull man can never finde
Unless that Spirit lead his minde,
Which first upon thy face did move,
And hatch'd all with his quickning love.
As this loud brooks incessant fall
In streaming rings restagnates all,
Which reach by course the bank, and then
Are no more seen, just so pass men.
O my invisible estate,
My glorious liberty, still late!
Thou art the Channel my soul seeks,
Not this with Cataracts and Creeks.

Quickness.

False life! a foil and no more, when
Wilt thou be gone?
Thou foul deception of all men
That would not have the true come on.

Thou art a Moon-like toil; a blinde
Self-posing state;
A dark contest of waves and winde;
A meer tempestuous debate.

Life is a fix'd, discerning light,
A knowing Joy;
No chance, or fit: but ever bright,
And calm and full, yet doth not cloy.

'Tis such a blissful thing, that still
Doth vivifie,

And shine and smile, and hath the skill
To please without Eternity.

Thou art a toylsom Mole, or less
A moving mist.
But life is, what none can express,
A quickness, which my God hath kist.

The Wreath.

Since I in storms us'd most to be
And seldom yielded flowers,
How shall I get a wreath for thee
From those rude, barren hours?

The softer dressings of the Spring,
Or Summers later store
I will not for thy temples bring,
Which Thorns, not Roses wore.

But a twin'd wreath of grief and praise,
Praise soil'd with tears, and tears again
Shining with joy, like dewy days,
This day I bring for all thy pain,
Thy causless pain! and sad as death;
Which sadness breeds in the most vain,
(O not in vain!) now beg thy breath;
Thy quickning breath, which gladly bears
Through saddest clouds to that glad place,
Where cloudless Quires sing without tears,
Sing thy just praise, and see thy face.

The Queer.

O tell me whence that joy doth spring
Whose diet is divine and fair,
Which wears heaven, like a bridal ring,
And tramples on doubts and despair?

Whose Eastern traffique deals in bright
And boundless Empyrean themes,
Mountains of spice, Day-stars and light,
Green trees of life, and living streams?

Tell me, O tell who did thee bring
And here, without my knowledge, plac'd,
Till thou didst grow and get a wing,
A wing with eyes, and eyes that taste?

Sure, holyness the Magnet is,
And Love the Lure, that woos thee down;
Which makes the high transcendent bliss
Of knowing thee, so rarely known.

The Book.

Eternal God! maker of all
That have liv'd here, since the mans fall;
The Rock of ages! in whose shade
They live unseen, when here they fade.

Thou knew'st this papyr, when it was
Meer seed, and after that but grass;
Before 'twas drest or spun, and when
Made linen, who did wear it then:
What were their lifes, their thoughts & deeds
Whither good corn, or fruitless weeds.

Thou knew'st this Tree, when a green shade
Cover'd it, since a Cover made,
And where it flourish'd, grew and spread,
As if it never should be dead.

Thou knew'st this harmless beast, when he
Did liee and feed by thy decree
On each green thing; then slept (well fed)
Cloath'd with this skln, which now lies spred
A Covering o're this aged book,
Which makes me wisely weep and look
On my own dust; meer dust it is,
But not so dry and clean as this.
Thou knew'st and saw'st them all, and though
Now scatter'd thus, dost know them so.

O knowing, glorious spirit! when
Thou shalt restore trees, beasts and men,

When thou shalt make all new again,
Destroying onely death and pain,
Give him amongst thy works a place,
Who in them lov'd and sought thy face!

To the Holy Bible.

O book! lifes guide! how shall we part,
And thou so long seiz'd of my heart!
Take this last kiss, and let me weep
True thanks to thee, before I sleep.

Thou wert the first put in my hand,
When yet I could not understand,
And daily didst my yong eyes lead
To letters, till I learnt to read
But as rash youths, when once grown strong
Flye from their Nurses to the throng,
Where they new Consorts choose, & stick
To those, till either hurt or sick:
So with that first light gain'd from thee
Ran I in chase of vanity,
Cryed dross for gold, and never thought
My first cheap Book had all I sought.
Long reign'd this vogue; and thou cast by
With meek, dumb looks didst woo mine eye,
And oft left open would'st convey
A sudden and most searching ray
Into my soul, with whose quick touch
Refining still, I strugled much.
By this milde art of love at length
Thou overcam'st my sinful strength,

And having brought me home, didst there
Shew me that pearl I sought elsewhere.
Gladness, and peace, and hope, and love,
The secret favors of the Dove,
Her quickning kindness, smiles and kisses,
Exalted pleasures, crowning blisses,
Fruition, union, glory, life
Thou didst lead to, and still all strife.
Living, thou wert my souls sure ease,
And dying mak'st me go in peace:
Thy next Effects no tongue can tell;
Farewel O book of God! farewel!

[_]

Glory be to God in the highest, and on Earth peace, good will towards men. S Luke chap. 2. ver. 14.

L'Envoy.

O the new worlds new, quickning Sun!
Ever the same, and never done!
The seers of whose sacred light
Shall all be drest in shining white,
And made conformable to his
Immortal shape, who wrought their bliss,
Arise, arise!
And like old cloaths fold up these skies,
This long worn veyl: then shine and spread
Thy own bright self over each head,
And through thy creatures pierce and pass
Till all becomes thy cloudless glass,
Transparent as the purest day
And without blemish or decay,

Fixt by thy spirit to a state
For evermore immaculate.
A state fit for the sight of thy
Immediate, pure and unveil'd eye,
A state agreeing with thy minde,
A state thy birth, and death design'd:
A state for which thy creatures all
Travel and groan, and look and call.
O seeing thou hast paid our score,
Why should the curse reign any more?
But since thy number is as yet
Unfinish'd, we shall gladly sit
Till all be ready, that the train
May fully fit thy glorious reign.
Onely, let not our haters brag,
Thy seamless coat is grown a rag,
Or that thy truth was not here known,
Because we forc'd thy judgements down.
Dry up their arms, who vex thy spouse,
And take the glory of thy house
To deck their own; then give thy saints
That faithful zeal, which neither faints
Nor wildly burns, but meekly still
Dares own the truth, and shew the ill.
Frustrate those cancerous, close arts
Which cause solution in all parts,
And strike them dumb, who for meer words
Wound thy beloved, more then swords.
Dear Lord, do this! and then let grace
Descend, and hallow all the place
Incline each hard heart to do good,
And cement us with thy sons blood,
That like true sheep, all in one fold
We may be fed, and one minde hold.
Give watchful spirits to our guides!
For sin (like water) hourly glides
By each mans door and quickly will
Turn in, if not obstructed still.

Therefore write in their hearts thy law,
And let these long, sharp judgements aw
Their very thoughts, that by their clear
And holy lives, mercy may here
Sit regent yet, and blessings flow
As full as persecutions now.
So shall we know in war and peace
Thy service to be our sole ease,
With prostrate souls adoring thee,
Who turn'd our sad captivity!

[_]

S. Clemens apud Basil: Ζη ο Θεο, ()οκυος Ιησους Χ()σος, () τονευμα το αγεον.

FINIS.