University of Virginia Library

Poems from the “Schoedinger” Notebook

Ps 67

On ye queens Death.

The Persians us'd at setting of ye sunn
To howl, as if he nere again should runn
They onely acted it but we indeed
Must doot for all that lovely was is fled
all that was great good Just & vertuous Dead.
The poets of ye graces do relate
that they did upon none but Venus wait
'Tis false or this was she for in each eye
of hers ten thousand graces you might spy
So many her vertues were Death heard ym told
Mistook ye for her dayes & thought her old
yet she is gone all that was lovely fled,
all that was great good Just & vertuous dead
When Romulus was taken to ye gods
& Ceesar mounted to ye blest abodes
in floods & earth-quakes nature Largely grievd
for these her Heroes heaven had receivd
She wept indeed then now she cannot weep
the stillness of ye waves but shows ye deep
the greatness of ye Loss putts all her faculties asleep.

51 Psalm

1

Look mercyfully down O Lord
& wash us from our sinn
2 Cleanse us from wicked deeds without
from wicked thoughts within
3 Lord I Confess my many sinns
that I against thee doe
Each minute they're before my face
& wound my soul anew
4 So Great my god my ills have been
Gainst thee & onely thee
Thy Justice tho' I were Condemnd
would good & righteous bee
5 For att my birth I wickedness
Did with my breath suck in
6 But thou shalt teach me in thy ways
& keep me pure from sinn
7 Thoult me with hyssopp purge who am
all over soil's & stain's
Thou with thy sanctifiyng grace
shalt wash & make me clean
8 Thoult bless my days with peace no sound
But Joy shall reach mine ear
That where thy Justice wounded Lord
There Gladness may appear
9 Blott from thy thoughts past faults & from
The present turn thy face
10 O make my spirit right & good
Confirm my heart with grace
11 thy Presence & thy mercy lett
Me ever Ld possess
12 Me with the comfort of thy help
& with thy love still bless
13 Then shall the wicked know thy pow'r
& turn ym from theyr wayes
14 Deliver me from blood my god
& I will sing thy praise.
15 Unseal my lips & to ye Bad
I will thy mercy shew
16 For since thou lovest not sacrifice
Tis all that I can doo
17 A heart that is with sorrow pierct
My God thou wilt receive
this is ye sweetest offering
that we to thee can give
18 On Sion Graciously look down
Preserve us still we pray
19 & hearts upon thine altars Lord
Instead of beasts we'el Lay.

Meditation Before sacrament.

Arise my soul & hast away
Thy god doth call & canst thou stay
Thee to his table he invites
To tast of heavenly delights
He sufferd death to sett thee free
From sin; & canst thou slothfull be
To serve him should he for it call
Thy life would be a gift too small
But he desires to make it Blest
And now Invites thee to a feast
A feast of the divinest food
A feast of our own saviours flesh & blood
For shame dull sluggish soul arise
Wilt thou so great a good despise
You'de earthly kings obey with pride
& is ye king of heav'n deni'de
Thou know'st not what this act doth mean
Or would'st not sure be Backward then
The god who all has made tis he
Invites so base a worm as thee
& wilt thou then ungratefull be
No Ld I come & be thou kind
In mercy to me wretchd & blind
The way thou must not onely shew
But give me eyes to find it too
Each step I take yn to thy holy place
Ile utter Halelujahs to thy praise

On ye Plott against King William.

Rome when she could King Pyrrhus Life have bought
She scornd a triumph So ignobly gott,
The treason & ye traitor both disdaind,
& ever Justly conquerd ever Justly reignd.
But (Like an Affrick) England serpents bears
Which would their parent country's bowels teare,
Our better Genius tumble Headlong down,
& sett our evil one upon ye throne.
The Titans wickedness nere reacht so high,
They fought but for ye empire of ye sky,
When Jove unjustly held the soveraignity.
That Godlike soul which doth inform our state
Gerion-like, ye'de conquer by deceit.
Ye in one stroke would make three kingdomes bleed,
& Leave our Iles as nile without a head.
Cease fooles with Hellish plotts to wrack your brain,
Ye Cannot wound a God, ye strive in vain;
Ixions fate again is acted here,
He for a Deity imbrac't, ye wounded, air.

Ps: 113

1

Ye who ye Ld of host adore
O praise his name alone
O send his praises to ye skyes
Untill they reach his throne
2 his throne who's ever ever blest
Whose great whose holy name
still great still holy will endure
Who ever is ye same
3 Morning & night letts praise yt god
Who gave us morn & night.
4 Above all thinges yt are he is
Above ye heav'ns his might
5 tell of his mercy humbleness
yt tho so high he be
yet he will stoop to mind such poor
such wretched things as we
6 Tell of his Justice too yt from
A mean & lowly state
7 ye poor & innocent he does
among ev'n princes sett
Those who with barreness were curst
he blesses wth increase,
That happy thus in all they wish
They might his goodness praise.

On Sr Charles porter the chancellours death

& tis too true alass! we find, he's gonn,
Virtue from earth a second time is flown,
She onely then with her two sisters flew,
But now since he, what ere were good withdrew;
Uncertain where to fix, in him they lost their seat,
& had But Heaven as a sure retreat.
He Held ye scales when Justice Hand did shake:
When He, youd think that wisdomes self did speak.
He was with Honour blest, with Honesty, & praise,
ev'n Blest with all we could desire but dayes:
& those were much too few, for he is gon
(Not for himself but for ye world) too soon.
In him we found, & with him buried lies
What ever poets gave their deity's,
Joves Brow, Minervas learning, Hermes tongue
Apollo's wisdom, yeares, & his still seeming young;
The same sweet temper he to all did shew,
& as his face his mind no wrinkle knew.
He when with foes opprest was still ye same,
Pittying forgave, & smiling overcame.
this glorious sunn, like Heavens, was o're cast
By enymies, as that By clouds opprest,
That keepes his lookes compos'd, & this his breast.
Both do in glory sett, as both in glory reign,
But this for ever, that to rise again.
Perfections here as to their centre flowd,
He was tho great, yet farr from being proud.
Was gentle, liberall, & tho modest free,
Gold has allay, nay ev'ry thing but he.
yet is he tak'n away snatcht hence by heaven
as if it seemd to envy what 't had given.
But when we've such a loss—
How can ye planetts shine ye cloudes not melt to rain
But ev'ry thing their wonted course retain.
Heav'n in our sorrow cannot have a share
We've lost a god on earth 't has got a saint a starr

On Content

On ye Bishop of meaths death

Mourn widdowd Iland, Mourn, your Pan is dead.
Mourn ye unhappy flocks your Sheapherd Pan is fled;
Around your grief in dolefull straines convey,
& Lett ym in sad Eccho's dy away,
As sympathising wth their masters care,
As if they felt th' unlucky newes they bear,
Of this so true a saint heav'n seem'd to send him here.
To shew how good in innocence we were:
So true a saint.—
We thought he was no man, but from ye skyes
(as there were oft of old) some angell in disguise,
But see to undeceive us to our grief, he dies.
He was with so good thoughts so freely springing blest,
ye divine garden so few briars did molest,
As if a Paradise were in his breast.
Serene his mind as heaven did appear;
His lookes serene as mercy's self might wear;
His actions might in Justice scales be try'd;
When ere he speak & heav'n a theam suppli'd,
Hed melt ye rockiest hearts like Moses to a tide.
But now he setts, his paines & toiles are o're,
& heav'n rewards ye seer with all his store:
He's spent wth doing good, & now lies down at ease
Stretcht on ye Pillows of æternall peace.
So ye fam'd Pithian Priestess when her soul
With ye demanded Oracle is full,
Vext with ye God yt rages in her breast,
Nature is tir'd, her spirits are opprest,
She flyes to sacred groves, & sinkes away to rest.

The penitent sinner.

To Mr Brown on his book against T---

On Mr Colliers essay on the stage

Ps: 116

Ime Pleasd that Heaven hears my cry,
Regards me when I pray,
Ime pleasd, & in a gratefull Joy,
Will worship every day.
God heard my voice, & I escapd,
Tho death had spread his snare,
Tho hell with horrid pleasure gapd
to be my sepulchre.
& when with troubles Ime besett
again Ile call on thee,
Ah help the wretch that cry's for aid,
My God deliver me.
How Just how gratious is the Lord,
How mercyfull is he?
He to the simple help affords,
Yes, he has succourd me.
Then rest my soul secure from fear,
Since he so kind has been,
Since he has kept my eyes from tears,
My sliding feet from sin.
Tis he who keeps me living still,
& when sore vext I cryd;
Since mankind is as weak as ill,
In him I must confide.
How shall I then the God reward
Who did my all bestow?
To pray, & thank, & praise thee Lord,
Is all that I can do.
In publick will I pay my vows,
& tell thy mercy's ore,
Tell how our lives are precious
to thee, whom we adore.
Behold me Lord, for I am thine,
My parents so have been;
Behold me Lord, for thou art mine,
By thee I'me freed from sin.
Then all shall hear my ready tongue,
Extoll thy name on high,
That all by my example won,
May praise as well as I.