« 上一頁繼續 »
Now, now, I cry, my foul fhall foar above!
But this alas! was all diffembled love.
Sure this belief fome pity might obtain ;
Thou fhould'ft at least for this have broke
But if I'm ftill confin'd, my wings I'll try ;
And if I fail, in great attempts I die.
But fee! he comes, and as he glides along,
He waves his hand, and feems to fay, Come on.
I'll rife, and flee into his lov'd embrace,
And fnatch a kifs, a thoufand, from his face.
Now, now he's near, his facred robe I touch,
And I fhall grafp him at the next approach:
But he, alas! has mock'd my vain defign,
And fled these arms, these flighted arms of mine:
For tho' the diftance ne'er fo little be,
It seems th' extremes of the vast globe to me.
Thus does my love my longings tantalize,
And bids me follow, while too fast he flies.
As a chain'd maftiff begging to be loose,
With restless clamors fills the deafen'd house;
But if deny'd, his teeth the chain engage,
And vents on that their inoffenfive rage:
So I complain, petition to be freed,
And humbly proftrate beg the help I need.
But when my love my earneft fuit denies,
Deaf as the rocks to my repeated cries,
Then I against my hated CLOG exclaim,
And on my CHAIN lay all the guilty blame.
Thus grief pretends, by giving paffion vent,
To ease the pain of my imprisonment.
But I unjustly blame the CHAIN alone,
And spare the cruel hand that ty'd it on.
Well might the heavy load of chains I bear,
Become a Renegado flave to wear;
But why this harfh ill ufage, Love, to me,
Whose whole endeavor is to come to thee?
But when my foul attempts that lofty flight,
'Tis ftill fuppreft by a grofs body's weight.
So fare young birds, by nature wing'd in vain,
Whom sportful boys with scanty threads restrain;
When eager to retrieve their native air,
They rife a little height, and flutter there :
But having to their utmost limits flown, [down.
The more they strive to mount, they fall the fafter
Each, tho' it fleeps in its young tyrant's breast,
And is with banquets from his lips careft;
Yet prizes more the freedom of the wood,
Than all the dainties of its coftly food.
Could TEARS diffolve my CHAINS, O with what ease
I'd weep a deluge for a quick release!
But tears are vain; reach, LORD! thy hands to me,
And in return I'll ftretch my CHAINS to thee.
Thou, only thou canst loose my bands; for none
Can take them off, but he who put them on.
DEDICATED TO THE AFFLICTED MIND.
[beam, REAT fource of blifs, fend down a gracious To clear his thoughts, who makes content his theme.
Content tranfcends a crown, 'tis wisdom's mark;
Choice manna treafur'd in religion's ark:
A perfect watch, whofe motions firmly hold,
A chymic ftone that lead converts to gold:
An olive branch brought in a turtle's bill,
An anchor which at fea fecures us ftill:
A calm in ftorms; a peace where wars invade;
In frofts a fun-fhine, and in heats a fhade:
That high-tun'd harmony for which we long,
A fweet præludium to an heavenly fong:
A Canaan that with ftreams of honey flows,
A graft whereon the fruit of life-tree grows:
Th' embroid'ry that the king's fair daughter wears,
When the all-glorious in her foul appears :
The heart's bright ruby-who's with this endu'd,
Shines like a star of the firft magnitude.
But difcontent the active mind withdraws
From facred duties, and from reafon's laws :
Changeth to dismal night sweet comfort's day,
Prolongeth croffes, and doth bleffings stay.
'Tis a dry dropfy that confumes life's powers,
A lump of leaven that all sweetness fours;
A prickly thorn that festers in the mind,
A breach where all temptations entrance find.
This lies in labor of its own distress,
Brought forth by pride, brought up by peevishness.
That Nabal-heart in which it makes abode,
Like Iffachar doth couch 'twixt double load.
For discontent, not miferies, weigh us down,
Water within, not that without, doth drown.
While to life's moments all our care we bend,
We live unmindful of a deathless end.
Content, rejecting toys, minds things to come, Affur'd to have enough to bring her home. She bids the worldling not for wealth aspire, The greatest wealth is to contract defire: She treafures mercies in a grateful heart, Content and thankfulness all blifs impart.
Thrice happy he who on his God relies, And, flighting earth, to heaven erects his eyes; Who, free from care, is pleas'd with what is his, The world's whole lott'ry proves a blank to this: Vexation is a fin, for that lament, Moft difcontented for thy difcontent.
THOUGHTS ON PSALM XLII. II.
WHEN SHALL I COME AND APPEAR BEFORE THE PRESENCE
ITH promis'd joys my ears thou oft diḍ'ft fill,
Did'ft thou not fay thou foon would'st call me home?
Be juft, my Love, and kindly whisper, Come!
Expecting lovers count each hour a day,
"And death to them's lefs dreadful than delay."
A tedious train of months and years is gone,
Since first thou bid'ft me hope, yet gave me none.
Why with delays doft thou so damp my love,
And fail my vain expectancies above?
While thus th' infulting croud derides my woe,
Where's now thy Love? how well he keeps his vow?
Haste then, and home thy longing lover take,
If not for mine, yet for thy PROMISE fake.
When shall I come before thy throne, and see
Thy glorious fceptre kindly ftretch'd to me?
For THEE I pine, for THEE I am undone,
As drooping flow'rs that want their parent fun.
O cruel tort'rer of my wounded foul,
Grant me thy prefence, and I fhall be whole!
O when, thou author of my plaintive moan,
When fhall I fee thee on thy blissful throne?