ETERNAL Mover! whose diffused glory,
To show our grovelling reason what thou art, Unfolds itself in clouds of nature's story,
Where man, thy proudest creature, acts his part,
Whom yet, alas! I know not why, we call
The world's contracted sum, the little ALL;—
For, what are we, but lumps of walking clay ? Why should we swell? Whence should our spirits rise?
Are not brute beasts as strong, and birds as gay, Trees longer lived, and creeping things as wise? Only our souls was left an inward light,
To feel our weakness, and confess thy might.
Thou then, our strength, Father of life and death, To whom our thanks, our vows, ourselves we
From me, thy tenant of this fading breath, Accept these lines, which from thy goodness
And thou that wert thy regal prophet's muse,
Do not my praise in weaker strains refuse.
Let these poor notes ascend unto thy throne,
Where majesty doth sit with mercy crowned;
Where my Redeemer lives, in whom alone
The errors of my wandering life are drowned; Where all the quire of heaven resound the same— That only thine, thine is the saving name.
Well then, my soul, joy in the midst of pain; Thy Christ, that conquered hell, shall from above With greater triumph yet return again,
And conquer his own justice with his loveCommanding earth and seas to render those Unto his bliss, for whom he paid his woes.
Now I have done-now are my thoughts at peace;
And now my joys are stronger than my grief:
I feel those comforts that shall never cease,
Future in hope, but present in belief :—
Thy words are true, thy promises are just,
And thou wilt find thy dearly-bought, in dust.
A HYMN TO MY GOD, IN A NIGHT OF
MY LATE SICKNESS.
O THOU great Power! in whom I move,
For whom I live, to whom I die,
Behold me through thy beams of love,
While on this couch of tears I lie;
And cleanse my sordid soul within
By thy Christ's blood, the bath of sin.
No hallowed oils, no grains I need,
No rags of saints, no purging fire;
One rosy drop from David's seed
Was worlds of seas to quench thine ire:
O precious ransom! which once paid,
That" consummatum est" was said :-
And said by him, that said no more,
But seal'd it with his sacred breath.
Thou, then, that hast dispunged my score,
And dying wast the death of death,
Be to me now (on thee I call,)
My life, my strength, my joy, my all.
FAREWELL TO THE VANITIES OF THE WORLD.
FAREWELL, ye gilded follies, pleasing troubles;
Farewell, ye honoured rags, ye glorious bubbles.
Fame's but a hollow echo, gold pure clay;
Honour the darling but of one short day.
Beauty, the eye's idol, but a damask'd skin;
State but a golden prison to live in,
And torture free-born minds: embroidered trains
Merely but pageants for proud, swelling veins;
And blood allied to greatness, is alone
Inherited, not purchased nor our own:
Fame, honour, beauty, state, train, blood, and birth,
Are but the fading blossoms of the earth.
I would be great, but that the sun doth still
Level his rays against the rising hill:
I would be high, but see the proudest oak
Most subject to the rending thunder-stroke :
I would be rich, but see men, too unkind,
Dig in the bowels of the richest mind :
I would be wise, but that I often see
The fox suspected, whilst the ass goes free:
I would be fair, but see the fair and proud,
Like the bright sun, oft setting in a cloud:
I would be poor, but know the humble grass
Still trampled on by each unworthy ass:
Rich hated; wise suspected; scorned if poor;
Great feared; fair tempted; high still envied more:
I have wished all; but now I wish for neither;
Great, high, rich, wise, nor fair; poor I'll be
rather.
Would the world now adopt me for her heir,
Would Beauty's Queen entitle me "The Fair,"
Fame speak me Fortune's minion; could I vie
Angels' with India; with a speaking eye
Command bare heads, bowed knees, strike Justice
dumb,
As well as blind and lame, or give a tongue
To stones by epitaphs: be called Great Master,
In the loose rhymes of every poetaster;
Could I be more than any man that lives,
Great, fair, rich, wise, all in superlatives;
Yet I more freely would these gifts resign,
Than ever fortune would have made them mine,
And hold one minute of this holy leisure,
Beyond the riches of this empty pleasure.
1 Could I rival India in riches: "angels," the coin so called.
Welcome, pure thoughts, welcome, ye silent groves, These guests, these courts, my soul most dearly loves :
Now the winged people of the sky shall sing
My cheerful anthems to the gladsome spring:
A prayer-book now shall be my looking-glass,
In which I will adore sweet Virtue's face.
Here dwell no hateful looks, no palace-cares,
No broken vows dwell here, nor pale-faced fears:
Then here I'll sit, and sigh my hot love's folly,
And learn to affect an holy melancholy;
And if Contentment be a stranger then,
I'll ne'er look for it, but in heaven again.
THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE.
How happy is he born and taught,
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill!
Whose passions not his masters are,
Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Untied unto the worldly care
Of public fame, or private breath;
Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Or vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise;
Nor rules of state, but rules of good;
Who hath his life from rumours freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
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