For fince amidft my youth and night
My great preserver smiles,
Wee'l make a Match, my only light
And Joyn against their wiles.
Blind, defp'rate fits, that ftudy how
To dreffe and trim our fhame,
That gild rank poyfon, and allow
Vice in a fairer name;
The Purles of youthfull bloud and bowles,
Luft in the Robes of Love,
The idle task of feav'rifh fouls
Sick with a scarf or glove;
Let it fuffice my warmer days
Simper'd and fhin'd on you;
Twift not my Cypreffe with your Bays
Or Rofes with my Yewgh.
Go, go, feek out fome greener thing;
It fnows and freezeth here;
Let Nightingales attend the spring;
Winter is all my year.
Right fhadows of true Reft! fome shoots of bliffe ;
Heaven once a week;
The next world's glad nefs prepoffeft in this;
Eternity in time; the fteps by which
We Climb above all ages; Lamps that light
Man through his heap of dark days; and the rich, And full redemption of the whole week's flight!
The Pulleys unto headlong man; time's bower;
The narrow way;
Transplanted Paradife; God's walking houre;
The Cool o'th' day!
The Creature's Jubile; God's parle with dust;
Heaven here; Man on those hills of Myrrh and
Angels defcending; the Returns of Trust;
A Gleam of Glory after fix-days-fhowres!
The Churche's love-feafts; Time's Prerogative,
Deducted from the whole; The Combs, and hive, And home of rest.
The milky way Chalkt out with Suns; a Clue, That guides through erring hours; and in full ftory A taste of Heav'n on earth; the pledge and Cue Of a full fealt; and the Out-Courts of glory.
Ord, fince thou didst in this vile Clay
That facred Ray,
Thy Spirit, plant, quickning the whole
With that one grain's Infused wealth,
My forward flesh crept on, and subtly stole
Both growth and power; Checking the health
And heat of thine: That little gate
And narrow way, by which to thee
The Paffage is, He term'd a grate
And Entrance to Captivitie;
Thy laws but nets, where some small birds,
And those but seldome too, were caught,
Thy Promises but empty words
Which none but Children heard, or taught.
This I believed: And though a friend
Came oft from far, and whisper'd, No ;
Yet, that not forting to my end,
I wholy liften'd to my foe.
Wherefore, pierc'd through with grief, my fad
Seduced foul fighs up to thee;
To thee, who with true light art Clad,
And feest all things just as they be.
Look from thy throne upon this Roll
Of heavy fins, my high tranfgreffions,
Which I Confeffe with all my foul;
My God, Accept of my Confeffion!
It was last day,
Touch'd with the guilt of my own way,
I fate alone, and taking up
Through all thy fair and various ftore,
Sought out what might outvie my fcore.
The blades of graffe thy Creatures feeding;
The trees, their leafs; the flowres, their Seeding;
The Dust, of which I am a part;
The Stones much fofter than my heart;
The drops of rain, the fighs of wind,
The Stars, to which I am stark blind;
The Dew thy herbs drink up by night,
The beams they warm them at i'th' light;
All that have fignature or life
I fummon'd to decide this ftrife;
And left I fhould lack for Arrears,
A fpring ran by, I told her tears;
But when these came unto the scale,
My fins alone outweigh'd them all.
, my love!
O my dear God,! my life,
Moft bleffed lamb! and mildest dove!
Forgive your penitent Offender,
And no more his fins remember;
Scatter these shades of death, and give
Light to my foul, that it may live ;
Cut me not off for my tranfgreffions,
Wilful rebellions, and fuppreffions;
But give them in those streams a part
Whose spring is in my Saviour's heart.
Lord, I confeffe the heynous score,
And pray, I may do fo no more;
Though then all finners I exceed;
O think on this; Thy Son did bleed!
O call to mind his wounds, his woes,
His Agony, and bloudie throes;
Then look on all that thou haft made,
And mark how they do fail and fade;
The heavens themselves, though fair and bright,
Are dark and unclean in thy fight;
How then, with thee, Can man be holy,
Who doest thine Angels charge with folly?
O what am I, that I fhould breed
Figs on a thorne, flowres on a weed?
I am the gourd of fin and sorrow,
Growing o'er night, and gone to morrow.
In all this Round of life and death
Nothing's more vile than is my breath
Profanenes on my tongue doth reft,
Defects and darkness in my brest ;
Pollutions all my body wed,
And even my foul to thee is dead;
Only in him, on whom I feast,
Both foul and body are well dreft;
His pure perfection quits all score,
And fills the Boxes of his poor;
He is the Center of long life and light;
I am but finite, He is Infinite.
O let thy Juftice then in him Confine;
And through his merits make thy mercy mine!
Left Infant Bud, whofe Bloffome-life
Did only look about, and fall,
Wearyed out in a harmless strife
Of tears, and milk, the food of all!
Sweetly didft thou expire: Thy foul
Flew home unftain'd by his new kin;
For ere thou knew'st how to be foul,
Death wean'd thee from the world and fin.
Softly reft all thy Virgin-Crums!
Lapt in the fweets of thy young breath,
Expecting till thy Saviour Comes
To dreffe them, and unfwadle death.
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