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CANT. chap. V.
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 | The miscellaneous works (1739) |  |
137
CANT. chap. V.
The night had now her gloomy curtains spread,
And ev'ry chearful beam of light was fled;
This dismal night, my Lord, who ne'er before
Had met a cold refusal at my door,
Approach'd, and with a voice divinely sweet;
My ears with these persuading words did greet.
‘My fairest spouse, my sister, and my love!’
(But, ah! no more these charming names could move)
‘Arise, for thro' the midnight shades and dew
‘I thee, the object of my cares, pursue.’
And ev'ry chearful beam of light was fled;
This dismal night, my Lord, who ne'er before
Had met a cold refusal at my door,
Approach'd, and with a voice divinely sweet;
My ears with these persuading words did greet.
‘My fairest spouse, my sister, and my love!’
(But, ah! no more these charming names could move)
‘Arise, for thro' the midnight shades and dew
‘I thee, the object of my cares, pursue.’
His heav'nly voice, and moving words, I heard,
And knew the blest design my Lord prepar'd;
But long, with poor excuses, I delay'd,
And careless stretch'd on my enticing bed.
Tir'd with my cold delay, ‘Farewel,’ he cries:
These killing words my fainting soul surprize;
With fear distracted to the door I run,
But, oh! the treasure of my life was gone;
Yet, of his recent presence, signs I found,
For heav'nly fragrance fill'd the air around.
I rove wherever love directs my feet,
And call aloud, but no return could meet;
Echoes alone to my complaint reply,
In mournful sounds, as thro' the shades I fly.
I from the watchmen hop'd, in vain, relief,
With cruel scorn they mock'd my pious grief.
But you, Jerusalem's fair daughters, you
That know what pity to my cares is due,
O! if you meet the object of my love,
Tell him what torments for his sake I prove;
Tell him how tenderly his loss I moan,
Tell him that all my joys with him are gone,
Tell him his presence makes my heaven; and tell,
O tell him, that his absence is my hell!
And knew the blest design my Lord prepar'd;
But long, with poor excuses, I delay'd,
And careless stretch'd on my enticing bed.
Tir'd with my cold delay, ‘Farewel,’ he cries:
These killing words my fainting soul surprize;
With fear distracted to the door I run,
But, oh! the treasure of my life was gone;
Yet, of his recent presence, signs I found,
For heav'nly fragrance fill'd the air around.
I rove wherever love directs my feet,
And call aloud, but no return could meet;
Echoes alone to my complaint reply,
In mournful sounds, as thro' the shades I fly.
I from the watchmen hop'd, in vain, relief,
With cruel scorn they mock'd my pious grief.
138
That know what pity to my cares is due,
O! if you meet the object of my love,
Tell him what torments for his sake I prove;
Tell him how tenderly his loss I moan,
Tell him that all my joys with him are gone,
Tell him his presence makes my heaven; and tell,
O tell him, that his absence is my hell!
What bright perfections does he then possess,
For whom thou dost this tender grief express?
For whom thou dost this tender grief express?
O! he's distinguish'd from all human race,
By such peculiar, such immortal grace,
That you, among ten thousand, may descry
His heav'nly form, and find for whom I die.
There's nothing which on earth we lovely call,
But he surpasses, far surpasses all.
He's fairer than the spotless orbs of light,
Nor falling snow, compar'd to him, is white.
The roses that his lovely face adorn,
Out-blush the purple glories of the morn.
The waving ringlets of his graceful hair,
Black as the shining plumes the ravens wear.
His eyes would win the most obdurate heart,
Victorious love in ev'ry look they dart.
His balmy lips diffuse divine perfumes,
And on his cheek a bed of spices blooms.
His breast, like polish'd iv'ry, smooth and fair,
With veins which with the saphires may compare.
Stately his height, as those fair trees which crown,
With graceful pride, the brow of Lebanon.
His voice so sweet, no harmony is found
On earth, to equal the delightful sound.
He's altogether lovely—This is he
So much belov'd, so much ador'd by me.
By such peculiar, such immortal grace,
That you, among ten thousand, may descry
His heav'nly form, and find for whom I die.
There's nothing which on earth we lovely call,
But he surpasses, far surpasses all.
He's fairer than the spotless orbs of light,
Nor falling snow, compar'd to him, is white.
The roses that his lovely face adorn,
Out-blush the purple glories of the morn.
The waving ringlets of his graceful hair,
Black as the shining plumes the ravens wear.
His eyes would win the most obdurate heart,
Victorious love in ev'ry look they dart.
His balmy lips diffuse divine perfumes,
And on his cheek a bed of spices blooms.
His breast, like polish'd iv'ry, smooth and fair,
With veins which with the saphires may compare.
Stately his height, as those fair trees which crown,
With graceful pride, the brow of Lebanon.
139
On earth, to equal the delightful sound.
He's altogether lovely—This is he
So much belov'd, so much ador'd by me.
| The miscellaneous works (1739) | |