University of Virginia Library

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211

XI.

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:

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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:

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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:

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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.

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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.