S Gribelin in: et sculps:  
Whom have I in Heaven but Thee? and there is none upon  
Earth that I desire in comparison of Thee.  Psal. 73. ver. 25.  

Miscellanea Sacra: OR, POEMS ON Divine & Moral SUBJECTS.  
Collected by N. Tate, Servant to His MAJESTY.  
'Tis not that which First we Love,  
But what Dying we approve.  Mr. Waller. 
LONDON: Printed for Hen. Playford in the Temple-Change, in Fleetstreet. MCDXCVI.   

TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS The PRINCESS ANNE of DENMARK.  
MADAM,  
THE Reformation of Poetry, and Restoring the Muses to the Service of the Temple, is a Glorious Work, and requires a Patroness, whose transcendent Quality and Virtues can give Sanction to what she is pleased to favour.  
'Twas therefore my Duty as well as Ambition, to present these pious Composures to your Royal Highness' Protection; which, like an Altar, should only be approached with Religious Offerings.  
A Book designed for Public Benefit, cannot want Encouragement from a Princess who declines no Opportunity of doing Good.  
Piety, Madam, has appeared in all your Actions and Deportment, with such prevailing Charms, as have engaged many to become her Votaries, even in so depraved an Age as This.  
Your Royal Breast is the Sacred Court where the Graces and Virtues have their respective Stations, and where Charity has her Throne— But Madam, 'twould be Presumption for any Pen to attempt your Panegyric, as it is written in the Souls and Sentiments of All who are Admirers of exemplary and accomplished Worth.  
Although 'tis the Transport of pious Minds to Contemplate that exalted State of Glory, Reserved for you in the Regions of Eternal Happiness: Yet, Madam, in Pity to an Age where your Pattern and Presence are so Necessary, Your long and prosperous Continuance Here, is the National Wish, from the Great to the Meanest, and amongst them, the Prayer of,  
Madam, Your ROYAL HIGHNESS' most humble, and Obedient Servant, N. Tate.   

PREFACE.  
THE Publishing an Annual Miscellany of Poems, on Divine and Moral Subjects, can displease no Persons who have any respect for Virtue; and She has few professed Enemies.  
That Religion and Morality are capable of all the Embellishments of Poetry, has been confirmed by the Suffrage and Performance of best Poets in all Ages.  
'Tis there the Muse's breath their native Air. After all their Prodigal persuits of Vanity; 'Tis thither they must come, to recover Strength and Beauty, to appear like Themselves, in a Dress that is suitable to their Quality.  
Those are only to be accounted legitimate Offsprings of Wit, which are useful to the World, or, at least, Inoffensive. For such Births which the Muse that conceived them cannot look upon with Satisfaction, should be excluded the Favour and Patronage of noble Minds. 
— Cui non risêre Parents  
Nec Deus hunc Mensâ, Dea nec dignata Cubili est.   
Perhaps there is no Talon or Genius more capable of being serviceable to Mankind, than That of Poetry. But 'tis the Misfortune of that generous Soil to be overrun with poisonous Weeds, and thin stocked with wholesome Plants. Otherwise, I had not inserted in this Collection any of my own Essays. Neither will I pretend those from other Hands to be, All of 'em, choicest in their Kind. However, they had, generally, the private Approbation, and many of them the Applause of able judges. Some of 'em carry their Sanction in the Names of their Authors; such as Dr. Jeremy Taylor, Dr. Fuller, Earl of Roscommon, and Others. Several also amongst the Anonymous will approve themselves to come from Eminent Hands. Amongst which the Ladies may have the Entertainment to find, that our Age and Country have produced more than One Orinda.  
In so good a Design, 'tis hoped, the Ingenious will timely supply a second Freight, and Pardon what they think defective in this first Adventure.  
Youthful Minds will have their Diversions, where Poetry comes in for no small Share. 'Tis therefore a Public Service to furnish them with such as may be instructive, and entertain their Fancy, without viciating their Morals. For which Reason the Encouraging a Book of this Nature is the Interest of all Parents and Masters of Families; who are best Obeyed, in Both Capacities, when their Children and Servants have a Sense of Piety. Nay, Religious Poetry may be one Means of reclaiming even profligate Persons, by its insinuating Charms, in the Sweetness of its Strains, and Harmony of its Numbers, according to that of our divine Herbert, 
A Verse may take him who a Sermon flies,  
And turn Delight into a Sacrifice.   
If Verse has such Allurements, they will doubtless exert themselves most happily on Divine and Moral Subjects, which naturally excite all the innocent Passions of our Minds. Nothing furnishes the Fancy with more charming Ideas and Imagery. No other Topics or Occasions suggest such exalted Notions and Sentiments; nor is any Thing capable of nobler Expression: Which, (I think) are all the Requisites a Poet can desire. He will certainly find the Holy Scriptures his best Magazine, of which Writings Mr. Cowley has truly asserted, That They are, already, either the most accomplished Pieces of Poetry in the World, or the best Materials for it.   

POEMS ON DIVINE and MORAL SUBJECTS.  

A Morning HYMN, by Dr. Fuller, formerly Bishop of Lincoln.  
THou, wakeful Shepherd that dost Israel keep,  
Raised by thy Goodness from the Bed of sleep,  
To Thee I offer up this Hymn,  
As my best Morning Sacrifice;  
Like grateful Incense may to Rise,  
And raise me, with it, from the bed of Sin.  
And do I Live another day to view?  
O! let me with the Day, my Thanks renew,  
And by its Light, thy righteous Paths pursue.  
Could I redeem the Time I have misspent  
In senseless Scenes of sinful Merriment;  
Such Exemplary Penitence  
I'd practise for each past Offence,  
That even the Innocent  
Should always wish themselves like me,  
When with such Crimes they such Repentance see.   

An Evening HYMN, By Ezr. Simson.  
ANother Day is passed— But can I say,  
That I have Lived, not lost another Day?  
For Days and Years, if spent in vain,  
Can never to Life's Sum amount,  
'Tis only adding to Death's black Account;  
And must be Reckoned for again.  
Thou Setting Sun,  
Art Witness how I've been employed,  
If One good Action I have done  
Worthy the Light that I this Day enjoyed;  
Thou seest my conscious Fears,  
Therefore, kind Planet, let thy Evening Beams,  
Before they sink in Western Streams,  
Set first in my Repenting Tears  
That when thy Lustre is withdrawn  
From these benighted Eyes,  
To cheer my Soul a fairer Dawn  
And brighter Sun of Righteousness may Rise:  
The Sun, who only can send forth a Ray,  
That makes the Morning to Eternal Day.   

INNOCENCE: Or the Inestimable Gemm.  Written by a Young Lady. 

WHat's Innocence?— A brighter Gemm,  
Than e'er enriched a Diadem:  
A Gemm that bears a Price so high,  
As Crowns and Empires cannot Buy.  
Yet by the poorest Mortal's Breast  
This matchless Treasure is possessed,  
A Treasure not like other Wealth,  
That's liable to Fraud or Stealth;  
No Soul of this can be bereft  
By open Force, or secret Theft;  
Safe in its Cabinet 'twill stay,  
Till by the Owner thrown away.   

O dismal Bargain, when for Sin we sell  
This Gemm! 'Tis Life for Death, and Heaven for Hell.    
By Dr. Fuller 
LOrd what is Man, lost Man, that thou shouldst be  
So mindful of him, that the Son of God  
Should quit his Glory, his Divine Abode,  
To be on Earth a poor Afflicted Man?  
The Deity contracted to a Span!  
And that for me (O wondrous Love) for me!  
Reveal, ye glorious Spirits, when ye knew  
The way the Son of God took to renew  
Lost Man, Your vacant Places to supply,  
Blessed Spirits tell,  
Which did Excel,  
Which was more prevalent,  
Your Joy, or your Astonishment?  
That for a Worm, a God should Die!  
Oh! for a Quill drawn from your Wing,  
To write the Praises of th' Eternal Love,  
Oh! for a Voice, like Yours, to sing  
That Anthem here, which once you sung Above.   
By the same Hand. 
IN the black dismal Dungeon of Despair,  
Pined with a Tormenting Care,  
Wracked with my Fears,  
Drowned in my Tears,  
With dreadful Expectation of my Doom,  
And certain horrid Judgements soon to come,  
Lord, here I lie,  
Lost to all hope of Liberty,  
Hence never to remove,  
But by a Miracle of Love,  
Which I scarce dare to hope, much less expect,  
Being guilty of so great, so long Neglect.  
Fool, that I was, worthy a sharper Rod,  
To slight thy Court, O my God  
For thou didst Woe, Entreat and Grieve,  
Didst beg me to be happy and to Live,  
But I would not, I chose to dwell  
With Death, too far from thee, too near to Hell  
But is there no Redemption, no Relief?  
Thou sav'st a Murderer and a Thief.  
Thy Mercy Lord once more advance,  
And give, O give me such a Glance  
As Peter had; thy sweet kind Chiding Look  
Will change my Heart, as it did melt that Rock;  
Look on me, jesus, as thou didst on him,  
'Tis more than to Create, thus to Redeem.   
By the same Hand. 
HOw have I strayed, my God where have I been,  
Since first I wandered in the maze of Sin?  
Lord I have been I know not where,  
So intricate Youths Follies are:  
Age hath its Labyrinths, and Mazes too,  
But neither hath a wise returning Clue.  
Thy Look, thy Call to me  
Shall my far better Ariadne be.  
Hark, I hear my Shepherd call away,  
And in a kind complaining Accent, say,  
Why does my Soul thus stray?  
O blessed Voice,  
That prompts me to new Choice!  
And fain, dear Shepherd, would I come,  
But I can find no Track  
To lead me back;  
And if I still go on, I am undone!  
'Tis thou, O Lord, must bring me home,  
Or, point me out, at least, the way,  
For ah! poor Souls have thousand ways to stray,  
Yet to return, alas, but One.   

HYMN.  
OH! that mine Eyes would melt into a Flood,  
That I might plunge in Tears for Thee,  
As thou didst Swim in Blood to ransom me.  
Oh! that this fleshly Limbeck would begin  
To drop a Tear for every Sin!  
See how his Arms are spread,  
To entertain Death's welcome Bands;  
Behold his bowing Head,  
His bleeding Hands!  
His oft repeated Stripes, his wounded Side!  
Hark how he Groans, remember how he Cried;  
The very Heavens put weeds of Mourning on,  
The solid Rocks in sunder rend;  
And yet this Heart, this Stone, could not relent.  
Hardhearted Man, to weep alone denied;  
Hardhearted Man, for whom alone he Died.   

The Passing-Bell.  

COme honest Sexton, take thy Spade,  
And let my Grave be quickly made:  
Thou still art ready for the Dead,  
Like a kind Host, to make my Bed.  
I now am come to be thy Guest,  
Let me in some Dark Lodging rest,  
For I am weary, full of pain,  
And of my Pilgrimage complain.  
On Heaven's Decree I waiting lie,  
And all my wishes are to die.  
Hark I hear my Passing-Bell,  
Farewell, my loving Friends, Farewell;   

2.  
Make my cold Bed (good Sexton) deep,  
That my poor Bones may safely sleep;  
Until that sad and joyful Day,  
When from Above a Voice shall say,  
Wake all ye Dead, lift up your Eyes,  
The Great Creator bids you Rise.  
Then do I hope, among the Just,  
To shake off this Polluted Dust;  
And with new Robes of Glory dressed,  
To have access among the Blessed.  
Hark I hear my Passing-Bell,  
Farewell my loving Friends, Farewell.    

JOB's CURSE.  By Dr. JEREMY TAYLOR. 
LEt the Night perish, Cursed be the Morn  
Wherein 'twas said there is a Manchild born.  
Let not the Lord regard that Day, but shrowded  
It's fatal Glory in some sullen Cloud.  
May the dark shades of an Eternal Night  
Exclude the least kind beam of dawning Light,  
Let unknown Babes as in the Womb they lie,  
If it be mentioned, give a Groan and Dye.  
No sounds of Joy therein shall charm the Ear,  
No Sun, no Moon, no Twilight Stars appear,  
But a thick Vale of gloomy Darkness wear.  
Why did I not, when first my Mother's Womb  
Discharged me thence, drop down into my Tomb?  
Then had I been at quiet: and mine Eyes  
Had slept and seen no Sorrow; there the wise  
And subtle Councillor, the Potentate,  
Who for themselves built Palaces of State,  
Lie hushed in silence; there's no Midnight Cry  
Caused by Oppressive Tyranny  
Of Wicked Rulers; There the Weary cease  
From Labour, there the Prisoner sleeps in Peace,  
The Rich, the Poor, the Monarch, and the Slave,  
Rest undist urbed, and no Distinction have  
Within the silent Chambers of the Grave.   

The Words by a Young Lady.  
THere's no disturbance in the Heavens above,  
And heavenly Souls do nothing else but Love;  
No Anger, no Remorse, no Discontent,  
Can seize a Soul that's truly Innocent,  
And aims at nought, but that she may combine  
With all she finds, like to herself, Divine:  
And seeing Things in such Confusion hurled  
Does not contend with, but despise the World.   

A Dialogue between two Penitents.  1 Pt. 
HArk how the wakeful cheerful Cock  
The Villagers ginger,  
Clapping his Wings, proclaims the Day,  
And chides thy Sleep and Night away.  2 Pt. 
I hear and thank my kind Remembrancer,  
Flow, flow, my Tears, O when will you begin?  
St. Peter's Bird Reproves St. Peter's Sin.  1 P. 
Complaining Man, hast thou thy Christ denied?  2 Pt. 
Wo's me, I have done more than Peter did  
With less Excuse, and many ways beside,  
Even since my Christ was glorified;  
And this, alas, too oft, alas, more, more than thrice,  
As often as I Chose, and Wooed a Vice,  
Or brutish Lust (to be Abhorred)  
Rejected Jesus, my dear Lord.  1 Pt. 
O my sad Heart! if that be to deny,  
None ought to weep more Floods than I!  
When to receive into my Heart a Sin,  
I thrust my Jesus out, and took it in.  
But Lord, how oft he came, and being denied Died!  
How dolefully he cried,  
Why dost thou use me thus, who for thee  2 Pt. 
Methinks, I hear him Call too from the Tree,  
Ungrateful Wretch, were these Wounds made for Thee,  
Who both deny'dst me and betrayed me too?  
For every wanton Kiss,  
A very judas is,  
And each malicious Thought a spiteful jew.  1 Pt. 
If Sins do now what cruel jews did then,  
Wound him afresh and Crucify again,  
Then we, alas, have his Tormentors been;  
And by each vile deliberate Deed,  
We make his Wounds afresh to bleed,  
His Pain as various as our Sin.  2 Pt. 
True, for my Doubts do bind his Hands, my Pride  
Does first disrobe him, then deride;  
I spit upon him by my Blasphemy,  
And Scourge him by my Cruelty;  
My profane Tears become the Thorns  
That pierced his Head with Scorns.  
And my Hypocrisy. 1st. Pt. Stay!  
To what prodigious height our Sins amount!  
Every Unkindness is a Dart,  
The Spear that wounds his very Heart!  
Christ could bear any thing but this!  Both. 
Since then, the Cause of both our Grief's the same,  
Mix we our Tears, for Grief let's Die,  
'Tis just we act our own, who caused his Tragedy.   

Upon a Quiet Conscience. By K. Charles I.  
CLose thine Eyes and sleep secure,  
Thy Soul is safe, thy Body sure;  
He that guards thee, he that keeps,  
Never slumbers never sleeps.  
A quiet Conscience, in a quiet Breast,  
Has only Peace, has only Rest:  
The Music and the Mirth of Kings,  
Are out of Tune, unless she sings.  
Then close thine Eyes in Peace, and rest secure,  
No sleep so sweet as Thine, no Rest so sure.   

A Dialogue betwixt Dives and Abraham.  D. 
HElp Father Abraham, help for Mercies sake,  
Behold my Torments in this burning Lake;  
Send Lazarus with Whirlwinds that he may  
These flames of melting Sulphur fan away.  A. 
What Son of Hell and Darkness dare molest  
This awful Saint, scarce warm yet on my Breast?  D. 
'Tis I, great Mammon's equal, one whose lot  
Alas is only now,—  Abr. 
I know thee not,  D. 
Father, 'tis Dives, 'tis thy Son, 'tis I,  
Who Purpled o'er fed once deliciously.  A. 
And canst thou now his Charity implore  
Whom thou sawest lately at thy Flinty Door,  
Begging for Crumbs, those Crumbs that fell beside  
Thy o'ercharged Table, and was then denied? Vain Soul.  D. 
Some pity take.  A. 
Remember Son  
Thy Dogs had pity on him, thou hadst none.  D. 
Yet they were mine relieved him, O, in lieu,  
Let him vouchsafe me but a little Dew  
To cool my Tongue.  A. 
Not the least drop of Grace  
Can ever enter that forsaken Place.  D. 
Then send him to my Brethren, lest they come  
To feel the weight of my Eternal Doom.  A. 
They've Moses and the Prophets.  D. 
True, but they  
May yet a Summons from the Dead obey.  A. 
If to convert them Sion's Thunder fail,  
A Summons from the Dead will ne'er prevail.  
When once Death's fatal Hand has shut the Door,  
The Gates of Mercy never open more.   

SOLILOQVY.  

1.  
DEar Saviour, oh! what ails this Heart?  
Sure 'tis of Stone, it cannot smart,  
Nor yet Relent the Death of thee,  
Whose Death alone could ransom me.  
Can I behold thy Pains so great,  
Thine Agony, thy bloody Sweat,  
Thy Back with Whips and Scourges torn,  
Thy Sacred Temples Crowned with Thorn,  
Thy Veins and Nerves extended wide,  
Thy panting Heart, thy bleeding Side;  
Thy Hands and Feet nailed to the Wood,  
And all thy Body drowned in Blood;  
Canst thou pour forth such Streams for me,  
And I not drop one Tear for Thee?   

2.  
Yet tenderhearted I can cry,  
To see Romantic Heroes die,  
And Priam's Fall commands my Eyes,  
As Great Elias did the Skies;  
Nay, a false Fable that can start,  
And call up Sorrow from my Heart;  
A Player too, that dies in jest,  
Can raise a Tempest in my breast:  
But here when I should grieve indeed,  
Nor am I touched, nor can I bleed;  
Heart! how I fear by this alone  
There's something in me worse than Stone.   

3.  
Behold!— See how this dismal sight  
Put the whole World into a fright,  
The Graves did open, and the Dead,  
Rose from their Tombs and Marble Bed,  
Earth did with Anguish shake again,  
Convulsions felt in every Vein;  
Th' amazed Sun withdrew his light,  
Transforming Day to darkest Night.  
The Temple's Veil in twain was Rend,  
The stony Rocks in sunder went;  
The Murderer did this Death bemoan,  
And pitying it, forgot his own!  
Down stupid stoutness, else 'tis true,  
Th' art worse than Murderer, worse than jew;  
Lord of thy Mercy work a Wonder,  
Cleave this obdurate Heart in sunder.    

PSALM the CIV.  By Mr. Tate. 

Part the First.  

1.  
BLess God, my Soul, thou God alone,  
Possessest Empire without bounds,  
With Honour thou art Crowned, thy Throne  
Eternal Majesty surrounds.   

2.  
With Light thou dost thyself enrobe,  
And Glory for a Garment take;  
Heaven's Curtains stretched beyond the Globe,  
Thy Canopy of State to make.   

3.  
He builds on Liquid Fire, and forms  
His Palace Chambers in the Skies,  
The Clouds his Chariot are, and Storms  
The swift-winged Steeds with which he flies.   

4.  
Spirits he made his heavenly Choir,  
With speed his Orders to fulfil,  
His Ministers a flaming Fire  
To execute his dreadful Will.   

5, 6.  
Earth on her Centre fixed he set,  
Her Face with Waters overspread,  
Nor proudest Mountains dared as yet  
To lift above the Waves their head.   

7.  
But when thy Thunder's Voice went forth,  
The frighted Floods dispersed away,  
Engulfed in Caverns of the Earth,  
And panting in her Bosom lay.   

8.  
Thence up by secret tracts they creep,  
And gushing from the Mountain's side  
Through Valleys travel to the Deep,  
Appointed to receive their Tide.   

9  
There hast thou fixed the Ocean-bounds,  
Her threatening Surges to repel,  
That she no more transgress her mounds,  
Nor to a second Deluge swell.    

Part the Second.  

10.  
Yet thence in smaller Parties drawn,  
The Sea recovers her lost Hills,  
And starting springs from every Lawn,  
Surprise the Vales in plenteous Rills.   

11.  
The Ox unyoked is thither led,  
Weary with Labour, faint with Drought,  
And Asses on wild Mountains bred  
Have sense to find those Currents out.   

12.  
There shady Trees, from scorching Beams,  
Yield Mansions to the Feathered Throng,  
They drink, and to the bounteous Streams  
Return the Tribute of their Song.   

13.  
His Rains from Heaven parched Hills recruit,  
That soon transmit the Liquid Store,  
Till Earth is burdened with her Fruit,  
And Nature's Lap can hold no more.   

14.  
Grass for our Cattle to devour,  
He makes the self same Soil produce;  
And Herbs endued with Sovereign Power,  
For Man that knows their Sovereign Use.   

15.  
With clustered Grapes he crowns the Vine  
Whose Nectar Mortal Cares subdue  
Gives Oil that makes our Face to shine,  
And Bread that wasted Strength renews.    

Part the Third.  

16.  
The Trees of God, without the Care  
Or Art of Man, with Sap are fed;  
The Mountain Cedar looks as fair,  
As those in Royal Gardens bred.   

17.  
Safe in the lofty Cedar's Arms  
The Wanderers o' th' Air may rest:  
The Hospitable Pine from harms  
Protects the Stork, her pious Guest.   

18.  
Wild Goats the craggy Rocks ascend,  
Its towering height their Fortress make,  
Whose Cells in Labyrinths extend,  
Where feebler Creatures Refuge take.   

19  
The Moon's inconstant Aspect shows  
The appointed Seasons of the Year;  
The Instructed Sun his duty knows,  
His Hours to Rise, and Disappear.   

20, 21.  
Darkness he makes the Day to shroud,  
When Forest Beasts securely stray,  
Young Lions Roar their Wants aloud  
To Providence that sends 'em Prey.   

22.  
They Range all Night on Slaughter bent,  
Till, summoned by the Rising Morn,  
To skulking Dens, with one Consent,  
The conscious Ravagers return.   

23.  
Forth to the Tillage of his Soil  
The Husbandman securely goes;  
Commencing with the Sun his Toil,  
With him returns to his repose.   

24.  
How various (Lord) they Works are found?  
For which thy Wisdom we Adore:  
The Earth is with thy Treasure Crowned,  
Till Nature's Hand can grasp no more.    

The Fourth Part.  

25.  
But still Thy vast unfathomed Main  
Of Wonders a new Scene supplies;  
Whose Depths Inhabitants contain  
Of every Form, and every Size.   

26.  
The Gallant Ship there cuts her way,  
Waited along by gazing Shoals:  
Leviathan has room to play,  
And like a Floating Island rowls.   

27.  
These various Troops of Sea and Land  
In sense of common Want agree;  
All wait on Thy dispensing Hand,  
And have their daily Alms from Thee.   

28.  
They gather what Thy Stores disperse,  
Without their trouble to provide:  
Thou op'st thy Hand— the Universe,  
The Craving World, is all supplied.   

29.  
Thou for a Moment hidest thy Face,  
The numerous Ranks of Creatures Mourn:  
Thou tak'st their Breath,— all Nature's Race  
Forthwith to Mother Dust return.   

30.  
Again, Thou send'st thy Spirit forth,  
T' inspire the Mass with Vital Seed;  
Nature's Restored, and Parent Earth  
Smiles on her New-Created Breed.   

31.  
Thus through successive Ages, stands  
Firm fixed thy Providential Care;  
Pleased with the Works of Thy own Hands,  
Thou dost the Wastes of Time repair.   

32.  
He darted forth a wrathful Look,  
The trembling Earth Convulsions felt;  
He touched the Mountains, they did smoke,  
And Rocks before his Lightning melt.   

33, 34.  
In praising him, whilst he prolongs  
My Breath, I will that Breath employ;  
And join Devotion to my Songs,  
Sincere, as is in him my Joy.   

35.  
While Sinners from Earth's Face are hurled,  
My Soul praise thou his Holy Name;  
Till, with thy Song, the listening World  
Join Consort, and his Praise proclaim.     

The Evening HYMN.  
NOW that the Sun hath veiled his Light,  
And bid the World good Night;  
To the soft Bed my Body I dispose,  
But where shall my Soul repose?  
Dear God, even in thy Arms, and can there be  
Any so sweet Security!  
Then to thy Rest, O my Soul, and singing, praise  
The Mercy that prolongs thy Days.  
Hallelujah.   

On our SAVIOUR's Passion.  
EArth trembled, and Heaven's closing Eye  
Was loath to see the Lord of Glory Dye!  
The Skies were clad in Mourning, & the Spheres  
Forgot their Harmony;—  
The Clouds dropped Tears.  
Th' ambitious Dead arose to give him Room,  
And every Grave opened wide to be his Tomb.  
Th' impatient Temple rend her Vale in Two,  
To teach our Hearts, what our sad Hearts should do.  
Can senseless Things do This, and shall not I  
Melt One poor Drop to see my Saviour Dye!  
Drill forth my Tears, and trickle One by One,  
Till you have pierced this Heart of Mine, this Stone!   

The PENITENT, by Dr. Jeremy Taylor.  
LOrd I have sinned, and the black Number swells  
To such a dismal Sum,  
That should my Stony Heart and Eyes,  
And this whole sinful Trunk a Flood become,  
And melt to Tears, their drops could not suffice  
To count my Score,  
Much less to pay:  
But Thou, my God, hast Blood in store,  
Yet, since the Balsam of thy Blood,  
Although it can, will do no Good,  
Unless the Wound be cleansed in Tears before;  
Thou in whose sweet, but pensive Face,  
Laughter could never steal a Place,  
Teach but my Heart and Eyes  
To melt away,  
And then one Drop of Balsam will suffice.   

The Blessed VIRGIN's EXPOSTULATION,  When our Saviour at Twelve Years of Age had withdrawn Himself, Luk. c. 2. v. 42. By N. Tate. 
TEll me some pitying Angel, quickly say  
Where does my Soul's sweet Darling stray,  
In Tigers, or more cruel Herod's Way?  
O! rather let his tender Footsteps press  
Unguarded through the Wilderness,  
Where milder Savages resort;  
The desert's safer than a Tyrant's Court.  
Why, fairest Object of my Love,  
Why dost Thou from my longing Eyes remove?  
Was it a waking Dream that did foretell  
Thy wondrous Birth? No Vision from Above?  
Where's Gabriel now that visited my Cell?  
I call— He comes not— flattering Hopes, Farewell.  
Me Iudah's Daughters once Caressed,  
Called me of Mother's the most Blessed;  
Now (fatal Change!) of Mothers, most distressed!  
How shall my Soul its Motions guide,  
How shall I stem the various Tide,  
Whilst Faith and Doubt my labouring Thoughts divide?  
For whilst of thy Dear Sight I am beguiled,  
I Trust the God— But oh! I fear the Child.   

On Pilat's Exposing our LORD to the Jews, and saying to them, Behold the Man.  By Mr. Arwaker. 
BEhold the Man! inhuman Pilate! No;  
Who can have Eyes for such a Scene of Woe?  
Call the remorseless Crocodile, and see  
If that can bear such barbarous Cruelty,  
Should that behold the Outrage you commit,  
Its Tears would be no longer counterfeit.  
Behold the Man! oh! you mistake the Name,  
Behold the Man, behold the God you mean;  
No Man for so much Torture could suffice,  
No Man so Triumph in his Miseries;  
He shows himself a God in tiring Thee,  
And proves by suffering his Divinity.  
But oh! that Style the Man must not refuse,  
Whom Pilate dares, whom Pilate can abuse.  
While from the Sluices of each opened Poor  
Flows a rich Torrent of Redeeming Gore,  
And on his Head sharp piercing Thorns appear,  
That Head which Rays of Glory used to wear;  
And he whom heavens scarce worthy to contain,  
Does in a Cell of Humane Flesh remain,  
Exposed to Sorrows beyond parallel,  
Sorrows too Tragic to behold or tell;  
Oh! thou mayst say, Behold the Man, too well:  
Behold! alas! I cannot, will not see,  
I am too tender for the Tragedy,  
Should I behold his vast Expense of Blood,  
My Eyes would melt into another Flood.  
Yet I will see whence all this Grief proceeds,  
For me, alas! he Groans, for me he Bleeds!  
My Sin exposed him to these Wounding strokes,  
Yet he entreats the Power which that provokes;  
The Tide of Blood in which he floats, is shed  
To save the Wretch by whom his Wounds were made.  
Oh, then forbear on Pilate to Exclaim,—  
He's Innocent, and I alone to blame!  
His Gild must justly fall on Wretched me,  
Who edged his Rage, and armed his Cruelty.  
Oh! then behold the Man thou hast betrayed!  
Behold the Man that does thy Crimes upbraid!  
Behold the Man of Grief, the Man of Love!  
Condemn the Author, but th' Effect approve.  
Behold, and Mourn for thy Ingratitude,  
Behold, and Triumph for thy Pardon Sued,  
Thy Paradise regained, & Innocence renewed;  
And when thou hast sufficiently deplored  
The Suffering Man, and Sinning Man abhorred,  
Then from the Humbled Man thy Thoughts must soar,  
And high in Heaven th' Exalted God Adore.  
And let the sight of this great Sufferer move.  
Towards him alike thy Pity and thy Love.   

Translations out of Boethius, by Mr. Arwaker.  

Lib. 2. Metre the Fourth.  
WHo ere with a Serene and settled Mind  
Contemns the Injuries by Fate designed,  
Viewing each Fortune with indifferent Eyes,  
And can unalter'd both alike despise;  
Him the loud Storms that make the Ocean swell  
Amidst their Rage, shall find immovable.  
His Courage would not shrink at Aetna's Fire,  
But rather nobly Perish, than Retire.  
Nor can the strong Convulsion Fits that make  
Th' Earth tremble, his firm Resolution shake,  
Nor even the Thunder's stroke make him afraid  
By which the proudest towers in Dust are laid.  
He who does ne'er with Hope or Fear engage,  
Disarms, and triumphs over Fortune's Rage.  
But he who hopes or fears what is not sure,  
Nor in his power to hinder, or procure,  
Has thrown away his Shield, forsook his Ground,  
And made a Chain with which himself is bound.   

Metre Fifth.  
HE that would choose a Station so secure  
To bafflle Fate, and all its Storms endure,  
Must neither on the Mountain's summit stand,  
Nor trust his Fortune to the failing Sand,  
That stands exposed to all the blasts of Fate,  
And faithless this will sink beneath your weight:  
Then if thou wouldst contemn the dangerous Shock,  
Fix thy safe Footsteps on an humble Rock;  
Let Fortune storm, in this secure Retreat,  
Thou shalt the force of all its Rage defeat.   

Metre Sixth.  
HAppy the former Age to which each Field  
Did all the Objects of its Wishes yield!  
That which cheap Acorns did its palate feast,  
And nothing in Luxurious Banquets wast;  
Happily ignorant of the Use of Wine,  
They Quaffed the Streams, and thought the Drink Divine;  
No Tyrian Purple Carpers than they chose,  
But took on Grassy Beds more soft repose;  
Beneath a lofty Pine's inviting shade,  
Alike for State, and for Convenience made.  
They had not then found out the fatal way  
To lose their Lives and Fortunes in the Sea;  
Nor did the wandering Merchant then repair  
To Foreign Shores to vend, or Purchase Ware.  
No Trumpets then proclaimed Warsloud Alarms,  
Nor Blood in Anger shed defiled their Arms;  
For who but Madmen would a Fight maintain,  
Where loss of Blood and Life is all the gain?    

The last TRUMPET.  The Words by Mr. Tate. 
AWake ye Dead, the Trumpet calls;  
Awake, awake, to Sleep no more,  
Hark from aloft the Frozen Region falls  
With Noise so loud it deafs the Ocean's Roar;  
Alarmed, amazed, the clattering Orbs come down,  
The Virtuous Soul, alone,  
Appears unmoved while Earth's Foundations shake;  
Ascends and Mocks the Universal Wreck.   

The Slaughter of the INNOCENTS' Matth. two. v. 16.  By the same Hand. 
SWeet Innocents' that found the way  
Through Bloody Paths of Martyrdom,  
To your Celestial and Eternal Home,  
Before your harmless Feet had learned to stray.  
Early, but not untimely, Dead,  
Who to preserve the World's great Saviour bled;  
For all his bitter Pangs the best Return,  
The best of us can make  
Is for his Precious sake;  
(And few have dared so far) to Bleed or Burn.  
If then 'tis Glorious to pursue  
His great Example, what must be your Due,—  
Who Died for him, before he Died for you?   

Upon the Sight of an ANATOMY.  By Mr. Tate. 

1.  
NAy, start not at that Skeleton,  
'Tis your own Picture which you eat;  
Alive it did resemble Thee,  
And thou, when dead, like that shalt be:  
Converse with it, and you will say,  
You cannot better spend the Day;  
You little think how you'll admire  
The Language of those Bones and Wire.   

2.  
The Tongue is gone, but yet each Joint  
Reads Lectures, and can speak to th' Point.  
When all your Moralists are read,  
You'll find no Tutors like the Dead.   

3.  
If in Truth's Paths those Feet have trod,  
'Tis all one whether bore, or shod:  
If used to travel to the Door  
Of the Afflicted Sick and Poor,  
Though to the Dance they were estranged,  
And ne'er their own rude Motion changed;  
Those Feet, now winged, may upwards fly,  
And tread the Palace of the Sky.   

4.  
Those Hands, if ne'er with Murder stained,  
Nor filled with Wealth unjustly gained,  
Nor greedily at Honours grasped,  
But to the Poor-Man's Cry unclaspt;  
It matters not, if in the Mine  
They delved, or did with Rubies shine.   

5.  
Here grew the Lips, and in that Place,  
Where now appears a vacant space,  
Was fixed the Tongue, an Organ, still  
Employed extremely well or ill;  
I know not if it could retort,  
If versed i' th' Language of the Court;  
But this I safely can aver,  
That if it was no Flatterer;  
If it traduced no Man's Repute,  
But, where it could not Praise, was Mute:  
If no false Promises it made,  
If it sung Anthems, if it Prayed,  
'Twas a blessed Tongue, and will prevail  
When Wit and Eloquence shall fail.   

6.  
If Wise as Socrates, that Skull,  
Had ever been, 'tis now as dull  
As Mydas'; or if its Wit  
To that of Midas did submit,  
'Tis now as full of Plot and Skill,  
As is the Head of Matchiavel:  
Proud Laurels once might shade that Brow,  
Where not so much as Hair grows now.   

7.  
Prime Instances of Nature's Skill,  
The Eyes, did once those Hollows fill:  
Were they quick-sighted, sparkling, clear,  
(As those of Hawks and Eagles are,)  
Or say they did with Moisture swim,  
And were distorted, bleared, and dim;  
Yet if they were from Envy free,  
Nor loved to gaze on Vanity;  
If none with scorn they did behold,  
With no lascivious Glances rolled:  
Those Eyes, more bright and piercing grown,  
Shall view the Great Creator's Throne;  
They shall behold th' Invisible,  
And on Eternal Glories dwell.   

8.  
See! not the least Remains appear  
To show where Nature placed the Ear!  
Who knows if it were Musical,  
Or could not judge of Sounds at all?  
Yet if it were to Council bend,  
To Caution and Reproof attended,  
When the shrill Trump shall rouse the Dead,  
And others hear their Sentence read;  
That Ear shall with these Sounds be blest,  
Well done, and, Enter into Rest.    

PSALM the First.  By Capt. Walker. 

1.  
HAppy the Man, who shuns the beaten Road,  
And treads the unfrequented Paths of Good;  
Whom, by a virtuous Restraint,  
From Sin preserved secure,  
No strong contagious Vice can taint,  
Nor Charming Ills allure:  
Who makes Iehovah's Laws his dear Delight.  
His Practice every Day, and Study every Night.   

2.  
Him shall Just Heaven in all his Actions bless,  
And crown his Labours with a wished Success;  
He, like a flourishing Tree, shall prove  
Near some fair River's side,  
Refreshed with Heavenly Dews Above,  
Below with every Tide:  
Spreading his fertile Branches towards the Sky,  
His Leaf shall never fade, his Root shall never die.   

3.  
Not so the Wicked; whose unhallowed Minds,  
Like scattered Chaff, before the whistling Winds  
By various and impetuous Gusts  
Of Raging Passions tossed,  
'Midst thousand Sins, and changing Lusts,  
Are miserably lost;  
And wand'ring from the Sacred ways of Peace,  
Their Fears shall never Die, their Plaints shall never cease.    

PSALM lvii. Vers. 8, 9, 10.  By the same Hand. 

1.  
AWake my Glory, e'er the Rosy Morn  
Does with a Purple Blush the Skies adorn;  
Before the Sun arise to break the Day,  
Awake and chase thy gloomy Sleep away.   

2.  
Awake soft Lute, awake my charmful Lyre,  
With sacred Transports my warm Breast inspire;  
Awake each Faculty, awake and sing,  
In holy Raptures my Almighty King.   

3.  
In Notes Divine let my glad Voice proclaim  
His mighty Goodness, and Eternal Name;  
Let my loud Praises through the World resound,  
While crowding Nations listen all around.   

4.  
But oh! my God, thy Wonders are too great  
For Tongue to speak, or Verse to celebrate;  
So vast thy Mercies, and thy Truths so high,  
They pierce the Clouds, and reach beyond the Sky.    

A PARAPHRASE on the 79th Psalm.  

1.  
HOw long, O Lord, of everlasting Might,  
Shall the successful Heathen make abode,  
In thy Inheritance, O God  
How long defile thy Temple, and usurp thy Right?  
See! how the once Proud City Lies,  
Salem, a heap of Stones, for pity cries,  
Nor here does their unbounded Fury stay,  
Thy Priests they on the Altars slay,  
And cast 'em forth to Birds, and savage Beasts of prey.  
Witness the Blood, that now on every side  
Surrounds the City with a Purple Tide;  
Witness the Bodies they deny to have,  
The common Privilege of a Grave.  
This is our Woe, and this our Fate,  
While neighbouring Nations to increase the Weight,  
Triumphantly Rejoice in our unhappy State.   

2.  
But, O! Thou God of Mercy and of Love  
How long wilt thou remove  
Thy dearest Attributes from Thee?  
How long with Anger burn, and fiery Jealousy?  
Rather thy irresistless Wrath employ  
Upon the Kingdoms, who thy Name  
Have never known, or known disclaim,  
And durst thy Iacob's Dwellings impiously destroy.  
Forget our Sins, O Lord:  
And with a Father's Love relief afford;  
Us, like thy Children, treat,  
And let thy Mercy be, as our Affliction, great.   

3.  
Help, O God, of our Salvation,  
Help, for the Glory of thy Name;  
Nor let thy own, thy own, tho' sinful Nation,  
By Thee deserted, suffer shame.  
Let not deriding Heathens cry,  
O! where is now their fancied Deity.  
And smile, and wonder  
At Thy great Power, and yet unactive Thunder.  
Rise! Lord, and let that Blood the Heathen shed,  
Dye them again with Red;  
And let thy Vengeance public be,  
That what they suffer we (O God) may see.   

4.  
Let the loud Groans of Captives pierce the Sky,  
And hear, and in a timely Hour  
Rescue from Death, who sentenced are to Dye;  
Show boundless Mercy, joined with boundless Power:  
But for those Wretches, who blasphemed thy Name,  
Cloth them with Everlasting Shame,  
That by their Suffering they may see,  
And dread the Wrath of thy Divinity.  
So we that are  
Thy darling Flock, and thy peculiar Care,  
May in most thankful Numbers raise  
To Thee, Eternal God, Eternal Praise.  
Hallelujah.    

The CONVERT.  An Ode Written by Mr. George Herbert. 

1.  
IF ever Tears did flow from Eyes,  
If ever Voice was hoarse with Cries,  
If ever Heart was sore with Sighs;  
Let now my Eyes, my Voice, my Heart,  
Strive each to play their Part.   

2.  
My Eyes from whence these Tears did spring,  
Where treacherous Sirens used to sing,  
Shall flow no more— until they bring  
A Deluge on my sensual Flame,  
And wash away my Shame.   

3.  
My Voice, that oft with foolish Lays,  
With Vows and Rants, and senseless Praise,  
Frail Beauty's Charms to Heaven did raise,  
Henceforth shall only pierce the Skies,  
In Penitential Cries.   

4.  
My Heart, that gave fond Thoughts their Food,  
(Till now averse to all that's Good)  
The Temple where an Idol stood,  
Henceforth in Sacred Flames shall Burn,  
And be that Idol's URN.    

The Prophet ELIJAH Translated up to Heaven.  By Mr. Tate. 

ELijah long and faithful Service boasts,  
Under the Banner of the Lord of Hosts;  
Who now, his signal Conquests to Reward,  
A Chariot for his Triumph has prepared;  
Such matchless Virtue nobly to require,  
Translates him Bodied to the Realms of Light:  
The Prophet now with generous Scorn surveys  
This Earth, where He but for a Passport stays;  
And does entirely his fired Thoughts employ  
On those bright Regions He must soon enjoy.  
But first (for in his Road to Heaven they lay)  
A Visit to the Prophet's Schools He'll pay,  
In Legacy, where He his Progress goes,  
His Council and his Blessing He bestows.   

Elisha does his Master's steps attend;—  
A Servant worthy to be styled a Friend.  
From Gilgal's Plain, to Bethel Journeying on,  
The Prophet Courts his Servant to be gone;  
Near jericho once more his Charge repeats,  
But still Commands in vain, in vain Entreats.  
When Love and Duty once dispute the Field,  
Duty itself must to Affection yield.   

The Prophet now to Iordan's Bank is come,  
The last short Stage to his Celestial Home;  
His Mantle's Sacred Force the jordan knew,  
And consciously in parting Tides withdrew.  
That Stream, long since subdued, at his command  
Was disciplined to fall, to swell, or stand.   

The naked Channel now with ease passed over,  
And Both arrived to the remoter shore;  
On that last spot of Earth his Feet must tread;  
The Prophet to his Faithful Servant, said—   

O for thy Truth and Love, my Servant, say,  
How shall a grateful Master Thee repay?  
E'er to Eternal Mansions born away:  
For Thee, who still must Earthly Toils pursue,  
Instruct thy willing Master what to do,  
Who would to Thee be Kind, as thou to him were't True.   

The Favourite with such Indulgence blest,  
So kindly urged to make his own Request,  
A while with modest Gratitude stands mute,  
Delays to utter his important Suit;  
Who else might instantly his Wish impart,  
For 'twas already formed within his Heart;  
So vast a Boon he trembles to express,  
Yet must depart unsatisfied with less.  
Not Power or Pomp, not Safety, Wealth, or Ease,  
His generous and inflamed Desires can please  
Too narrow All for his expanded Mind,  
It will not be to Nature's Bounds confined.  
His Soul can Revelation only prize,  
Rapture and Correspondence with the Skies;  
The World does no proportioned Scene present;  
No less than Heaven on Earth can his vast Soul Content.   

O Man of God, he cried, let me inherit  
A double Portion of thy Sacred Spirit:  
These impious Times such strong Convictions need,  
I cannot else to thy great Charge succeed;  
My Weakness this Concession does require,  
E'er to thy Sacred Office I aspire;  
To perfect the Foundation Thou hast laid,  
Elisha must have ' twice Elijah's Aid.   

The Prophet grants, but grants with this Reserve,  
If me at paiting thy fixed Eyes observe,  
If in that Minute on their Watch they're found,  
Thou hast thy Wish, 'tis else an empty Sound.   

A Tempest to their Consrence puts an end,  
The fiery Steeds and flaming Wain descend.  
What mean these Terrors? This impetuous Air?  
Can Death so dreadful as this Change appear?  
Who would not choose to pass his brazen Gate,  
If such fierce Blessings must on Rapture wait?  
Mistaken Thought! the Chariot and the Storm  
Of Terror only have the Sound and Form.  
The Vision does but Lambent Flames present,  
For Speed, not Violence, the Whirlwind's sent.   

Elisha the whole Scene with still-fixed Eyes,  
Beholds, and to his towering Master cries,  
My Father, O my Father!— Israel now  
Has lost her Chariot and her Horse men too!  
Tearing his Garments, as on him he calls,  
In Recompense Elijah's Mantle falls:  
While of the Rest his weeping Sight's bereaved,  
His Arms the kind descending Pledge received.   

Now, pensive, back to Iordan's Bank he goes,  
Whose Streams his Passage to the Schools oppose;  
He now must put heavens Promise to the Test,  
And prove if he Elijah's Spirit possessed.  
Dismantled on the Current's Verge he stood,  
Then smote, and cried,— Where's now Elijah's God?  
Chastised by Him the swelling Streams give way,  
And Great Elijah's greater Heir Obey.    

HYMN, by H. W.  

1.  
THou God for ever blest  
Of uncreated Power possessed,  
Whose Habitation is in Light refined,  
From thy Celestial Throne  
With Pity (Lord) look down,  
Behold, relieve my troubled Mind:  
Anguish and Horror from my Heart remove,  
Thou God of everlasting Peace and Love.   

2.  
And Thou, who sittest at his Right-hand,  
That dost th' Angelic Hosts command,  
Thou, who on Earth didst heavenly Power display,  
Thou, whose mild Voice made Winds and Seas obey;  
The Storms, the Tempest in my Breast allay.  
Chastise, Control  
The boist'ring Waves that roll,  
And Toss and Wreck, and quite o'er-whelm my sick despairing Soul.   

3.  
And Thou most sweet and Sacred Dove,  
The God of Consolation and of Love,  
Visit, O Visit every Part  
Of my afflicted Heart:  
That Heart for thy Reception to prepare,  
By thy most heavenly Influence,  
Expel all sinful Thoughts from thence,  
And Save me from the Gulf of black Despair.    

Hezekiah's Sickness and Recovery: KINGS the II. Chap. 20.  By Mr. Tate. 

WIth double Pleasure sprung the cheerful Dawn,  
That saw the Syrians threatening Host with drawn:  
Yet, ah! no sooner Wars Alarms are fled,  
No sooner Peace her brooding Wings had spread;  
But Sickness, armed with Death's resistless Sting,  
Invades the Sacred Person of the King!  
The raging Pest within his Vitals reigned,  
More dangerous than the Siege he had sustained.  
The fatal Summons Purple Symptoms gave,  
And Thus the Prophet warns him to his Grave.  
" Thy House in Order set, dispose thy State,  
" For Death, O King, does on my Message wait;  
" He stalks behind me to thy Palace-Gate.  
The Prince, who had Besieging Hosts defied,  
Turns Pale, and deeply Sighing, Thus replied;   

" Can Heaven impose, where Justice is sublime,  
" A Task so weighty and so short a Time?  
" My House in Order set, dispose my State!  
" Surprised, like Me, with Life's last stage in View,  
" Alas! what could a private Master do?  
" If Him a Doom so sudden would overwhelm,  
" Ah! what must I, who sit at Iudah's Helm,  
" My Family, no less than All the Realm!  
" That Realm how shall I orderly bequeath,  
" E'er Wars Alarms afford me time to breath?  
" How place my Sceptre e'er my Sword I Sheath?  
" But if th' Almighty Wisdom has thought fit,  
" That I should Iudah's Royal Ensigns quit;  
" My Soul at his Decree shall ne'er Repine,  
" Both Life and Empire, at his Call Divine,  
" I will Resign— But ah! to whom Resign?  
" For yet the Marriage Bed's to me unknown,  
" And judah wants an Heir to Iudah's Throne.  
" Shall Israel's Ten Apostate Tribes, their King  
" To Sion's Tower, and worse—  
" Unhallowed Idols to the Temple bring?  
" Or shall Assyrian Troops the Siege renew,  
" And Rabsheka's blaspheming Threats prove True?   

When in such Terms the Royal Saint had mourned,  
His Face, bedewed with Tears, he meekly turned,  
Turned to the Wall: Why thither? that his Mind  
Might less Distraction in that Posture find,  
Or secret Prayers more servently to press;  
(As warm Devotion loves no Witnesses.)  
Or that his Palace opened on that side  
A Prospect, whence his Eyes the Temple spied,  
Where wished Access was to his Feet denied.  
A second Deluge at his View he show'red,  
And thus his Soul her Deprecation poured.   

" Remember, Lord, (with humble Trust I sue  
" How too thy Service I have been most True:  
" With perfect Heart by strong Devotion warmed,  
" That which was Righteous in thy sight performed.   

The Royal Saint paused here; and hovering round,  
Attending Angels strive to catch each Sound:  
Scarce could They for their finished Errand stay,  
While thus the Pious Prince proceeds to Pray—  
" How prays He?— Not one Accent more he spoke.  
" But when his Tongue grows mute, his Thoughts invoke;  
" His Tears and Groans their Office still maintain;  
" Let then the faithful Muse—  
" The Language of those Groans and Tears explain.   

They said—" Thou seest, O God, most Just and Wise,  
" All fixed on me, the Neighbouring Nations Eyes;  
" How in a Lewd and Superstitious Age  
" Alone I stand, and for thy Truth engage  
" Thy Worship's Champion; if in Death I sleep,  
" From Pagan Force, who shall thine Altars keep?  
" The Reformation, I with Toil commenced,  
" Will soon relapse to Ruin when unfenced:  
" The Assyrian Savage with impetuous Haste  
" (Th' Enclosure gone) will lay thy Vineyard waste.  
" Let me, or let my Cause, thy Favour claim,  
" Support thy Servant, or at least thy Name;  
" Restore me from the Grave, prolong my Days;  
" Prolong them, that I may prolong thy Praise.   

Nor yet the Prophet had the Palace left,  
And Royal Patient, of all Hope bereft;  
But He, whose Visit made the Court to Mourn,  
Of Life the welcome Envoy must Return.   

" Turn, cried the Vision, bring my Saint Relief,  
" Tell Hezekiab, tell my People's Chief;  
" Thy Father David's God has heard thy Prayer,  
" Beheld thy Tears, and will thy Health repair:  
" The Third Day's Sun shall see that Health restored,  
" (But Miracles must first confirm my Word;)  
" Who now wants Breath his mournful Cries to raise,  
" Shall in the Temple then resound my Praise.    

On the Death of Mr. Fell, who was found Dead upon his Knees in his Chamber.  
PRetending private Study, when thy Mind  
To Paradise this Voyage had designed,  
Was sure a Pious (though surprising) Fraud,  
And such as Saints and Angels must applaud.  
Elijah thus pretending to Retire,  
Told of the Water, but concealed the Fire.  
Elisha, had he sought no more to know,  
Had lost his Spirit and his Mantle too.  
Such Legacies, blessed Soul, mightst thou have given,  
Had we but seen thee when snatched up to Heaven.  
Sure, Paradise was opened to thy view,  
When with thy Prayer thy Soul together flew.  
In such a sacred Rapture Stephen spied  
heavens Gates unlocked, and forthwith kneeled, and died;  
To Heaven thou now hast shown the nearest way;  
Which is, like Thee, to Study and to Pray.  
You, that carve Virtue decked with every Grace,  
As if her Beauties lay in Hands and Face,  
Come Sergeant this Image if you dare,  
The first Original Statue of a Prayer!  
Heaven took thee up when it beheld thee down;  
So Princes kneel when they receive a Crown.  
Nor did heavens sudden Summons Thee surprise,  
It scarce could ever find thee otherwise,  
Thy pious Soul in Consecrated Clay,  
(For 'twas a Temple) never ceased to pray.  
Thy oft repeated Storms Heaven's Gates assailed,  
Whose sacred Violence at last prevailed;  
Heaven kindly yielding sent a Message down,  
To bid thee enter, and possess the Crown.  
One Period ends thy Combat and thy Breath,  
Thy Conquest bravely finished in thy Death.  
Such was Epaminondas noble Pride;  
The minute that he Overcame, he died;  
Alas! what cannot warm Religion dare?  
No Walls so high, but may be scaled by Prayer  
New Stratagems by Piety are found,  
And highest Flights take rise from off the ground.  
What happy Zeal thy Spirit did inspire,  
That 'midst thy Tears could kindle so much fire?  
Which made thee so impatient of delay,  
Thy zealous haste could scarce Heaven's leisure stay,  
But lest thy Message should too late come there,  
Thyself went'st post to overtake thy Prayer.  
Thy Soul and Prayer so intimate became,  
That, like old Friends, they now were grown the same,  
'Twas only Heaven (so much alike they were)  
That could discern the Spirit from the Prayer.  
Enjoy blessed Shade what thou hast bravely won,  
Possess that Heaven which thou hadst here begun;  
Heaven doth to us thy prostrate Body grant,  
The precious Relics of so great a Saint,  
Which should it longer in this Posture stay,  
Would, like thy Soul, we fear, be snatched away.  
Grudge not thy Body should to Earth be given,  
A welcome Present, as thy Soul to Heaven:  
Whilst this here prays below, that sings on high,  
We'll learn of this to pray, of that to fly.   

A PARAPHRASE On several TEXTS of SCRIPTURE, Expressing the SIGHS OF A PENITENT SOUL.  
Translated from Hermannus Hugo.  

The INTRODUCTION.  Lord thou knowest all my Desire, and my Groaning is not hid from thee, Ps. 38. v. 9 
HE only knows my Grief, whose Eyes can dart  
Into the dark Recesses of my Heart;  
He only views those Labyrinths of Night,  
Who gilds the Day, and gives the Sun his Light.  
Stretched on the solitary Shore I lie,  
With winged Petitions fill the vaulted Sky;  
Yet what I wish, none knows but He, and I!  
The Groans, the Pangs, that in my Bosom rise,  
We Two can only tell;— and we suffice.   

PSALM 6. Vers. 3.  Have Mercy upon me, O Lord, for I am weak, heal me for my Bones are broken. 

SHall I complain? or silently depart?  
Complaints are just, & I will ease my Heart.  
A common Friend condoles his Friend in Woe,  
What therefore should a tender Lover do?  
Were then thy Oaths of Love, but flattering Wind?  
I did not think thou couldst be so unkind!  
Ah! couldst thou know me sick to this degree,  
And yet so long defer to visit me?  
Melampus, Podalyrius, Chiron too,  
And Poean, tho' with Gout and Palsy slow,  
Have all been here, each Member of the Train  
Has read his tedious Lecture on my Pain.  
But my Hypocrates was absent still;  
Thou comest the last;— Thou whose resistless Skill  
Can Cure with greater speed than they can Kill.  
They shake their Heads, & with dejected Eye,  
The feeble Motion of my Pulse they try:  
But what's the wise Result of all their Art?  
They cry, I'm sick— Yes, I am sick— at heart!  
Through all my Veins the dire Infection creeps,  
My Vitals too in strong Possession keeps.  
My Pains, my Pangs, my Agonies increase,  
And Physics baffled Power gives no Release.  
Behold these Lineaments disguised with Woe,  
If thou again this altered Face canst know?  
Behold these Eyes, each buried in its Cell,  
These Cheeks where freshest Beauty used to dwell;  
In Ruins there each graceful Feature lies;  
Thou chafed with Wine, no lively Blush will rise.   

Then to whose Altar should I now repair,  
But Thine, who only canst redress my Care?  
Thou only canst my raging Grief control,  
Who art the great Physician of the Soul.    

JEREMIAH 9 Vers. 1.  O that my Head were turned into Water, and my Eyes a Fountain of Tears, that I might weep Day and Night. 
Nymphs of the Flood, how truly blessed are you?  
Whose beauteous Limbs in liquid Crystal flow!  
And They whose metamorphosed Frame distilled  
To Lakes that soon the wondering Valleys filled,  
Why of your Fortune should this Head despair;  
(This wretched Head) with, more tormenting Care  
Turned to a Spring, with Moss instead of Hair?  
On Earth my weary outstretched Arms I throw,  
In hopes they will, like yours, dissolve, & flow;  
But my hard Stars so blest a Change deny,  
For Rivers Emblems are of Liberty.  
O that I could a sudden Fountain prove,  
As Acis once for Galatea's Love!  
That those kind Powers, who set sad Biblis free,  
Would now repeat the Miracle in me!  
Since Floods and Seas, I but in vain implore,  
Let some kind Shower supply me with its store.  
Then from my Eyes such plenteous Streams would flow,  
As fall from lofty Pindus' melting Snow;  
Which down the Furrows of my Cheeks should run  
In Course, as constant as the Circling Sun:  
No Rest should in my trickling Tears be found,  
Till all my Sins were in that Deluge drowned.   

PSALM 69. Vers. 15.  Let not the Water-flood overflow me, nor the Deep swallow me up. 

MY Life's a Sea, now raging, now at Rest;  
And I the Ship, with gaudy Streamers dressed.  
What are the Breezes there, each flattering Wind,  
But those dissembling Passions of my Mind?  
Invited by these Gales I rashly float,  
And tempt the Ocean in a sickle Boat.  
No want of youthful Dalliance to excite,  
But pleasures Tiding up with full Delight;  
Siren's that charm at once my Ear & Sight.   

O Faithless Main, that with so calm a Brow  
Dost smile,— how rough and boisterous wilt thou grow?  
Kind Offices thou dost as yet perform,  
Without the least Suspicion of a Storm;  
But when environed round with Seas and Skies  
Past sight of Shore— Thy Tempests then will Rise.    

PSALM 143. Vers. 2.  Enter not into judgement with thy Servant, etc. 

O Who would not this strict Tribunal dread,  
Or dare before th' Almighty Judge to Plead,  
At his Tribunal, how shall Gild appear,  
Where Innocence itself can scarce be Clear?   

Even He whose Piety did brightly shine,  
(Of all the Inspired Twelve the most Divine)  
Whose Life, with Vice, was one continued War,  
Yet dared not plead Perfection at this Barr.  
The Royal Author of Seraphic Verse,  
And Anthems fit for Angels to rehearse,  
What Son of Flesh conceived in Sin (said He)  
Before Allseeing Eyes can righteous be?  
Nor job (in sufferings tried) allowed the Skies,  
And brighter Stars, as spotless in his Eyes.   

If then such Pillars sink beneath his Hand,  
On what support can we, frail Rafters, stand?  
And if before his Breath the Cedars yield,  
How shall such Shrubs as we maintain the Field?    

PSALM.  The Sorrows of Hell compass me, and the Snares of Death take hold of me. 

ACteon's Fortune seems in me renewed,  
When wretchedly by his own Hounds pursued.  
Wild Groves my youthful Fancy did inflame,  
My Soul was always in pursuit of Game;  
Till Death beset me in a Desert way,  
And of the Hunter made a wretched Prey.   

In every Path Death's tangling Nets are spread,  
More fine and subtle than Arachne's Thread;  
Behold how close that watchful Huntress lies,  
Some gaudy buzzing Straggler to surprise;  
Her Web once struck, forth from her Cell she springs,  
And to her Den the mourning Captive brings.  
Mark how the Fowler from the shades unseen  
Observes his Nets, stretched on the neighbouring Green;  
And, to allure, where vacant Spots are found,  
He scatters Grain upon the barren Ground:  
While Birds whom he already has betrayed,  
Are now Decoys to their own Fellows made;  
And from their Cages cheerful Notes begin  
To draw, with feigned Mirth, their Companions in:—  
These, these, my Soul, true Emblems are of Sin.    

PSALM 31. Vers. 10.  My Life is spent in Grief, and my Years in Sighing. By N. Tate. 
A Sullen Planet frowned upon my Birth,  
Nor to this Hour allows one Minute's Mirth;  
Yet still I'm flattered with deceitful Air,  
That always says to Morrow shall be fair.  
No Morrow yet has darted one kind Ray,  
But still proves darker than the former Day.  
The ruffling Winds oftimes disturb the Main,  
But soon the Billows grow composed again;  
No Leaves in Winter on the Grove are seen,  
Which yet the next Spring clothes with fresher Green.  
When sudden Storms eclipse the Morning's Light,  
Those once dispersed, the Day returns more bright.  
My gloomy Thoughts no Interval can find,  
The Tempest always rages in my Mind.  
My Sighs are all the Music I employ,  
My Sighs are all the Music I enjoy;  
With these I pass the tedious Night away,  
With these I pass the yet more tedious Day.  
My Friends, 'tis true, their Counsel oft address,  
Advise me oft to make my Sorrows less.  
I took their Council, gave to Mirth the Rein;  
Mirth only brought more sharp Returns of Pain.  
For when my Griefs with Laughter I'd beguile,  
Tempestuous Sighs destroyed the Infant Smile.  
And when I try to Sleep my Griefs to Rest,  
Their Cries fright from my Door the gentle Guest.  
Ye Streams and Groves, my long frequented Seats,  
Ye Rocks & Caves, my Sorrows last Retreats!  
You know, how oft my Groans in vain suppressed,  
Have with recoiling Fury torn my Breast.  
While Echo, gentle sharer of my Woe,  
Returns a Sigh to every Sigh I throw.  
Here Progne does her mournful Story tell,  
Answered by sadder Notes of Philomela.  
Each in her Turn renews the doleful Strain,  
While Halcyons from the distant Shores complain  
With these the Turtle joins eternal Moan,  
Like me, she mourns, and murmurs all alone!  
Thus Fate, does cruelly my Life prolong,  
Of all my sufferings Life the greatest Wrong!   

Out of Hermannus Hugo.  I Charge you, O Daughters of Jerusalem, if ye find my Beloved, that ye tell him I am sick of Love. Cant. 5. 8. 
YE happy souls, of Heavenly Salem's Race,  
Whose snowy Feet the Azure Temples grace,  
You, you, I charge, attend my sacred Strain,  
If ye by chance should find my Love again,  
Tell him I Languish with a Fire unknown,  
As jasmins' saint beneath th' Assyrian Sun;  
For 'midst the Darts he lately scattered round,  
He fell himself a Shaft, and I a Wound:  
At least his own Blood tinged the pointed Steel '  
For I more His, than my own Sufferings feel.  
Ah! with what fires was then my Soul possessed,  
As if whole Aetna heaved within my Breast!  
If he's inquisitive, as Lovers are,  
And should inquire of each particular,  
Talk all the Forms of Languish and Distress,  
Which Pain forbids the Sufferer to express.  
He'll ask if I am Feverish; tell him, No;  
My Spirits are too weak, my Pulse too low!  
He'll ask if danger of my Life appears;—  
Tell what your Eyes discover, not your Ears.  
Tell him you bid me speak, whilst my faint breath  
Imported nothing, but the signs of Death.  
Perhaps he'll ask you how I did appear,  
What Looks, and what my other symptoms were;  
This, or like This, let your Description be,  
That he my danger with its Cause may see;  
A pale a frightful trembling Ghost I lie  
Condemned, O Fate! neither to live nor die.  
I pant and struggle for my hover Breath,  
Labouring for either perfect Life or Death.  
With heavy Eyes, that sink in gloomy Shade,  
My faint Right hand within my Bosom laid:  
No rosy Colours, no young Native heat,  
No Pulse, tho' touched, can be perceived to beat.  
A flood of Tears wash my faint Life away,  
And dying Sighs to him my Soul convey:  
Whilst in these sad Complaints I still admire  
To feel I burn, yet know not what's the fire,  
Unless 'tis Love, which doth these Passions move,  
For every accent of my Pain is Love!  
From hence, I find, from hence proceeds my flame  
I know not Love, but yet a Lover am;  
Love made my Plaints so loud, my Sighs so deep,  
Love taught my unexperienced Eyes to weep.  
From hence th' Abruptness of my Language came,  
That I could utter nothing but his Name.  
This, in these words, Let my Beloved hear,  
That I (fond of my pain) his Fetters bear:  
Tell him I burn with such a gentle fire,  
As Roses in the Summer's heat expire;  
Tell him that I with long Desires decay,  
As hoary Lilies droop and fade away;  
I charge ye tell him I am sick of Love,  
And my last Sickness, tell him, it will prove.    

ON EASTER-DAY.  By an unknown Hand. 

1.  
HArk! Sure I hear Urania play,  
I hear her tune the heavenly Strings;  
Some wondrous Tidings sure she brings.  
Oh! now, methinks, I hear her say,  
The Sun of Rightcousness, To day,  
Must break, must rise, must come away  
With Healing on his Wings.   

2.  
'Tis done— behold the God appear,  
Fulfilling all that he hath said,  
Captivity is Captive led;  
Death of his old envenomed Spear  
Behold disarmed, and conquered here;  
The Grave no more the Members seat  
Since risen is the Head.   

3.  
In vain the silly Rabbins strove  
A Stratagem of Force to find  
The Lord Omnipotent to bind;  
Too weak, to stop Almighty Love,  
Their Guards, their Stone, their Seal must prove;  
The trembling Earth doth all remove  
Like Dust before the Wind.   

4.  
Let ransomed Men in Praises vie,  
Let every faithful Soul rejoice  
And tune, to Angels Notes, his Voice!  
Hail! Son of David, let them cry,  
Hail! Thou that Livest, and didst Die!  
That list'st thy glorious Seat on high,  
And Sufferings mad'st thy Choice.   

5.  
Unfold, ye Everlasting Gates,  
That Guard the great Iehovah's Towers,  
Those Sacred My stick Leaves of yours;  
The King of Glory for you waits:  
Receive him, O ye blissful Bowers,  
Ye Thrones, Dominions, Sceptred Powers;  
He comes:— accomplished are the Hours  
Appointed by the Fates.   

6.  
Be now thy Foes thy Footstool made;  
Exalted high, on God's Right-hand,  
A Priest for ever mayst thou stand,  
Thy dear Redeeming Blood to plead,  
Th' imperfect Sacrifice to aid,  
Which is by wretched Man conveyed,  
And never must be scanned.    

A Preparation to PRAYER.  By the same Hand. 

1.  
LET no bold Prayer presume to rise,  
Let no unhallowed Incense go  
A fruitless Progress, through the Skies,  
Whilst here thy Heart remains below:  
Thy Heart, adorned in all its best desires,  
Thy Father kindly courts, thy awful God requires.   

2.  
Think with what Reverence and State  
Thy Maker is adored Above;  
What mighty Being's round him wait,  
And pay their Worship and their Love:  
That Cherubims are in his Sight afraid,  
And with enfolded Wings their glorious Faces  
Shade.   

3.  
How must that Guardian Angel grieve,  
(That to attend thy Soul, is sent)  
Such cold Petitions to receive,  
As his warm Zeal can ne'er present!  
How must he grieve, thy empty Forms to see?  
In Spirit and in Truth, his God must worshipped be.   

4.  
How will it swell thy final Cares?  
How will it all thy hopes defeat,  
To see thy Sins increased by Prayers,  
Which only could their force abate?  
How canst thou hope t'escape those foreign Harms,  
Who thus against thyself turn'st thy defensive Arms?    

GOLD is tried in the Fire, and acceptable Men in the time of Adversity.  By the same Hand. 

1.  
IF all th' appointed Days of Man were fair,  
And his few Hours moved o'er him like a  
Breeze,  
That gently fans the waving Trees,  
Soft and Smooth, and void of Care,  
As Infants balmy Slumbers are;  
How should we ere assured be,  
That even Temper we might see  
Were Virtue, not Prosperity.   

2.  
Not so th' Almighty Wisdom has designed  
We should in Ease and Luxury remain,  
Untried by Sorrow, or by Pain:  
No, the great Searcher of the Mind  
Unshaken Virtue there must find;  
Tho' low as to the Dunghill brought  
With him, whose sifted Patience taught  
He served for Duty, else for nought.   

3.  
We see the wealthiest Oar the Earth doth  
hide,  
Is not received or passed for current Gold,  
Nor by the greedy Miser told,  
Till by the Cleansing Furnace tried,  
It doth the seven fold Test abide:  
So must the Path of Grief be trod,  
That certain Purifying Road  
By all th' accepted Sons of God.   

4.  
God in this Method to our Needs has bowed,  
Nor is it Reason guides when we complain:  
Favours alas, but fall in vain,  
And the good Things that are allowed,  
Instead of happy, make us proud.  
Let us not then refuse this part,  
But wisely learn the Saving Art,  
Which Tears to Comforts does convert.    

On AFFLICTION.  By the same Hand. 

1.  
WElcome, (what e'er my tender Flesh may say,)  
Welcome Affliction, to my Reason still.  
Tho' hard and rugged, on this Rock I lay  
A sure Foundation, which, if raised with Skill,  
Shall compass Babel's aim, and reach th' Almighty's Hill.   

2.  
Welcome the Rod that does Adoption show  
The Cup, whose wholesome Dregs are given me  
here,  
There is a Day behind, if God be true,  
When all these Clouds shall pass, and Heaven  
be clear,  
When those, whom most they shade, shall shine  
most glorious there.   

3.  
Affliction is the Line, which every Saint  
Is measured by, his Stature taken right;  
So much it shrinks, as they repine or faint,  
But if their Faith or Courage stand upright,  
By that is made the Crown, and the full Robe  
of Light.    

PSALM the 137th, paraphrased to the 7th Verse.  By the same Hand. 

PRoud Babylon, thou saw'st us Weep,  
Euphrates, as he passed along,  
Saw on his Banks the Sacred Throng  
A heavy Solemn Mourning keep;  
Sad Captives to thy Sons and Thee.  
When nothing but our Tears were free!   

A Song of Zion they require,  
And, from the neighbouring Trees, to take  
Each Man his dumb neglected Lyre,  
And Cheerful Sounds on them awake;  
But Cheerful Sounds the Strings refuse,  
Nor will their Master's Griefs abuse.   

How can we, Lord, thy Praise proclaim,  
Here in a strange unhallowed Land,  
Lest we provoke them to blaspheme  
A Name they do not understand!  
And with Rend Garments that deplore  
Above what e'er we felt before.   

But thou jerusalem so dear,  
If thy loved Image e'er depart,  
Or I forget thy Sufferings here,  
Let my Right hand forget her Art,  
My Tongue her Vocal Gift resign,  
And Sacred Verse no more be mine.    

The Second Chapter of the Wisdom of Solomon, paraphrased.  By the same Hand. 

The first 12 Lines being an Introduction.  
HOw weak is Man that would himself persuade  
Out of his Interest, and his Tempter aid!  
Misled by present joys, and humane Pride,  
Would gladly lay his future Hopes aside;  
Unclothe himself of all he holds Divine,  
And to the Earth his Ashes would confine.  
Consent his Soul (all pains on it to spare)  
Should vanish like the soft and silent Air,  
This Doctrine, which in ancient Times was penned,  
Th' industrious Devil took care should still descend,  
And we by Atheists now the same are told,  
Which Israel's wisest Prince describes of old.   

The CHAPTER begins.  

THus reasoned they, said he, but not aright,  
Deluded by the Charms of vain Delight;  
Tho' Life be short, how tedious is the day  
Which some new Pleasure doth not drive away?  
Death hastens on all humane Things to seize,  
And there's no remedy for that Disease.  
None from the Grave return, nor Moses Laws  
Have seen him come to vindicate their Cause.  
Chance made the World; and the same Hand of Chance  
Did blindly Man into that World advance.  
And, when the date of certain years expires,  
As he had never been, he back retires.  
That active Fire which animates the Heart,  
And thence all Life and Motion does impart,  
By some contending Element oppressed,  
Extinguished fails and quits the darkened breast.  
The Vapour in our Nostrils steals away,  
And all that row remains is common Clay.  
Time preys upon our Memory and Name,  
And deep Oblivion swallows up our Fame.  
Like a swift Cloud we pass unheeded by,  
No tract is left, no mark where it did fly,  
Nor shall it e'er return to shade the Sky.  
Since past and future we at distance see,  
And present time can only useful be,  
Voluptuous, and in Pleasures let us live,  
And freely spend what Moment's we receive.  
Still let us gay and warm Affections hold,  
And, when in Age, forget that we are old.  
Roses about our youthful Tresses tie,  
Roses shall, when they fall, their place supply.  
The cheerful Spring shall round our Temples shine,  
Whilst our full Bowls flow with Autumnal Wine.  
The polished Skin with Ointments shall begay,  
Circling Perfumes shall usher on the way,  
And soft harmonious Airs about us play.  
Diffusing as we pass Luxuriant Bliss;  
This is our Portion, and our Lot is this.   

Justice shall lay aside her useless Scales,  
And Force shall Justice be, when Force prevails  
No Law shall govern, no dull Rule take place,  
The Widow, nor the hoary Head find grace;  
Oppression shall the righteous Man devour,  
Fashioned by Conscience for the Tyrant's power;  
Who meekly yields to wrong, or vile disgrace,  
Yet from th' Immortal God derives his Race,  
And by himself is arrogantly styled  
Of him he Worships the apparent Child;  
Him let us wait for that upbraids us still  
With Breach of Laws, and Education ill,  
That but at distance views our loose Delight,  
And blasts our Mirth with his reproachful sight:  
Who, not like us, his Youth to Pleasure gives,  
But singular, and solitary lives;  
And does his Eyes on distant Prospects bend,  
Saying, the Just is blessed in his End;  
That let us hasten, and his Patience prove,  
And his cool Temper with rough usage move:  
If Son to him whom he Almighty calls,  
He sure will Save when in our hands he falls;  
Let us in Shame and Tortures make him die,  
And so his Truth and his Protector try.   

Full place did such Imaginations find  
With Men in Mists of Sin and Error blind,  
That knew not God, nor did his Laws regard,  
Unmindful of the Work or the Reward,  
That shall on blameless Souls hereafter rest,  
When with Eternity of Pleasures blest.  
God stamped his Image on created Earth,  
And made it so, Immortal in its Birth,  
And tho' th' Inferrial Fiend, with Envy filled,  
Brought Death into the World, and some has killed,  
Yet only those that do his part embrace,  
Shall fall to him, and his appointed place.     

SOLITUDE.  

HOw far the sweets of Solitude excel  
The World's loud Mirth and clamorous Sports  
Of theatres, and crowded Courts,  
Only the virtuous Heavenly Soul can tell.   

Which when retired and loosed by Faith & Love.  
From the gross Body, upward flies,  
Climbs o'er th' impurer lower Skies,  
To gain sweet Converse with blessed Minds above.   

Ravished with This, she seeks a clearer sight,  
And chides the interposing Clay,  
And bars of Flesh that take away  
Her heavenly Prospect, and retard her flight.   

She does her scorn of this low World express,  
Derides the Pompous Trifles here,  
Honours and Wealth to Sinners dear,  
And wonders why Men call it Happiness.   

Safe in those happy Realms of Light and Love,  
From Clouds and stormy Wind that blow  
O'er this tempestuous World below,  
She mourns she cannot always keep above.   

In those bright Fields no fears her Joy control,  
Securely seated from on high  
She sees the ruddy Lightning fly,  
And hears below the distant Thunder roll.   

She's there safe guarded from fallen Angels power,  
That stray in this low void of Air.  
And (watching with unwearied Care,)  
First tempt to sin, than vanquished Souls devour.   

Those Minds become more excellent and pure,  
That heavens calm Regions most frequent,  
Free from Earth's Damps and noisome Scent;  
As wholesome Climates men's sick Bodies cure.   

And when such Minds descend to Earth again,  
Their heavenly Language cheerful Face,  
Fresh Beauty and Celestial Grace  
Declare the happy Seats where they have been.   

This World is still so turbulent and loud,  
That heavens soft Voice cannot be heard,  
Angels have oft to Men appeared  
When all alone, but never in a Crowd.   

In silent Groves the Men of old grew wise,  
There prostrate Votaries adored,  
And invocated the true Lord,  
There Heathens worshipped too their Deities.   

Sage Druids there heavens Councils understood:  
The Soul does there her Thoughts compose,  
Calmly devout and silent grows,  
Awed by the shade and stillness of the Wood   

There th' Essens Sect their Innocence were taught  
Of the next Silver Stream they drank,  
Got a cheap Meal from some green Bank,  
And far from worldly Cares they Lived and Thought.   

In Fields and Woods, may I safe Pleasures find,  
Nature's Almighty Cause adore,  
Admire the Works, but th' Author more,  
Where Objects both delight and teach my Mind.   

May Valleys teach me to be fruitful too,  
May Hills excite me to aspire,  
Like them, to Heaven with raised Desire,  
And may my Thoughts flow pure, as Fountains do.   

From Birds I'll learn to sing my Maker's Praise,  
The Sheep shall make me wish I may  
Grow useful, and as meek, as they;  
And hear the Pastor that directs my ways.   

Both Birds and Beasts shall my distrust condemn,  
That trust heavens Goodness rove about  
Free from all Care and anxious Doubts,  
And teach me to depend on Heaven, like them.   

Motives I ne'er shall want of Love and Praise,  
For Heaven and Earth will still supply  
My Thoughts with such variety,  
As will new wonder fresh Devotion raise.   

Oh may I something learn from all I see,  
And by the Creatures still ascend,  
To the first Cause whilst I attend  
To Nature's Volumes of Divinity.   

Let me sweet Solitudes Delights enjoy,  
And Those repair to sensual Sport,  
To Wine and theatres resort,  
Who know not how their Leisure to employ.   

A Closet, or a secret Field with thee,  
Shall Lord, to me be far more dear,  
Than all the sensual Pleasures here,  
Than all the poisoned sweets of Ease & Luxury.    

The ENQUIRY.  By the same Hand. 

I'VE searched the barren World, but cannot find  
A Happiness for an Immortal Mind.  
Honours, Delights and Riches have all spent  
Their Smiles in vain, to give my Thoughts Content.  
The Joys they yield, but for a Moment last,  
And shrink to nothing when they're close embraced.  
They never satisfy, but feed desire,  
And bring fresh Fuel to a restless Fire.  
What's one poor drop to him that almost bursts  
With fierce desires, and for an Ocean thirsts.  
My Mind can hold both the rich Indy's store,  
And find itself, as empty as before.  
The Treasures Earth throws in their purpose miss,  
Swallowed and lost in that immense Abyss.  
I've looked o'er all the Riches Earth can show.  
All that it Promises, but gives to few:  
And still some Intellectual Good I want,  
Some Happiness this World can never grant.   

Hence mighty God my Thoughts ascend to Thee,  
The spring of Good, and Man's Felicity.  
'Tis only thy Immensity can fill  
The thirsty Soul's vast and immortal Will.  
This single Thought, that all Earth's Joys at Death  
Will end, and cease for ever with my Breath,  
Quite chills my Love, and lessens my Esteem,  
And makes a Kingdom but a trifle seem.  
I find my Soul's misplaced, it longs to see  
Some higher Good, some fixed Felicity,  
Which it despairs to meet with, but in thee  
I'm blest with Faculties to entertain  
Thyself, and sure thou mad'st them not in vain,  
And as I can, so I desire to be  
Made happy only in Enjoying thee;  
My Wishes else unsatisfied return,  
And make me all my lost Endeavours mourn.   

Thou dost to All but Man Perfection grant,  
That with their Happiness upbraid my want  
No Hopes or Fears the quiet Stones molest,  
That sweetly in the Earth's low bosom rest.  
Trees to their height and perfect Stature grow,  
No farther Tendencies or Wishes know.  
Rich Flowers with dazzling Glory crown the Year,  
And in their Smiles a perfect Beauty wear.  
Beasts that have all for which their Nature calls,  
Pleased with themselves, are happy Animals.  
Above the Earth their Wishes never fly,  
Nor thirst for Heaven and Immortality.  
No Prospect of a greater Excellence,  
Makes them despise the low Delights of Sense,  
No knowledge of Eternity can show  
To them, how short these Pleasures are below.  
They can no Dangers while at distance see,  
To interrupt their present Peace and Rest,  
From thoughts of Death and future Sorrows free,  
They are with undisturbed Enjoyments blest.  
While Souls that can to higher Regions climb,  
And look beyond the whirling Pool of Time,  
Become unhappy by their Eminence,  
And serve but to disturb the sweets of Sense.  
When the sad Mind its sober thoughts employs,  
And finds itself born for Eternal Joys,  
How Earth's unmanly, short Delights displease?  
It rather will have none, than such as these.  
It thinks of all its noble Faculties,  
Then looks on Earth, and does its Joys despise,  
Since I have such a Mind as this, would I  
Had never been, or may I never die?  
If no Delights are to be found above,  
What shall I seek on Earth, what shall I Love?  
If this be all the Happiness designed  
For anxious Man, wretched Immortal Mind!  
Happy the Bruits that can't their State resent,  
That know no nobler Joys, and are content.  
If Man than can't a perfect State attain,  
His Soul and Appetites are made in vain.  
Man only is Felicity denied,  
Vexed with desires, not to be satisfied,  
The Lord of All is most unhappy left,  
Of that Perfection Beasts enjoy, bereavest.  
But th' Author sure will not be most unkind  
To his best Workmanship, the Heaven born Mind.  
He's so benign he can't but let us have  
Objects for all the Appetites he gave.  
'Tis easy hence to know he does intend  
Himself shall be the Minds last Rest and End.  
On them he will at last himself bestow,  
That never sought their Happiness below.  
What this denies the other World will give,  
Where Saints shall in Immortal Glory live,  
Possessed with Heaven they shall for ever rest,  
Crowned with Divine Delights, and with their Wishes blest.    

SOLILOQUY.  By the same Hand. 

DOuble Allegiance, Lord, to thee I owe,  
Both as thy Subject and thy Creature too;  
'Twere then in me the most ingrateful Gild,  
Not to perform or suffer what thou wilt.  
My place is to obey, and not dispute  
A Will so good, a Power so absolute.  
Shall my Remonstrances to Heaven be sent  
To plead the Justice of my Discontent!  
For Life and Enjoyments here I stand  
Indebted to the Bounty of thy Hand.  
What thou art pleased to take I must resign,  
Yet thence sustain no Wrong, since Nothing's mine,  
My Fortune's mean; the wisest and the best  
Of Soul that now in Heaven outshine the rest,  
Lived in this vale of Tears despised and poor,  
Some wanted Necessaries, few had more.  
And shall I quarrel with my Fate, when God  
Afflicts me but to guide me with his Rod  
The sacred Path which all the Blessed have trod?  
Sure, Toil and Weariness must needs become  
The Lot of Travellers remote from Home.  
Pilgrims, as I am, while abroad they stay,  
Must quit th' Ambition to seem Rich and Gay.  
Amidst my Foes I'm now a Stranger, where  
What's tolerable, is accounted rare.  
Such Travellers can only Passage crave,  
And That, what e'er I miss, I'm sure to have.  
All Sufferings here that can my Fears alarm,  
Afflict the Flesh, but work no further harm.  
Distress and Shame make not heavens Servants seem  
More base or wretched in their Lord's Esteem.  
These can't his Favour from my Soul remove,  
Nor intercept the Pleasures of his Love.  
And Happiness to Him is quite unknown,  
Who cannot find it in that Love alone.   

From Riches free, I'm free too from their Cares,  
Safe by my distance from their fatal Snares,  
An humble Fortune kindly does deny  
Th' Incentives of our Pride and Luxury.  
My weaker Virtue may be here secure,  
Which might not all th' Assaults of Wealth endure.  
So little Vessels may securely ride  
On a small River's smooth and gentle Tide;  
Where weaker Winds with soft and easy Gales  
Scarce heave the Bosom of their humble Sails.  
But if they put to Sea, too late they find  
Their Sail unequal for a fiercer Wind.  
Hopeless they're with impetuous Fury born,  
Split on the Rocks, or with the Tempest torn.  
Thus meaner Fortunes Virtue most befriend,  
Giving what's fit, and more would but offend.  
Here we our Innocence can best ensure,  
And that's the happyst State, that's most secure.  
If now to heavens so difficult the Road,  
What must it be with Wealth's encumbering Load?  
Do my Endeavours now succeed so well,  
And all Temptations with such ease repel,  
That my Ambition any harder Task  
Should crave, and for Herculean Labours ask,  
That I with Care and Toil should purchase Foes,  
And seek the Place that thickest dangers shows.  
Are those I cannot shun so few or slight,  
That fond of Ruin I would more invite?  
This were to ravish Death itself, and scale  
The Gates of Hell, lest milder Arts should fail.  
I'm born for Heaven, and shall I choose to stray,  
And shun the plainest and the safest way,  
That I a longer Journey may endure  
Through Roads more troublesome, and less secure?  
Still meaner Fortunes are the safest found,  
Free from the Snares which Wealth and Pomp surround.  
The humble ground needs but a small defence,  
We ought to dread the rising Eminence,  
Where Sin does its victorious Forces post,  
And dying Souls are in such numbers lost.  
Numbers, that give malicious Hell such joy,  
That glut the Grave, and greedy Death o'er cloy.  
The greatest danger that my fear should move,  
Is, lest the World should too obliging prove.  
She's then most dangerous when her smiling Art,  
And splendid Dress invite my yielding heart.  
But when she frowns, her Charms are lost, unless  
We're fond of Misery, and court Distress.  
The World's unkindness may abate our love,  
Teach us to seek for Happiness above.  
Make us for high Eternal Joys inquire,  
And seek for Heaven with more inflamed desire.  
For still our wishes after Home and Rest,  
Are by the badness of their way increased.   

'Tis then from disbelief, and want of love  
To God, and those pure Joys prepared above.  
That in the meanest State we can't rejoice,  
And make not humble Poverty our Choice.  
That Wealth and Greatness we so little dread,  
Sought by the Living, cursed so by the Dead.  
Blessed with the hopes of Heaven though I've no more,  
'Tis Atheism to complain my Fortune's poor.  
The Man rich with these hopes may well employ  
His saddest Hours in calm Delights and Joy.  
Who when a few short Hours are past, will know  
What Heaven to make Men happy can bestow,  
For ever blest, if God can make them so.  
May I have these transporting hopes of Heaven,  
And let me know that Happiness when given;  
I'll praise heavens Goodness, though oppressed I lie  
With what mistaken Men call Misery.  
Why should I grieve for what I suffer here?  
All these slight Troubles soon will disappear;  
And what is not Eternal, is below my Fear.    

The Safety of a low State.  
Translated out of Seneca's Agamemnon, Chor. Argivarum.  By the same Hand. 

THe treacherous Fortune of a Royal Crown;  
Places what evers rich and great,  
On a steep and slippery Seat.  
Whence with an easy Blast all tumble down.  
Proud Sceptres can't command soft Peace and Rest,  
Nor chase uneasy Fears away;  
They know no safe and happy Day,  
But endless Cares their Greatness still molest.   

The Lybian Sea not with such Fury raves,  
When heaped up by rough Winds, the Sand  
Does in high tottering Mountains stand,  
And interrupts the loud impetuous Waves.  
Euxinus' neighbour to the snowy Pole,—  
Where the bright Carman, by the Main  
Untouched, drives round his shining Wain,  
Can't with such force his troubled Waters roll.   

As when Kings fall, turned round by rapid Fate,  
Kings, whose desire is to appear  
Awful, to move their Subjects fear,  
Which Fear does in themselves the like create.  
The Night, to hide 'em safe does Darkness want,  
Soft sleep, by which a troubled Breast  
Is loosed, and lies dissolved in Rest,  
Can't charm the restless Cares that Princes haunt.   

The Men that born by too kind Fortune rise,  
Soon sink and fall down from their height,  
Pressed by their own unequal weight,  
Which, those that envied, now as much despise.  
Great Fortunes can't their own vast Burden bear;  
So the swift Ships expanded Sails  
Swollen out with too indulgent Gales,  
The Winds, they wished before, begin to fear.   

So a proud Tower thrusts his aspiring Head  
Among the flying Clouds, but finds  
The uneasy neighbourhood of Winds  
And Thunderclaps, that are around him bred.  
So the rude Storms that shake the bending Wood,  
Design an envious fatal stroke,  
To the ancient, well spread Oak,  
The Grove's Defence and Glory while it stood.   

High Hills the fairest mark for Thunder stand;  
Great Bodies are but seldom sound,  
Such have most room to take a Wound;  
And the fat Deer invites the Hunter's hand.  
What whistling Fortune does this day advance,  
It throws down with a greater fall;  
Estates that are but low and small,  
Last a long quiet Age, secure from Chance.   

He's only happy, that of meaner rank  
Does not his humble State resent,  
But with his Fortune still content,  
With a safe Wind Sails by the neighb'rng bank.  
Whose wary Boat that dares not trust her Oar  
To the rough usage of the Wind,  
And the wide Ocean seldom kind,  
Keeps still in prospect of the safer Shore.    

RIGHT ZEAL.  By the same Hand. 

SUre there's a Zeal that's born of heavenly Race,  
Whose Lineage in its Aspects you may trace;  
The generous Fervour and admired Degree  
Of a victorious, healthful Piety.  
This quickens Souls grown stupid, and imparts  
An active Ferment to devouter Hearts.  
'Tis this invigorates' decaying Grace,  
And sheds fresh Beauty on its sickly Face.  
It works not out in Froth, nor will it vent  
In angry Heats its inward Discontent.  
Nor, for a Trifle, will to Blood contend,  
Nor all its Warmth in Noise and Censures spend.  
But meek and gentle as the Sacred Dove,  
'Twill on the Soul in kindly Breathe move.  
It smooths rough Nature, sweetens eager Blood,  
Expels the vicious part, and saves the good.  
It's heavenly Birth and Nature it will prove,  
By universal Charity and Love,  
It will so widen a contracted Mind  
To the straight Compass of a Sect confined,  
It shall embrace those of a different Name,  
And find even for their Enemies a Flame.  
'Twill pity smaller Faults, and those that stray  
Reduce with peaceful Methods to their way:  
It deals not Blows and Death about on those,  
Whose Errors some less useful Truth oppose;  
Nor does with Sword and Fire the Stubborn tame,  
It uses none but its own harmless Flame.  
In Reformations 'twill some Faults endure,  
And not increase the Wounds it seeks to cure.  
It stickles most on Love's and Mercy's side,  
And checks the Heat and outrages of Pride.  
'Twill shed its own, not others Blood to gain  
The Peace it seeks, and mutual Love maintain  
This Zeal has always most Impatience shown,  
Where our Lord's Honour's injured, not our own:  
Unasked it can forgive an Injury,  
Still love the Author, and his Rage defy.   

Without this Zeal how meanly Grace appears,  
See what a sick consumptive Face it wears!  
It's Beauty faded, and its Vigour lost  
It seems departed Virtue's meager Ghost.  
Only this Zeal its Ruins can repair,  
And render its Complexion fresh and fair.  
Such Courage springs from this more active Grace,  
As can the various Shapes of Terror face;  
It makes us gladly take the Martyr's Crown,  
And meet the Flames, with greater of our own.  
No Straits, no Death it formidable thinks,  
Beneath whose force a sickly Virtue sinks:  
It gives the Soul the quickest, deepest Sense  
Of unseen Worlds, creates such diligence,  
As cheerfully dispatches all the Tasks  
That Heaven prescribes, or our own safety asks.  
This Zeal is wary, not inflamed by Pride,  
And walks not, but with Knowledge for its guide;  
Nor will too hastily Advance, but stay  
To take Advice and Reason in its way.  
When it grows hot, 'tis always certain too,  
And will its doubting Thoughts as calmly show.  
Blessed heavenly Zeal! how spiritful and fair  
Those Souls that feel its Influence, appear!  
How much such Godlike Hero's us condemn,  
Whom they excel, as much as Angels, them.  
Let me this truly noble Zeal attain,  
And those that seek 'em, Wealth and Honour gain.  
My Portion's then so great, not all the store  
Of worldly Treasures can enrich me more.    

TEMPTATIONS.  By the same Hand. 

ALas, I walk not out, but still I meet  
Paths too perplexed for my unwary Feet.  
At my return the calm and even Mind  
I carried forth, all discomposed I find;  
My weak Devotions slackened and unbent,  
And Passions loosed grow loud and turbulent.  
My ruffled Mind with Sorrow seeks in vain  
To rank and suit its displaced Thoughts again:  
My careful Steps no place securely tread,  
Thick Snares o'er all th' enchanted Ground are spread.  
The smallest Inadvertencies expose  
Unguarded Virtue to our watchful Foes.  
Satan rejoices (if his Hell has Joy)  
That, lost himself, He can Mankind destroy.  
Ravenous as Lions are, and strong as they,  
He does on Souls, as those on Body's prey.  
He much to's Skill, more to fallen Nature trusts,  
And brings Temptations suited to our Lusts;  
Temptations brings of Circe's Syren-Brood,  
By feeble Resolutions not withstood,  
Nor vanquished by faint Wishes to be good.   

Here some great Man's displeasure over awes  
Our fears of Sin; there carnal Pleasure draws.  
In an alluring Dress it courts the Sense,  
Whilst yielding Nature faint Resistance makes,  
At last o'er come, gives up her Innocence,  
And, in exchange, Sin and heavens anger takes.  
Sometimes a deadly Persecutors hate  
Will damp our Zeal, and Love to God abate;  
Sometimes the envious Scorn on Virtue thrown,  
And the disgrace of being good Alone.  
But after the attractive baits of Sin,  
Call up the secret Sparks of Lust within;  
Which taking fire burst out into a Flame,  
Which our disabled Reason cannot tame,  
Those Purposes small Opposition make,  
That once we thought no charms, no force could shake,  
But leave us to the power of Lustful Fires,  
And the wild Guidance of unclean Desires.  
But ah! what After-pangs will This create,  
When sober Thoughts the sinful Act debate?   

What guilty Blushes wounded Conscience wears  
See how it starts lashed with its secret Fears?  
It flies from Heaven, the thoughts of God affright  
My troubled Soul, before, its chief Delight.  
heavens frown blasts all my Joys; tormenting Fears,  
The secret Stings of Conscience, Sighs, & Tears,  
Is all the sad Reward past Sins afford,  
For these I'm by myself, and God abhorred.  
When Love would rise to Heaven with fresh Delight,  
Conscience suggests my Gild, and stays its slight:  
How dear a Moment's sinful Pleasures cost,  
God's Favour more than Life, I've for it lost.  
One Sin can all my ancient Doubts restore,  
Makes me suspect the Conquests got before;  
Makes me suspend the Hopes of heavenly Bliss,  
And Tyrants ne'er found Torment, like to this.  
It makes me question all my Deeds, debate  
The future safety of my doubtful State.  
It strangely can undo what's past, destroy  
My present, and revoke my former Joy.  
It shows old Sins to wound me with their view,  
And the sad Penitential Scene renew.  
What spreading Mischief is in Sin concealed!  
By Man believed not, till too late revealed,  
Fool that I am such Torments to create,  
And buy Repentance at so dear a rate.    

Upon a most Virtuous and Accomplished Young Gentleman, Who Died of the Smallpox.  By S. H. Esq. 

1.  
OF our Dead Friends ill Truths we may not tell,  
Such spotless Honour in the Grave should dwell,  
Yet more a breach of Charity it seems  
To hide their Virtues, then to speak their Crimes;  
How loudly then His worth should be proclaimed  
Whom every Virtue graced, and not one Vice defamed.   

2.  
His Merits gained a Character so high,  
As Envy could not blast, nor Pride deny;  
Above disguise He scorned all varnished Arts,  
And with Inherent Honour conquered Hearts.  
His Actions generous all, and squared by Truth;  
With Age's Prudence blessed, in the gay Bloom of Youth.   

3.  
Gentle, offenceless, so averse to wrong,  
Obliging sweetness dwelled upon his Tongue,  
With Nature's richest Gifts so decked within,  
That Pride in him had scarce been judged a Sin;  
His ready Wit no stop or bounds could know,  
But, like a generous Spring, did clear and constant flow.   

4.  
Not in his Grave more quiet can he find,  
Than always lodged in his unvaryed mind;  
A Mind fit only for the Blessed above,  
The Seat of Friendship, and the Throne of Love:  
In Heaven what matchless Glory has he gained,  
To bring from Earth a Soul by such an Age  
unstained.   

5.  
The Hand of Fate seems partial to destroy;  
Fond of the Happy, to the Wretched Coy:  
In plenty round him Fortune's Blessings lay,  
Which just attained, Fate summoned him away.  
So parts the Shipwrecked Merchant from his Gain,  
And (sinking) sees his Wealth Float round him  
on the Main.   

6.  
No Humane skill the destined Hour could stay,  
And hover Death was pleased with such a Prey;  
Which to secure beyond the help of Art  
In every Poor he struck a Fatal Dart.  
The Vicious Life an easy Conquest lies,  
But Fate's whole power invades, when sacred Virtue dies.    

To a LADY, Upon the X. Commandments cut by Her on White-Paper, and Presented to S. John's College in Oxford.  

THe curious Wonders we preserve with Care,  
That the fair Hands of Cloistered Nuns prepare;  
Who strive, poor Ladies! with a fruitless Toil  
A miserable Solitude to beguile:  
Promoting what they to themselves deny,  
They Pride and Luxury to Mankind supply;  
But in your Piece this Excellence we find,  
An Entertainment for the Eye, and Mind.  
A sovereign Judgement formed the first Design  
So well the Matter and the Art combine!  
No other Lines could merit so much Art,  
No other Hand an equal Skill impart.   

The Masters see it, and their Plates disown,  
Ashamed of the rude Scratches they have done,  
The Printer boasts no more his Works do live,  
And Sybil's Leaves, and ancient Bark survive:  
But owns, that Art the longer Date deserves,  
Which Things in fairest Characters preserves;  
At least, if we no more Pretensions name,  
The Author may a just Precedence claim;  
Blind Chance did His on the dull Soldier throw,  
Another Palace kindly this bestow.   

Were all the holy Books transcribed anew,  
And in such beauteous Letters dressed by You;  
We ought the jewish reverence to retain,  
And institute new Masorites again.  
Our Tongue beneath that Sacred Character,  
Would of Divine Original appear:  
And, what in Theirs was but a vain Pretence,  
Each Letter carry mighty Consequence:  
And oh! how fit would that fair Mansion prove  
For th' ever-blessed, and the Eternal Dove!   

Th' officious Painter on the Altar draws  
In Golden Characters these Sacred Laws,  
But 'tis the Gold commends the strokes he makes,  
His work a borrowed Value from it takes;  
While wisely You such slight Materials choose,  
And solid Worth by acc'rate Art infuse;  
Your Piece no glittering Advantage needs,  
Whose Value from the curious Work proceeds;  
Yet by this Piece is represented best  
Th' unspotted Image seated in your Breast;  
As Poets, labo'ring best their Sense t'express,  
Betray those Passions which their Souls possess,  
Just such your Writ appears, so heavenly fair  
The Angel's Hand did scarce a fairer bear.  
We only fear lest Those who come to see  
Should, unawares, commit Idolatry.   

The Holy Place a solemn reverence fills,  
And deeper Awe, which this new Guest instils;  
That hence we may but just Credentials call,  
To vouch the Sanction of th' Original:  
And might the Tables by those Fingers writ,  
Into the Holy of Holyests admit.    

HYMN. Veni Creator Spiritus.  Englisht by Mr. Wright. 

1.  
APproach Celestial Dove,  
Eternal Purity and Love,  
And where at first you did dispense  
A Being, Life, and Sense,  
In the same Breasts now place  
The very Soul of Life, Supernal Grace.   

2.  
Thou Spring of Joy still growing,  
Fountain of Comfort ever flowing,  
Thou greatest Gift of the most Great,  
Thou Charity complete,  
Unction Divine that brings  
The Sanctity of Priests, Grandeur of Kings.   

3.  
Thou sevenfold Benefactor,  
Of all that's Good, thou great transactor,  
Thou promised Gift from Heaven sent  
When from us Heaven went,  
Thou God of Eloquence  
That speak'st to th' Intellect before the Sense.   

4.  
Hither direct thy Ray,  
Thou Glorious Sun of lasting Day,  
And from that Sacred Heat inflame  
A Passion for thy Name;  
So all our present Want  
Will be supplied by that Celestial Grant.   

5.  
Far, far, from us displace  
Th' Immortal Enemy of Grace;  
And in all Hazards let us find  
Thy Peace, the Peace of Mind:  
We ask no more reward,  
Thou being thus our Conduct and and Guard.   

6.  
True Faith on us bestow  
The Father-Deity to know;  
And teach us by thy Inspiration,  
God the Son's Incarnation,  
Inform us then aright  
How you add one to them, yet all unite.   

7.  
Eternal One, United Three,  
To you belongs all Majesty;  
All Power, and all Dominion's due  
To you, and only you:  
All Glory, then, all Praise Divine  
United Three, Eternal One, be thine.    

JEPTHA's VOW.  
The ARGUMENT.  
Jeptha having rashly Vowed (if he succeeded in his Expedition against the Amonites) to offer up in Sacrifice the First that should meet him from his own House; He returns Victorious: The first that comes forth to welcome his Triumph, is his only Daughter, whom he Sacrifices according to his Vow.  By N. Tate. 

BEfore the Altar the devoted Maid  
(With Garlands crowned and in white Robes arrayed).  
Appears all Mild, to yield her destined Life,  
And waiting the slow Sacrificer's Knife.  
A Virgin Blush her Aspect purpled over,  
As young, and ne'er beheld by Crowds before)  
(Such Tincture Crimsoned Alabaster shows,  
Or Lilies shaded by a neighbouring Rose.)  
Yet generous Resolution does display,  
That with her Modesty bears equal Sway.  
She, only she, appears without surprise,  
And views the weeping Crowd with cheerful Eyes.  
Some call to mind the public Service done,  
And Battle lately by her Father won;  
His Blood's Expense in Field to save the State,  
And with it the unhappy Victor's Fate.  
Of Age's last Reserve and Hopes bereft,  
His ancient House and Lineage Heirless left.   

The Younger sort bewail her blooming Charms,  
And grudge so fair a Prize to Death's cold Arms.  
The Nymph for whom the noblest Youths had pined,  
A Booty to the Thankless Grave assigned.  
For now (as Chance would play the Tyrant's Part,  
And fret their Wounds with fresh Supplies of smart)  
Those Beauty's Nature had before conferred,  
Sublimed and to Advantage all appeared;  
Their Grief was now to Consternation turned,  
They now Mourn silent, as before, they burned,   

Of this the Virgin does Advantage take,  
And her afflicted Father thus bespoke:  
To Ammon's Court, Great Sir, these Plaints remit;  
These Plaints are only for the vanquished fit.  
Myself to Death's cold Arms I freely give,  
While you to shield our State and Altars live,  
You Rate my useless Life at Price too high  
To make me yours, and Israel's Victim Dye!  
More than my Merits or my Hopes could claim,  
To purchase with few Years Immortal Fame.  
With Comfort to your Palace, Sir, repair  
To cherish Her that's now your only Care:  
My tender Mother's Sorrow to assuage:  
For only You can check the Tyrant's Rage.  
Forget your Worthless Daughter, and survive  
By your Example to keep Her Alive.  
You else resign your Laurels to the Foe,  
And Conquered Ammon Triumphs in your Woe.  
Or have you lavished all your Love away  
On my past Years—  
Reserved no Kindness for my latest Day?  
If my past Life did you in aught offend,  
In Death at least I would my Fault amend,  
And to the Shades a guiltless Soul descend.   

O Torture (the distracted Father cries,  
With Arms extended and uplifted Eyes)  
Too much, ye conscious Skies, for Man to bear!  
For This is Torment that exceeds despair.   

The weeping Crowd around he then surveyed,  
O if the Death of this Illustrious Maid  
You wretched makes, her Death you only see,  
What must the Murderer her Father be?  
In Innocence your Sorrow finds Relief;  
I bear the double Load of Gild and Grief.    

Worldly Greatness.  By Mr. Ezr. Simson. 
WHat's worldly Empire, Pomp & Power?  
The Pageant-Triumph of an Hour.  
Or if the Courtesy of Fate  
Prolong the Scene an Age's Date,  
'Tis all that Fortune can bestow:  
And if for Life's time lasts the Show,  
Not to a Minute 'twill amount  
In vast Eternity's Account.  
Were Heaven so pleased, one Monarch may  
Arrive to universal Sway;  
Mankind in sole Subjection have,  
Yet to his Passions be a Slave.  
Their stronger Forces shall invest  
Alarm, Assault, and Storm his Breast,  
And with the Havoc there they make,  
Keep Him, as He the World, Awake.   

HUMILITY.  By the same Hand. 
MUch injured Grace, for being Mild,  
Meaness of Spirit Thou art styled:  
Thus senseless Mortals Thee defame,  
Who dost with Heaven Alliance claim:  
'Tis Thou alone that dost inspire  
The Greatness that brave Souls Admire.  
The proudest Heroes of the Field  
To Thee the Prize of Fame must yield,  
To Thee belongs the first Renown,  
Thou only canst the Glory own  
To Triumph o'er Fate's outmost Force,  
And Steer in Storms a steady Course.  
When Fortune tempts with flattering Wiles,  
Thou only canst resist her Smiles;  
And when her angry Tempests rise,  
Thou only canst her Frowns despise.   

On the Day of judgement:  By the E. of Roscommon. 

THe Day of Wrath, that dreadful Day,  
That shall the World in Ashes lay,  
'Tis coming— will not, cannot stay.   

The Last loud Trumpet's wondrous Sound  
Shall through the cleaving Graves rebound,  
And Wake the Nations under Ground.   

Nature and Death shall, with surprise,  
Behold the conscious Wretches rise,  
And view their Judge with frighted Eyes.   

Then shall, with universal Dread,  
The sacred Mystic Rolls be read,  
To try the Living and the Dead.   

The Judge ascends his awful Throne;  
But when he makes all Secrets known,  
How will a Guilty Face be shown?   

What Intercessor shall I take,  
To save my last important stake;  
When the most Just have cause to quake?   

Thou mighty Formidable King,  
Mercy and Truth's eternal Spring,  
Some Charitable Pity bring.   

Forget not what my Ransom cost;  
Nor let my dear bought Soul be lost  
In storms of guilty Terror tossed.   

Thou who for me hast felt such Pain,  
Whose precious Blood the Cross did slain;  
Let not thy Birth and Death be Vain.   

Thou whom avenging Powers obey,  
Remit, before the Reckoning Day,  
The Debt which I can never pay.   

Surrounded with amazing Fears,  
Whose Load my Soul with Anguish bears,  
I sigh, I weep: Accept my Tears.   

Thou who wast moved with Mary's Grief,  
And by Absolving of the Thief  
Hast given me Hopes, oh! give me relief.   

Oh! let thy Blood my Crimes deface,  
And fix me with those Heirs of Grace  
Whom Thou on thy Right-hand shalt place.   

From that Portentous vast Abyss,  
Where Flames devour, and Serpents hiss,  
Call me to thy Eternal Bliss.   

Prostrate, my contrite Heart I rend;  
My God, my Father, and my Friend,  
Do not forsake me in my end.   

When Justice shall her Sword unsheathe,  
How will they Curse their second Breath,  
Who rise to a severer Death?   

Great God of Mercies pity take  
On Souls thou didst Immortal make,  
Nor let their State be that of Woe,  
Which must, if Once, be ever so.    
FINIS.   

THE CONTENTS.  

THe Morning Hymn, by Dr. Fuller, formerly Bp. of Lincoln. Page 1  
An Evening Hymn, by Ezr. Simson. 2  
Innocence; Or the Inestimable Gem, by a Young Lady. 3  
By Dr. Fuller. 5  
By the same Hand. 6  
By the same Hand. 7  
Hymn. 8  
The Passing-Bell. 9  
Job's Curse, by Dr. Jeremy Taylor. 11  
The Words by a Young Lady. 12  
A Dialogue between two Penitents. 13  
Upon a Quiet Conscience, by K. Charles the First. 16  
A Dialogue betwixt Dives and Abraham. Ibid.  
Soliloquy. 18  
Psalm the 104, by Mr. Tate. 21  
The Evening Hymn. 27  
On our Saviour's Passion. pag. 28  
The Penitent, by Dr. Jeremy Taylor, 29  
The Blessed Virgin's Expostulation, when our Saviour at 12 Years of Age had withdrawn himself, by N. Tate. 30  
On Pilat's exposing our Lord to the Jews, and saying to them, Behold the Man. 32  
Translations out of Boethius, Lib. 2. Metre the Fourth. 35  
Metre Fifth. 36  
Metre Sixth. 37  
The last Trumpet, by Mr. Tate. 38  
The Slaughter of the Innocents', By the same Hand. 39  
Upon the Sight of an Anatomy, by Mr. Tate. 40  
Psalm the First, by Capt. Walker. 45  
Psalm 57 8, 9, 10. By the same Hand. 47  
A Paraphrase on the 79th Psalm. 48  
The Convert. An Ode written by Mr. Geo. Herbert, 51  
The Prophet Elijah translated up to Heaven, by Mr. Tate. 53  
Hymn, by H. W. 58  
Hezekiah's Sickness and Recovery, by Mr. Tate. 60  
On the Death of Mr 〈◊〉 who was found Dead upon his Kn 〈…〉 hamber. 65  
A Paraphrase on several Texts of Scripture, expressing the Sighs of a Penitent Soul. Translated from Herm. Hugo. 68  
On Psalm 6. Vers. 3, 69  
On jeremiah 9 Vers. 1. 71  
On Psalm 69. Vers. 15. 73  
On Psalm 143. Vers. 2. 74  
A Psalm. 75  
On Psalm 31. Vers. 10. By N. Tate. 77  
Out of Hermannus Hugo. 79  
On Easter-day, By an unknown Hand. 82  
A Preparation to Prayer, By the same Hand. pag. 85  
Gold is tried in the Fire, and acceptable Men in time of Adversity. By the same Hand. 87  
On Affliction. By the same Hand. 89  
Psalm the 137, paraphrased to Verse 7th. By the same Hand. 91  
The Second Chapter of the Wisdom of Solomon, paraphrased; The first 12 Lines being an Introduction. By the same Hand. 93  
The Chapter begins. 94  
Solitude. 98  
The Enquiry. By the same Hand. 102  
Soliloquy. By the same Hand. 107  
The Safety of a low State; Translated out of Seneca's Agamemnon, Chor. Argiv. By the same Hand. pag. 112  
Right Zeal. By the same Hand. 116  
Temptations. By the same Hand. 119  
Upon a most Virtuous and Accomplished Young Gentleman, who Died of the Smallpox. By S. H. Esq 123  
To a Lady, upon the X. Commendments cut by her on White-paper, and Presented to S. John's College in Oxford. 126  
Hymn, Veni Creator Spiritus, Englished by Mr. Wright. 129  
Jeptha's Vow, by N. Tate. 132  
Worldly Greatness, by Mr. Ezr. Simson, 136  
Humility. By the same Hand. 137  
On the Day of judgement, By the E. of Roscommon. 138    

TWo Books of Harmonia Sacra, in which are several Hymns, etc. of this Collection, Set to Music by Dr. Blow, the late famous Mr. Henry Purcell, and other Masters Bound both Parts 15 s. or the 2 d Part 4 s.