Miscellanea sacra, or, Poems on divine & moral subjects collected by N. Tate ...

POEMS ON DIVINE and MORAL SUBJECTS.

A Morning HYMN, by Dr. Fuller, for∣merly Bishop of Lincoln.

THou, wakeful Shepherd that dost Israel keep, Rais'd 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 persue.

Could I redeem the Time I have mispent In sensless Scenes of sinful Merriment; Such Exemplary Penitence I'd practise for each past Offence, That ev'n 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 past—But can I say, That I have Liv'd, not lost another Day? For Days and Years, if spent in vain, Can never to Life's Summ amount, 'Tis only adding to Death's black Account; And must be Reckon'd for again. Thou Setting Sun, Art Witness how I've been employ'd, If One good Action I have done Worthy the Light that I this Day enjoy'd;

Thou seest my conscious Fears, Therefore, kind Planet, let thy Ev'ning Beams, Before they sink in Western Streams, Set first in my Repenting Tears That when thy Lustre is withdrawn From these benighted Eyes, To chear my Soul a fairer Dawn And brighter Sun of Righteousness may Rise: The Sun, who only can send forth a Ray, That makes the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 enricht a Diadem: A Gemm that bears a Price so high, As Crowns and Empires cannot Buy. Yet by the poorest Mortal's Brest This matchless Treasure is possest, 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 it's Cabinet 'twill stay, Till by the Owner thrown away.

O dismal Bargain, when for Sin we sell This Gemm! 'Tis Life for Death, and Heav'n for Hell.

By Dr. Fuller

LOrd what is Man, lost Man, that thou shou'd'st 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, Blest Spirits tell, Which did Excel, Which was more prevalent, Your Joy, or your Astonishment? That for a Worm, a God should Dye! 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, Pin'd with a Tormenting Care, Wrackt with my Fears, Drown'd in my Tears, With dreadful Expectation of my Doom, And certain horrid Judgments 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 Courtings, O my God! For thou didst Woo, Intreat 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 Murd'rer 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, Iesu, as thou didst on him, 'Tis more than to Create, thus to Redeem.

By the same Hand.

HOw have I stray'd, my God! where have I been, Since first I wander'd 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 wou'd 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 Cry'd; The very Heavens put weeds of Mourning on, The solid Rocks in sunder rent; And yet this Heart, this Stone, could not relent. Hard-hearted Man, to weep alone deny'd; Hard-hearted Man, for whom alone he Dy'd.

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 Heavens Decree I waiting lye, And all my wishes are to dye. Hark I hear my Passing-Bell, Farewel, my loving Friends, Farewel;

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 drest, To have access among the Blest. Hark I hear my Passing-Bell, Farewel my loving Friends, Farewel.

JOB's CVRSE.

By Dr. JEREMY TAYLOR.

LEt the Night perish, Cursed be the Morn Wherein 'twas said there is a Man-Child born. Let not the Lord regard that Day, but shroud 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 lye, If it be mention'd, give a Groan and Dye. No sounds of Joy therein shall charm the Ear, No Sun, no Moon, no Twi-light Stars appear, But a thick Vale of gloomy Darkness wear. Why did I not, when first my Mothers Womb Discharg'd 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 subtil Councillor, the Potentate, Who for themselves built Palaces of State, Lie husht in silence; there's no Mid-night Cry Caus'd 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 urb'd, 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 her self, Divine: And seeing Things in such Confusion hurl'd Does not contend with, but despise the World.

A Dialogue between two Penitents.

1 Pt.

HArk how the wakeful cheerful Cock The Villagers Astrologer, Clapping his Wings, proclaims the Day, And chides thy Sleep and Night away.

2 Pt.

I hear and thank my kind Remembran∣cer, 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 deny'd?

2 Pt.

Wo's me, I have done more than Peter did With less Excuse, and many ways beside, Ev'n since my Christ was glorify'd; And this, alas, too oft, alas, more, more than thrice, As often as I Chose, and Woo'd a Vice, Or brutish Lust (to be Abhor'd) Rejected Jesu, 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 Jesu out, and took it in. But Lord, how oft he came, and being deny'd Dy'd! How dolefully he cry'd, 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 betray'd me too? For every wanton Kiss, A very Iudas is, And each malicious Thought a spiteful Iew.

1 Pt.

If Sins do now what cruel Iews did then, Wound him afresh and Crucifie 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 prophane Tears become the Thorns That pierc'd his Head with Scorns. And my Hypocrisy. 1st. Pt. Stay! To what prodigeous height our Sins amount! Ev'ry 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 Dye, 'Tis just we act our own, who caus'd his Tra∣gedy.

Vpon 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 Musick 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 ore fed once deliciously.

A.

And canst thou now his Charity implore Whom thou sawest lately at thy Flinty Door, Begging for Crums, those Crums that fell beside Thy ore-charg'd Table, and was then deny'd? Vain Soul.

D.

Some pity take.

A.

Remember Son Thy Dogs had pity on him, thou hadst none.

D.

Yet they were mine reliev'd 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 bloudy Sweat, Thy Back with Whips and Scourges torn, Thy Sacred Temples Crown'd with Thorn,

Thy Veins and Nerves extended wide, Thy panting Heart, thy bleeding Side; Thy Hands and Feet nail'd to the Wood, And all thy Body drown'd in Blood; Canst thou pour forth such Streams for me, And I not drop one Tear for Thee?

2.

Yet tender-hearted I can cry, To see Romantick Heroes dye, 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 touch'd, 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 ev'ry Vein; Th' amazed Sun withdrew his light, Transforming Day to darkest Night. The Temple's Vail in twain was Rent, The stony Rocks in sunder went; The Murtherer did this Death bemoan, And pitying it, forgot his own! Down stupid stoutness, else 'tis true, Th' art worse than Murtherer, worse than Iew; 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 Crown'd, thy Throne Eternal Majesty surrounds.

2.

With Light thou dost thy self enrobe, And Glory for a Garment take; Heaven's Curtains stretcht 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-wing'd Steeds with which he flies.

4.

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

5, 6.

Earth on her Center fixt he set, Her Face with Waters over-spread,

Nor proudest Mountains dar'd as yet To lift above the Waves their head.

7.

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

8.

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

9.

There hast thou fixt the Ocean-bounds, Her threatning 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 unyoak'd 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 Feather'd Throng, They drink, and to the bounteous Streams Return the Tribute of their Song.

13.

His Rains from Heaven parch'd Hills recruit, That soon transmit the Liquid Store, Till Earth is burthen'd 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 endu'd with Sovereign Power, For Man that knows their Sovereign Use.

15.

With cluster'd Grapes he crowns the Vine Whose Nectar Mortal Cares subdue Gives Oyl 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 towring height their Fortress make, Whose Cells in Labyrinths extend, Where feebler Creatures Refuge take.

19.

The Moon's inconstant Aspect shews 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 Lyons Roar their Wants aloud To Providence that sends 'em Prey.

22.

They Range all Night on Slaughter bent, Till, summon'd by the Rising Morn, To sculking 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 Crown'd, Till Nature's Hand can grasp no more.

The Fourth Part.

25.

But still Thy vast unfathom'd Main Of Wonders a new Scene supplies; Whose Depths Inhabitants contain Of ev'ry Form, and ev'ry 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 supply'd.

29.

Thou for a Moment hid'st thy Face, The num'rous 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 Restor'd, and Parent Earth Smiles on her New-Created Breed.

31.

Thus through successive Ages, stands Firm fix'd thy Providential Care; Pleas'd 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 toucht 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 hurl'd, My Soul praise thou his Holy Name; Till, with thy Song, the listning World Join Consort, and his Praise proclaim.

The Evening HYMN.

NOW that the Sun hath veil'd 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 Sphears Forgot their Harmony; — The Clouds dropt Tears. Th' ambitious Dead arose to give him Room, And ev'ry Grave op'd wide to be his Tomb. Th' impatient Temple rent her Vale in Two, To teach our Hearts, what our sad Hearts should do. Can sensless 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 pierc'd this Heart of Mine, this Stone!

The PENITENT, by Dr. Je∣remy Taylor.

LOrd I have sinn'd, 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 Balsom of thy Blood, Although it can, will do no Good, Unless the Wound be cleans'd in Tears before; Thou in whose sweet, but pensive Face, Laughter cou'd never steal a Place, Teach but my Heart and Eyes To melt away, And then one Drop of Balsom 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 Tygers, or more cruel Herod's Way? O! rather let his tender Foot-steps press Unguarded through the Wilderness, Where milder Salvages resort; The Desart'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 foretel Thy wondrous Birth? No Vision from Above? Where's Gabriel now that visited my Cell? I call—He comes not—flatt'ring Hopes, Farewel.

Me Iudah's Daughters once Caress'd, Call'd me of Mother's the most Blest; Now (fatal Change!) of Mothers, most distress'd! How shall my Soul its Motions guide, How shall I stem the various Tide, Whilst Faith and Doubt my lab'ring Thoughts divide? For whilst of thy Dear Sight I am beguil'd, I Trust the God—But oh! I fear the Child.

On Pilate'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, Shou'd that behold the Out-rage you commit, Its Tears wou'd 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 cou'd suffice, No Man so Triumph in his Miseries; He shews himself a God in tyring 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 Sluces of each open'd Pore Flows a rich Torrent of Redeeming Gore,

And on his Head sharp piercing Thornes ap∣pear, That Head which Rays of Glory us'd to wear; And he whom Heav'n's scarce worthy to con∣tain, Do's in a Cell of Humane Flesh remain, Expos'd to Sorrows beyond parallel, Sorrows too Tragick 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, Shou'd I behold his vast Expence of Blood, My Eyes wou'd melt into another Flood. Yet I will see whence all this Grief proceeds, For me, alas! he Groans, for me he Bleeds! My Sin expos'd him to these Wounding strokes, Yet he intreats the Pow'r 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 Guilt must justly fall on Wretched me, Who edg'd his Rage, and arm'd his Cruelty. Oh! then behold the Man thou hast betray'd! Behold the Man that do's 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 Su'd, Thy Paradise regain'd, & Innocence renew'd; And when thou hast sufficiently deplor'd The Suff'ring Man, and Sinning Man abhor'd, Then from the Humbl'd Man thy Thoughts must soar, And high in Heav'n th' Exalted God Adore. And let the sight of this great Suff'rer move. Tow'rds 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 design'd, Viewing each Fortune with indiff'rent Eyes, And can unalter'd both alike despise; Him the loud Storms that make the Ocean swell Amidst their Rage, shall find immoveable. His Courage wou'd 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 ev'n the Thunder's stroke make him affraid By which the proudest Tow'rs 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 pow'r 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 wou'd 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 expos'd to all the blasts of Fate, And faithless this will sink beneath your weight: Then if thou wou'dst 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 Pallate feast, And nothing in Luxurious Banquets wast; Happily ignorant of the Use of Wine, They Quaff'd the Streams, and thought the Drink Divine; No Tyrian Purple Carpers then 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 wand'ring Merchant then repair To Foreign Shores to vend, or Purchase Ware. No Trumpets then proclaim'd Warsloud Alarms, Nor Blood in Anger shed defil'd their Arms; For who but Mad-men wou'd a Fight maintain, Where loss of Bloud 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, Heark from aloft the Frozen Region falls With Noise so loud it deafs the Ocean's Roar; Allarm'd, amaz'd, the clatt'ring Orbs come down, The Virtuous Soul, alone, Appears unmov'd while Earths Foundations shake; Ascends and Mocks the Universal Wreck.

The Slaughter of the INNOCENTS Matth. ii. v. 16.

By the same Hand.

SWeet Innocents that found the way Through Bloudy Paths of Martyrdom, To your Celestial and Eternal Home, Before your harmless Feet had learn'd 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 dar'd so far) to Bleed or Burn. If then 'tis Glorious to pursue His great Example, what must be your Due,— Who Dy'd for him, before he Dy'd for you?

Vpon the Sight of an ANATOMY.

By Mr. Tate.

1.

NAy, start not at that Skeleton, 'Tis your own Picture which you shun; 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 bare, or shod: If us'd to travel to the Door Of the Afflicted Sick and Poor, Though to the Dance they were estrang'd, And ne'er their own rude Motion chang'd; Those Feet, now wing'd, may upwards fly, And tread the Palace of the Sky.

4.

Those Hands, if ne'er with Murther stain'd, Nor fill'd with Wealth unjustly gain'd, Nor greedily at Honours graspt, But to the Poor-Man's Cry unclaspt; It matters not, if in the Myne They delv'd, or did with Rubies shine.

5.

Here grew the Lips, and in that Place, Where now appears a vacant space, Was fix'd the Tongue, an Organ, still Employ'd extreamly well or ill; I know not if it cou'd retort, If vers'd i' th' Language of the Court; But this I safely can aver, That if it was no Flatterer; If it traduc'd no Man's Repute, But, where it cou'd not Praise, was Mute: If no false Promises it made, If it sung Anthems, if it Pray'd, 'Twas a blest 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's; or if its Wit To that of Mydas 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, blear'd, and dim; Yet if they were from Envy free, Nor lov'd to gaze on Vanity; If none with scorn they did behold, With no lascivious Glances rowl'd: 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 shew where Nature plac'd the Ear! Who knows if it were Musical, Or cou'd not judge of Sounds at all? Yet if it were to Council bent, To Caution and Reproof attent, 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 vertuous Restraint, From Sin preserv'd secure, No strong contagious Vice can taint, Nor Charming Ills allure: Who makes Iehovah's Laws his dear Delight. His Practice ev'ry Day, and Study ev'ry Night.

2.

Him shall Just Heav'n in all his Actions bless, And crown his Labours with a wisht Success; He, like a flourishing Tree, shall prove Near some fair River's side, Refresht with Heavenly Dews Above, 〈1 page duplicate〉〈1 page duplicate〉

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Below with ev'ry Tide: Spreading his fertile Branches towards the Sky, His Leaf shall never fade, his Root shall never dy.

3.

Not so the Wicked; whose unhallowed Minds, Like scatter'd Chaff, before the whistling Winds By various and impetuous Gusts Of Raging Passions tost, 'Midst thousand Sins, and changing Lusts, Are miserably lost; And wandring from the Sacred ways of Peace, Their Fears shall never Dye, 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 thro' 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 encrease 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 fancy'd Deity. And smile, and wonder At Thy great Power, and yet unactive Thunder. Rise! Lord, and let that Bloud the Heathen shed, Dye them again with Red; And let thy Vengeance publick 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 sentenc'd are to Dye; Shew boundless Mercy, join'd with boundless Power: But for those Wretches, who blasphem'd thy Name, Cloath 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 treach'rous Syrens us'd 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 sensless Praise, Frail Beauty's Charms to Heav'n did raise, Henceforth shall only pierce the Skies, In Penitential Cryes.

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 prepar'd; Such matchless Virtue nobly to require, Translates him Body'd to the Realms of Light: The Prophet now with gen'rous Scorn surveys This Earth, where He but for a Passport stays; And do's entirely his fir'd Thoughts employ On those bright Regions He must soon enjoy. But first (for in his Road to Heav'n they lay) A Visit to the Prophet's Schools He'll pay, In Legacy, where He his Progress goes, His Councel and his Blessing He bestows.

Elisha do's his Master's steps attend;— A Servant worthy to be stil'd a Friend.

From Gilgal's Plain, to Bethel Journeying on, The Prophet Courts his Servant to be gone; Near Iericho once more his Charge repeats, But still Commands in vain, in vain Entreats. When Love and Duty once dispute the Field, Duty it self 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 Iordan knew, And consciously in parting Tides withdrew. That Stream, long since subdu'd, at his command Was disciplin'd to fall, to swell, or stand.

The naked Channel now with ease pass'd o'er, And Both arriv'd 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 wou'd to Thee be Kind, as thou to him wer't True.

The Favourite with such Indulgence blest, So kindly urg'd 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 form'd within his Heart; So vast a Boon he trembles to express, Yet must depart unsatisfy'd with less. Not Pow'r or Pomp, not Safety, Wealth, or Ease, His gen'rous and enflam'd Desires can please Too narrow All for his expanded Mind, It will not be to Nature's Bounds confin'd. His Soul can Revelation only prize, Rapture and Correspondence with the Skies; The World do's no proportion'd Scene present; No less than Heav'n on Earth can his vast Soul Content.

O Man of God, he cry'd, 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 do's 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 fix'd Eyes observe, If in that Minute on their Watch they'r 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 wou'd not choose to pass his brazen Gate, If such fierce Blessings must on Rapture wait ? Mistaken Thought! the Charriot and the Storm Of Terrour only have the Sound and Form.

The Vision do's but Lambent Flames present, For Speed, not Violence, the Whirl-wind's sent.

Elisha the whole Scene with still-fix'd Eyes, Beholds, and to his tow'ring Master crys, 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 Recompence Elijah's Mantle falls: While of the Rest his weeping Sight's bereav'd, His Arms the kind descending Pledge receiv'd.

Now, pensive, back to Iordan's Bank he goes, Whose Streams his Passage to the Schools oppose; He now must put Heav'ns Promise to the Test, And prove if he Elijah's Spirit possest. Dismantled on the Current's Verge he stood, Then smote, and cry'd, — Where's now Elijah's God? Chastis'd 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 Pow'r possest, Whose Habitation is in Light refin'd, 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 sitt'st at his Right-hand, That do'st th' Angelick Hosts command, Thou, who on Earth didst heav'nly Pow'r display, Thou, whose mild Voice made Winds and Seas obey; The Storms, the Tempest in my Brest allay.

Chastise, Controul The boist'ring Waves that rowl, 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 ev'ry Part Of my afflicted Heart: That Heart for thy Reception to prepare, By thy most heav'nly Influence, Expel all sinful Thoughts from thence, And Save me from the Gulph of black Despair.

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

By Mr. Tate.

WIth double Pleasure sprung the cheer∣ful Dawn, That saw the Syrians threatning Host with drawn: Yet, ah! no sooner Wars Allarms are fled, No sooner Peace her brooding Wings had spread; But Sickness, arm'd with Death's resistless Sting, Invades the Sacred Person of the King! The raging Pest within his Vitals reign'd, More dang'rous than the Siege he had sustain'd. 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, do's on my Message wait; "He stalks behind me to thy Palace-Gate.

The Prince, who had Besieging Hosts defy'd, Turns Pale, and deeply Sighing, Thus reply'd;

"Can Heav'n impose, where Justice is sub∣lime, "A Task so weighty and so short a Time? "My House in Order set, dispose my State! "Surpriz'd, like Me, with Life's last stage in View, "Alas! what could a private Master do? "If Him a Doom so sudden wou'd o'er∣whelm, "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 Scepter e'er my Sword I Sheath? "But if th' Almighty Wisdom has thought fit, "That I shou'd 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 Iudah wants an Heir to Iudah's Throne.

"Shall Israel's Ten Apostate Tribes, their King "To Sion's Tow'r, and worse— "Unhallow'd 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 mourn'd, His Face, bedew'd with Tears, he meekly turn'd, Turn'd to the Wall: Why thither? that his Mind Might less Distraction in that Posture find, Or secret Pray'rs more servently to press; (As warm Devotion loves no Witnesses.) Or that his Palace open'd on that side A Prospect, whence his Eyes the Temple spy'd, Where wish'd Access was to his Feet deny'd. A second Deluge at his View he show'r'd, And thus his Soul her Deprecation pour'd.

"Remember, Lord, (with humble Trust I sue "How to thy Service I have been most True: "With perfect Heart by strong Devotion warm'd, "That which was Righteous in thy sight per∣form'd.

The Royal Saint paus'd here; and hov'ring round, Attending Angels strive to catch each Sound: Scarce could They for their finisht 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 fix'd on me, the Neighb'ring Nations Eyes; "How in a Leud 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 commenc'd, "Will soon relapse to Ruin when unfenc'd: "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 welcom Envoy must Return.

"Turn, cry'd the Vision, bring my Saint Relief, "Tell Hezekiab, tell my People's Chief; "Thy Father David's God has heard thy Pray'r, "Beheld thy Tears, and will thy Health repair: "The Third Day's Sun shall see that Health re∣stor'd, "(But Miracles must first confirm my Word;) "Who now wants Breath his mournful Crys 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 design'd, 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 conceal'd the Fire. Elisha, had he sought no more to know, Had lost his Spirit and his Mantle too. Such Legacies, blest Soul, mightst thou have giv'n, Had we but seen thee when snatcht up to Heav'n. Sure, Paradise was open'd to thy view, When with thy Pray'r thy Soul together flew. In such a sacred Rapture Stephen spy'd Heav'n's Gates unlockt, and forthwith kneel'd, and dy'd; To Heav'n thou now hast shewn the nearest way; Which is, like Thee, to Study and to Pray. 〈1 page duplicate〉〈1 page duplicate〉

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You, that carve Virtue deckt with ev'ry Grace, As if her Beauties lay in Hands and Face, Come Counterfeit 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 Heav'ns sudden Summons Thee surprise, It scarce could ever find thee otherwise, Thy pious Soul in Consecrated Clay, (For 'twas a Temple) never ceas'd to pray. Thy oft repeated Storms Heaven's Gates assail'd, Whose sacred Violence at last prevail'd; 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 finish'd in thy Death. Such was Epaminondas noble Pride; The minute that he Overcame, he dy'd; Alas! what cannot warm Religion dare? No Walls so high, but may be scal'd by Pray'r 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 cou'd scarce Heaven's leisure stay, But lest thy Message should too late come there, Thy self wentst post to overtake thy Prayer. Thy Soul and Pray'r 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 blest Shade what thou hast bravely won, Possess that Heaven which thou hadst here begun; Heaven doth to us thy prostrate Body grant, The precious Reliques of so great a Saint, Which should it longer in this Posture stay, Would, like thy Soul, we fear, be snatch'd 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 SCRIPTVRE, 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. Stretcht on the solitary Shore I lye, With wing'd 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 flatt'ring 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 Palsie 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 com'st 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! Thro' all my Veins the dire Infection creeps, My Vitals too in strong Possession keeps. My Pains, my Pangs, my Agonies encrease, And Physicks baffled Pow'r gives no Release. Behold these Lineaments disguis'd with Woe, If thou again this alter'd Face canst know? Behold these Eyes, each bury'd in its Cell, These Cheeks where freshest Beauty us'd to dwell; In Ruins there each graceful Feature lies; Tho' chaft 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 controul, 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 blest are you? Whose beauteous Limbs in liquid Chry∣stal flow! And They whose metamorphos'd Frame distill'd To Lakes that soon the wondring Valleys fill'd, Why of your Fortune should this Head despair; (This wretched Head) with, more torment∣ing Care Turn'd to a Spring, with Moss instead of Hair? On Earth my weary out-stretcht 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 Pow'rs, who set sad Biblis free, Would now repeat the Miracle in me!

Since Floods and Seas, I but in vain implore, Let some kind Show'r 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 drown'd.

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 gawdy Streamers drest. What are the Breezes there, each flatt'ring 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; Syrens that charm at once my Ear & Sight.

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

PSALM 143. Vers. 2.

Enter not into Iudgment with thy Ser∣vant, &c.

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

Ev'n He whose Piety did brightly shine, (Of all the Inspir'd Twelve the most Divine) Whose Life, with Vice, was one continu'd War, Yet dar'd not plead Perfection at this Barr. The Royal Author of Seraphick Verse, And Anthems fit for Angels to rehearse, What Son of Flesh conceiv'd in Sin (said He) Before All-seeing Eyes can righteous be? Nor Iob (in sufferings try'd) allow'd 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 renew'd, When wretchedly by his own Hounds persu'd. Wild Groves my youthful Fancy did enflame, My Soul was always in pursuit of Game; Till Death beset me in a Desart way, And of the Hunter made a wretched Prey.

In ev'ry Path Death's tangling Nets are spread, More fine and subtile than Arachne's Thread; Behold how close that watchful Huntress lies, Some gawdy buzzing Stragler 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, stretcht on the neighb'ring Green; And, to allure, where vacant Spots are found, He scatters Grain upon the barren Ground: While Birds whom he already has betray'd, Are now Decoys to their own Fellows made; And from their Cages cheerful Notes begin To draw, with feign'd Mirth, their Compa∣nions 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 frown'd upon my Birth, Nor to this Hour allows one Minute's Mirth; Yet still I'm flatter'd 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 compos'd again; No Leaves in Winter on the Grove are seen, Which yet the next Spring Cloaths with fresher Green. When sudden Storms eclipse the Morning's Light, Those once dispers'd, the Day returns more bright.

My gloomy Thoughts no Interval can find, The Tempest always rages in my Mind. My Sighs are all the Musick I employ, My Sighs are all the Musick 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 destroy'd the Infant Smile. And when I try to Sleep my Griefs to Rest, Their Crys 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 supprest, Have with recoiling Fury torn my Breast. While Eccho, gentle sharer of my Woe, Returns a Sigh to ev'ry Sigh I throw. Here Progne do's her mournful Story tell, Answer'd by sadder Notes of Philomel.

Each in her Turn renews the doleful Strain, While Halcyons from the distant Shoars complain With these the Turtle joins eternal Moan, Like me, she mourns, and murmurs all alone! Thus Fate, do's cruelly my Life prolong, Of all my suffrings 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 shou'd find my Love again, Tell him I Languish with a Fire unknown, As Iasmins saint beneath th' Assyrian Sun; For 'midst the Darts he lately scatter'd round, He fell himself a Shaft, and I a Wound:

At least his own Blood ting'd the pointed Steel' For I more His, than my own Sufferings feel. Ah! with what fires was then my Soul possest, As if whole Aetna heav'd within my Breast! If he's inquisitive, as Lovers are, And should enquire of each particular, Talk all the Forms of Languish and Distress, Which Pain forbids the Sufferer to express. He'll ask if I am Feaverish; 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 lye Condemn'd, O Fate! neither to live nor dye. I pant and struggle for my hovering 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' touch'd, can be perceiv'd to beat. A floud 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 unexperienc'd 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 Summers heat expire; Tell him that I with long Desires decay, As hoary Lillies 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 invenom'd Spear Behold disarm'd, and conquer'd 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 ransom'd 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 Dye! 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 Bow'rs, Ye Thrones, Dominions, Sceptred Powers; He comes :—accomplish'd 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 convey'd, And never must be scann'd.

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, adorn'd in all its best desires, Thy Father kindly courts, thy awful God requires.

2.

Think with what Reverence and State Thy Maker is ador'd Above; What mighty Beings 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 worshipt be.

4.

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

GOLD is try'd 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 mov'd 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 Vertue, not Prosperity.

2.

Not so th' Almighty Wisdom has design'd We should in Ease and Luxury remain, Untry'd by Sorrow, or by Pain:

No, the great Searcher of the Mind Unshaken Vertue there must find; Tho' low as to the Dunghil brought With him, whose sifted Patience taught He serv'd for Duty, else for nought.

3.

We see the wealthiest Oar the Earth doth hide, Is not receiv'd or pass'd for current Gold, Nor by the greedy Miser told, Till by the Cleansing Furnace try'd, 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 bow'd, Nor is it Reason guides when we complain: Favours alas, but fall in vain, And the good Things that are allow'd, Instead of happy, make us proud.

Let us not then refuse this part, But wisely learn the Saving Art, Which Tears to Comforts do's 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 rais'd with Skill, Shall compass Babels aim, and reach th' Almighty's Hill.

2.

Welcome the Rod that do's Adoption shew The Cup, whose wholsome Dregs are giv'n 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 measur'd 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, Paraphras'd to the 7th Verse.

By the same Hand.

PRoud Babylon, thou saw'st us Weep, Euphrates, as he past 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 Sion 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 Masters Griefs abuse.

How can we, Lord, thy Praise proclaim, Here in a strange unhallow'd Land,

Lest we provoke them to blaspheme A Name they do not understand! And with Rent Garments that deplore Above what e'er we felt before.

But thou Ierusalem so dear, If thy lov'd 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, Paraphras'd.

By the same Hand.

The first 12 Lines being an Introduction.

HOw weak is Man that would himself perswade Out of his Interest, and his Tempter aid! Misled by present Ioys, and humane Pride, Would gladly lay his future Hopes aside; Uncloath himself of all he holds Divine, And to the Earth his Ashes would confine. Consent his Soul (all pains on it to spare) Shou'd vanish like the soft and silent Air, This Doctrin, which in ancient Times was penn'd, Th' industrious Devil took care shou'd still descend, And we by Atheists now the same are told, Which Israels wisest Prince describes of old.

The CHAPTER begins.

THus reason'd 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 do's impart, By some contending Element opprest, Extinguish'd fails and quits the darken'd 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 track 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 Moments we receive. Still let us gay and warm Affections hold, And, when in Age, forget that we are old. Roses about our youthful Tresses ty, 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 polish'd 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, Fashion'd by Conscience for the Tyrant's pow'r; Who meekly yields to wrong, or vile disgrace, Yet from th' Immortal God derives his Race, And by himself is arrogantly stil'd 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 Iust 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 dye, 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 stampt his Image on created Earth, And made it so, Immortal in its Birth, And tho' th' Inferrial Fiend, with Envy fill'd, Brought Death into the World, and some has kill'd, 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 clam'rous Sports Of Theaters, and crowded Courts, Only the vertuous Heavenly Soul can tell.

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

Ravish'd 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 do's 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 tempesteous World below, She mourns she cannot always keep above.

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

She's there safe guarded from fal'n Angels pow'r, That stray in this low void of Air. And (watching with unwearied Care,) First tempt to sin, then vanquish'd Souls devour.

Those Minds become more excellent and pure, That Heav'ns calm Regions most frequent, Free from Earth's Damps and noisom Scent; As wholesom Climates Mens sick Bodies cure.

And when such Minds descend to Earth agen, Their heav'nly 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 Heav'ns soft Voice cannot be heard, Angels have oft to Men appear'd When all alone, but never in a Crowd.

In silent Groves the Men of old grew wise, There prostrate Votaries ador'd, And invocated the true Lord, There Heathens worship'd too their Deities.

Sage Druids there Heav'ns Councils understood: The Soul does there her Thoughts compose, Calmly devout and silent grows, Aw'd 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 Liv'd 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 Vallies teach me to be fruitful too, May Hills excite me to aspire, Like them, to Heav'n with rais'd 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 Heav'n's Goodness rove about Free from all Care and anxious Doubts, And teach me to depend on Heav'n, like them.

Motives I ne'er shall want of Love and Praise, For Heav'n 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 Solitude's Delights enjoy, And Those repair to sensual Sport, To Wine and Theaters 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 poyson'd sweets of Ease & Luxury.

The ENQUIRY.

By the same Hand.

I'VE searcht 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 em∣brac't.

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 it self, as empty as before. The Treasures Earth throws in their purpose miss, Swallow'd and lost in that immense Abyss. I've look'd o'er all the Riches Earth can shew. 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 misplac'd, it longs to see Some higher Good, some fix'd Felicity, Which it despairs to meet with, but in thee I'm blest with Faculties to entertain Thy self, 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 unsatisfy'd 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 daz'ling Glory crown the Year, And in their Smiles a perfect Beauty wear. Beasts that have all for which their Nature calls, Pleas'd with themselves, are happy Animals. Above the Earth their Wishes never fly, Nor thirst for Heav'n and Immortality.

No Prospect of a greater Excellence, Makes them despise the low Delights of Sense, No knowledge of Eternity can shew 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 undisturb'd 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 emploies, And finds it self 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 do's its Joys despise, Since I have such a Mind as this, would I Had never been, or may I never dy? If no Delights are to be found above, What shall I seek on Earth, what shall I Love?

If this be all the Happiness design'd 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 then can't a perfect State attain, His Soul and Appetites are made in vain. Man only is Felicity deny'd, Vex'd with desires, not to be satisfy'd, The Lord of All is most unhappy left, Of that Perfection Beasts enjoy, berest. But th' Author sure will not be most unkind To his best Workmanship, the Heav'n 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, Possest with Heav'n they shall for ever rest, Crown'd 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 Guilt, 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 Heav'n 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 pleas'd 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 Heav'n outshine the rest, Liv'd in this vale of Tears despis'd 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 Blest 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 Suffrings here that can my Fears alarm, Afflict the Flesh, but work no further harm. Distress and Shame make not Heav'ns Servants seem More base or wretched in their Lord's Esteem. These can't his Favor 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 Vertue 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 Vertue 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 Heav'n's so difficult the Road, What must it be with Wealth's incumbring Load? Do my Endeavours now succeed so well, And all Temptations with such ease repell, 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 shews. Are those I cannot shun so few or slight, That fond of Ruin I would more invite? This were to ravish Death it self, and scale The Gates of Hell, lest milder Arts should fail. I'm born for Heav'n, and shall I chuse 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 desence, We ought to dread the rising Eminence, Where Sin does it's 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 dang'rous 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 Worlds unkindness may abate our love, Teach us to seek for Happiness above. Make us for high Eternal Joys enquire, And seek for Heav'n with more inflam'd desire. For still our wishes after Home and Rest, Are by the badness of their way increast.

'Tis then from disbelief, and want of love To God, and those pure Joys prepar'd 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, curst so by the Dead. Blest with the hopes of Heav'n tho I've no more, 'Tis Atheism to complain my Fortune's poor. The Man rich with these hopes may well im∣ploy His saddest Hours in calm Delights and Joy. Who when a few short Hours are past, will know What Heav'n to make Men happy can bestow, For ever blest, if God can make them so.

May I have these transporting hopes of Heav'n, And let me know that Happiness when given; I'll praise Heav'ns Goodness, tho opprest I ly 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 Agamem∣non, Chor. Argivarum.

By the same Hand.

THe treach'rous 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 Scepters 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 heap'd up by rough Winds, the Sand Does in high tott'ring Mountains stand, And interrupts the loud impetuous Waves. Euxinus neighbor to the snowy Pole,— Where the bright Carman, by the Main Untoucht, drives round his shining Wain, Can't with such force his troubled Waters roll.

As when Kings fall, turn'd 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 loos'd, and lies dissolv'd 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, Prest by their own unequal weight, Which, those that envy'd, now as much despise. Great Fortunes can't their own vast Burden bear; So the swift Ships expanded Sails Swoln out with too indulgent Gales, The Winds, they wish'd before, begin to fear.

So a proud Tow'r thrusts his aspiring Head Among the flying Clouds, but finds The uneasy neighbourhood of Winds And Thunder-claps, 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 whisling 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 heav'nly Race, Whose Lineage in its Aspects you may trace; The generous Fervour and admir'd 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 it's sickly Face. It works not out in Froth, nor will it vent In angry Heats its inward Discontent. Nor, for a Triffle, 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 Breathings move. It smooths rough Nature, sweetens eager Blood, Expels the vicious part, and saves the good. Its heav'nly Birth and Nature it will prove, By universal Charity and Love,

It will so widen a contracted Mind To the strait Compass of a Sect confin'd, It shall embrace those of a different Name, And find ev'n 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 do's with Sword and Fire the Stubborn tame, It uses none but its own harmless Flame. In Reformations 'twill some Faults endure, And not encrease 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 injur'd, not our own: Unaskt 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 meagre 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 Terrour 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 Heav'n prescribes, or our own safety asks. This Zeal is wary, not enflam'd 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 shew. Blest heav'nly 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 perplex'd for my unwary Feet. At my return the calm and even Mind I carry'd forth, all discompos'd I find; My weak Devotions slacken'd and unbent, And Passions loos'd grow loud and turbulent. My ruffled Mind with Sorrow secks in vain To rank and suit its displac'd 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 rejoyces (if his Hell has Joy) That, lost himself, He can Mankind destroy. Rav'nous as Lyons are, and strong as they, He does on Souls, as those on Bodies prey. He much to's Skill, more to fall'n Nature trusts, And brings Temptations suited to our Lusts; Temptations brings of Circe's Syren-Brood, By feeble Resolutions not withstood, Nor vanquish'd by faint Wishes to be good.

Here some great Man's displeasure over aws 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 Heav'ns 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 lash'd with its secret Fears? It flies from Heav'n, the thoughts of God afright My troubled Soul, before, its chief Delight. Heav'ns 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 my self, and God abhor'd. When Love would rise to Heav'n with fresh Delight, Conscience suggests my Guilt, 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 heav'nly 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 shews old Sins to wound me with their view, And the sad Penitential Scene renew. What spreading Mischief is in Sin conceal'd! By Man believ'd not, 'till too late reveal'd, Fool that I am such Torments to create, And buy Repentance at so dear a rate.

Vpon a most Virtuous and Accom∣plish'd Young Gentleman, Who Died of the Small-Pox.

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 proclaim'd Whom ev'ry Virtue grac'd, and not one Vice defam'd.

2.

His Merits gain'd a Character so high, As Envy could not blast, nor Pride deny; Above disguise He scorn'd all varnish'd Arts, And with Inherent Honour conquer'd Hearts. His Actions generous all, and squar'd by Truth; With Age's Prudence bless'd, in the gay Bloom of Youth.

3.

Gentle, offenceless, so averse to wrong, Obliging sweetness dwelt upon his Tongue, With Nature's richest Gifts so deck'd within, That Pride in him had scarce been judg'd a Sin; His ready Wit no stop or bounds could know, But, like a gen'rous Spring, did clear and con∣stant flow.

4.

Not in his Grave more quiet can he find, Than always lodg'd in his unvary'd mind; A Mind fit only for the Bless'd above, The Seat of Friendship, and the Throne of Love: In Heaven what matchless Glory has he gain'd, To bring from Earth a Soul by such an Age unstain'd.

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 attain'd, Fate summon'd him away. So parts the Shipwreck'd Merchant from his Gain, And (sinking) sees his Wealth Float round him on the Main.

6.

No Humane skill the destin'd Hour could stay, And hovering Death was pleas'd with such a Prey; Which to secure beyond the help of Art In every Pore 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, Vpon the X. Commandments cut by Her on White-Paper, and Present∣ed to S. John's College in Oxford.

THe curious Wonders we preserve with Care, That the fair Hands of Cloyster'd 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 Sov'reign Judgment form'd the first Design So well the Matter and the Art combine! No other Lines cou'd merit so much Art, No other Hand an equal Skill impart.

The Masters see it, and their Plates disown, Asham'd 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 transcrib'd anew, And in such beauteous Letters dress'd by You; We ought the Iewish Rev'rence to retain, And institute new Masorites again. Our Tongue beneath that Sacred Character, Wou'd 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-blest, 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 borrow'd Value from it takes;

While wisely You such slight Materials chuse, 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 Angels Hand did scarce a fairer bear. We only fear least Those who come to see Should, unawares, commit Idolatry.

The Holy Place a solemn Rev'rence 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 dispence A Being, Life, and Sence, 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 compleat, Unction Divine that brings The Sanctity of Priests, Grandeur of Kings.

3.

Thou sevenfold Benefactor, Of all that's Good, thou great transactor, Thou promis'd Gift from Heaven sent When from us Heaven went, Thou God of Eloquence That speakst to th' Intellect before the Sence.

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 supply'd 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 Vow'd (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 crown'd and in white Robes array'd). Appears all Mild, to yield her destin'd Life, And waiting the slow Sacrificer's Knife. A Virgin Blush her Aspect purpled o'er, As young, and ne'er beheld by Crowds before) (Such Tincture Crimson'd Alablaster shows, Or Lillies shaded by a neighb'ring Rose.)

Yet gen'rous Resolution do's display, That with her Modesty bears equal Sway. She, only she, appears without surprize, And views the weeping Crowd with cheerful Eyes. Some call to mind the publick Service done, And Battle lately by her Father won; His Blood's Expence 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 grutch so fair a Prize to Death's cold Arms. The Nymph for whom the noblest Youths had pin'd, A Booty to the Thankless Grave assign'd. For now (as Chance wou'd play the Tyrant's Part, And fret their Wounds with fresh Supplies of smart) Those Beauties Nature had before conferr'd, Sublim'd and to Advantage all appear'd; Their Grief was now to Consternation turn'd, They now Mourn silent, as before, they burn'd,

Of this the Virgin do's Advantage take, And her afflicted Father thus bespake: To Ammon's Court, Great Sir, these Plaints remit; These Plaints are only for the vanquisht fit. My self 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 cherrish Her that's now your only Care: My tender Mother's Sorrow to asswage: 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 Conquer'd Ammon Triumphs in your Woe. Or have you lavish'd all your Love away On my past Years— Reserv'd no Kindness for my latest Day? If my past Life did you in ought offend, In Death at least I wou'd my Fault amend, And to the Shades a guiltless Soul descend.

O Torture (the distracted Father crys, 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 sur∣vey'd, O if the Death of this Illustrious Maid You wretched makes, her Death you only see, What must the Murtherer her Father be? In Innocence your Sorrow finds Relief; I bear the double Load of Guilt and Grief.

Worldly Greatness.

By Mr. Ezr. Simson.

WHat's worldly Empire, Pomp & Pow'r? 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 Heav'n so pleas'd, 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 Brest, And with the Havock there they make, Keep Him, as He the World, Awake.

HUMILITY.

By the same Hand.

MUch injur'd Grace, for being Mild, Meaness of Spirit Thou art stil'd: Thus sensless Mortals Thee defame, Who dost with Heav'n 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 can'st the Glory own To Triumph o'er Fate's outmost Force, And Steer in Storms a steddy Course. When Fortune tempts with flatt'ring Wiles, Thou only canst resist her Smiles; And when her angry Tempests rise, Thou only canst her Frowns despise.

On the Day of Iudgment:

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 supprise, Behold the conscious Wretches rise, And view their Judge with frighted Eyes.

Then shall, with universal Dread, The sacred Mystick 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 Truths 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 tost.

Thou who for me hast felt such Pain, Whose precious Blood the Cross did stain; 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 mov'd 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 Portentuous 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 unsheath, How will they Curse their second Breath, Who rise to a severer Death?

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

FINIS.