University of Virginia Library

On Psalm 39. 6, 7.

In a retired Hermitage I dwell,
Where no disturbance can approach my Cell;
Where scarce with any noise my ears are struck,
But th' gentle murmurs of a purling Brook,
Or the soft whispers of the Winds that move
The trembling Leaves of an adjoyning Grove;
Or the sweet musick of the winged Quire,
Unto whose mirth and freedom I aspire.
Here with a calm and easie mind I sit,
From throngs, from bus'ness, and from passions quit:
And hence, as from an higher Region, I
The ways of mortals on this Earth descry,
Their toilsom follies, and their fruitless pains,
Heavy their toils, alas, but small their gains;
Shadows they follow, dote on painted toys,
Strangers to manly, solid, lasting joys.
Here see the Earthworm lab'ring in a Mine
For heaps of Clay, which tho he doth refine,
It's still but glittering Clay; yet the poor slave
Here digs, till unawares he finds his Grave;
Where down he lies, but leaves behind his Gold;
(For which his Liberty, his Ease, his Soul he sold)
His Gold he leaves oft to an unknown Heir,
Who wildly wasts the fruits of all his care.
Strange madness this, which Misers hath possest,
Who starve themselves to make their Heirs a feast.
Here see the proud Man hunting after Fame,
And yet by vice and bus'ness blots his name;
Adores himself, and would have all adore,
And therefore is by all despis'd the more;
Scorns to submit to any Man, and yet
To his own Passions vilely doth submit.
He lavishes much labour, skill, and time,
Up into some high dignity to climb;
On which his vain designs, if Fortune smile,
Tott'ring and trembling there he stands a while;
Till thence by some slight push he headlong fall,
Whither he up by tedious steps did crawl.
Unweildy greatness, and his dangerous height,
Make him to fall with greater shame, more weight.
The Man of pleasure thinks himself more wise;
Gilt Earth and pop'lar air he doth despise;
Delights he craves more fit for flesh and blood;
Give him his grosser and more savoury mud,
The pleasures of his Throat and Lust, wherein
Wallowing, he drowns himself and sense of Sin;
And yet his course his own designs doth thwart,
Rendring the Life he's fond of, dull and short.
The pleasures that he takes, his health destroy,
Health, without which no pleasures we enjoy:
His pleasures leave far greater pain behind;
They please his senses, but torment his mind.
O brutish sensless wretch! who when he might
With Angels tast of pure and high delight,
Will rather chuse on pois'nous dirt to dine,
Will chuse in filth to lodg with Dogs and Swine.
Well, let them take their choice; But how shall I
This short swift moment spend before I dye?
What shall I seek? What shall I wait for here?
Oh! need'st thou ask what should to thee be dear,
My Soul? What is it, when this World is gone,
Will then thy portion be? Seek Him alone,
Ev'n the Eternal God, the only rest
Of Holy Souls, who in his Love are blest:
His Love shall Honour be, his Grace my Treasure,
His Service and his Smiles, my highest Pleasure.
May I but feel I love, and know I please
My God, I'l ask no greater things than these
No greater on this Earth. But here I'l wait
That happy hour, wherein he shall translate
My weary wandring Soul unto her rest,
When she of Joys Divine shall be possest;
Joys flowing from the blessed God, and make
Blessed the Souls who do of them partake:
My hope, my trust, my love on him I'l place,
Waiting till I in joy behold his face,